Wilderness
Survival – Day 5
Lucille
and Cain work in tired silence around their makeshift camp. The snow
around them has long since been trampled into a frozen, dirty ring,
boots, blood, and coyote prints layered together in a chaotic map of
survival.
With
five coyote carcasses butchered and stripped, they haven’t had to
worry about food for days. Their routine has become disturbingly
simple: wake up, stoke the fire, go to the lake for water, then spend
hours dressing carcasses, scraping bone, drying hides, cutting meat,
storing what they can for the trek back. Hunger had stopped being
their concern. Cleanliness, warmth, infection, those became the
worries instead.
Lucille
sits cross-legged by the fire, shoulders hunched inward, the last
coyote skull resting in her lap. Her kukri’s edge scrapes along
bone with slow, methodical strokes. She’s careful, almost reverent.
Each skull they kept intact, carefully skinned, the hides drying
behind her in the weak winter daylight. Two skulls are already set
aside near her feet, bone-white and hollow-eyed like they’re
watching the work of their own disassembly.
Cain
works several yards away, bundled in multiple layers, checking each
stretched hide for any stubborn scraps of flesh. His hands shake from
cold and fatigue, but he works anyway, jaw clenched. It’s the fifth
day. The last day. They’re so close.
The
fire crackles weakly between them. Lucille pauses. Her wristband
vibrates. A faint chime breaks the stillness.
She
looks down. Cain stops moving at the same moment, his head snapping
up as his band chimes too. For a heartbeat they stare at one another,
neither daring to speak.
Lucille
lifts her wrist.
A
message scrolls across the small screen:
Coordinates.
Instructor
Quintis.
Rendezvous
point.
Time
limit: 24 hours.
Cain
lets out a breath that fogs heavily from his lips. Something like
relief, exhausted, aching, disbelieving, softens his posture.
Lucille
slowly lowers the skull from her lap, setting it beside the others
with a faint click of bone against bone. She wipes her hands on her
pants, smearing old blood into darker stains.
“So,”
she murmurs.
Cain
nods. “It’s time to go home.”
They
don’t smile. They’re far too tired for that. But they stand. And
for the first time in days… they both allow themselves to feel
hope.
Wilderness Survival –
Rendezvous Point – 5 Hours Later
Lucille
and Cain stumble the last few steps down the snowy decline, boots
slipping, breath burning in their lungs. The sleds drag behind them
with a dull scrape, heavy with the spoils of their trial. The
instructors stare in disbelief as the pair finally slow to a stop
several meters from the APC.
Steam coils off Lucille’s
shoulders with each exhale. Cain leans forward, hands on his knees
for a moment, then straightens with a stubborn shake of his head.
Neither of them lets go of the sled ropes.
The instructor who waved
them over jogs the last few steps to meet them, his eyes flicking
from the kids to the sleds to the mottled red stains on their
clothes.
“Saints above…” he
mutters. “You two look like hell.”
Lucille snorts softly.
“Feel like it,” she says, voice raw from cold air and days of
smoke.
Cain glances at the sleds,
then back at the instructor. “We brought everything back,” he
announces, as if worried the man might not have noticed. “Hides,
skulls, meat. Bones too.” He gestures to the carefully wrapped
bundles. “All preserved.”
The second instructor has
wandered over now, slower, more cautious, studying the sleds as if
expecting some trick. “You… cleaned the skulls,” he says, tone
bewildered. “All of them?”
Lucille nods. “Didn’t
want to waste anything.”
Behind them, the APC engine
rumbles low and the medics inside gesture urgently for the two to
come closer.
The first instructor steps
aside to give them space. “Well, get in. Medics are waiting. You’re
both half-frozen.” His voice softens, just barely. “You made it.
Trial’s over.”
Cain grips the rope of his
sled a little tighter. Lucille does the same. For a moment they both
simply stand there, snowflakes drifting into their hair, the cold
sinking deeper now that the adrenaline is finally breaking.
Then Lucille looks at Cain.
He looks back.
And together, without a
word, they drag their sleds the final distance and step into the
warm, bright interior of the APC, the first truly safe place either
of them has seen in five days.
The Academy – Survival
& Fieldcraft Grounds – That Evening
The
APC grinds to a halt, its treads sinking deep into the snow-packed
training field. Exhaust hangs in the freezing air like a low,
smoldering cloud.
Instructor Hara Quintis
stands at the front of the gathered instructors, arms clasped behind
her back, posture strict even in the biting cold. Her assistants
hover just behind her, young instructors-in-training, tense,
watchful. A few pace to keep warm, breath fogging.
Varian Korvin and Malco
Renn flank Quintis at a respectful distance. Korvin stands rigid, the
fur of his winter coat dusted with ice. Renn slouches with his hands
shoved deep into his pockets, boot tapping a steady rhythm in the
snow. They’ve been here all day with her, observing, evaluating,
waiting.
They’ve watched pair
after pair of cadets return, some limping, some half-carried, all
exhausted. One pair arrived just an hour ago. According to the
rotation, the next was supposed to be Cain Aurellius and Lucille
Domitian.
Both Korvin and Renn
pretend calm professionalism, but the tension beneath the surface is
unmistakable. They’ve seen these two fight, grow, struggle.
Survive.
The APC’s rear hatch
slams downward, metal screeching before crashing into the snow. A
plume of frost scatters from the impact. An instructor steps out
first, bracing himself on the ramp and offering an unnecessary hand
down to the pair emerging from the interior.
Cain steps out, tired,
stiff, but upright. Lucille follows, bandaged hands steadying the
straps over her shoulders. Both ignore the offered help, though they
allow the instructor to hover close out of protocol.
Behind them, the two medics
climb down with a sense of urgency, heading straight for Quintis.
The instructor at the hatch
heaves the first sled out, heavy, sagging under its load of smoked
meat, cured hides, and bundled bones. The second sled follows,
dragged out with a grunt.
Cain and Lucille turn back
immediately, taking the wooden handles of their makeshift reins and
dragging them across the snow toward Quintis.
Renn’s eyebrows rise.
Korvin’s arms unfold. Quintis’s expression does not change in the
slightest, though the faintest gleam touches her eyes.
The medics begin speaking
immediately, eager, almost animated despite the cold.
“Reported coyote attack,
ma’am,” the first medic says, voice low but edged with respect.
“A pack. Large. They claim five kills, and—” He stops, glancing
over as Lucille and Cain haul the sleds the final few feet.
The proof thuds into the
snow. Cleaned bones. Tanned hides. Dried meat enough for a small
unit. Two skulls already bleached white by careful cleaning. The
remaining three bundled in cloth.
The second medic continues,
“Their field treatment was exemplary. Antiseptic used thoroughly.
Bandagin' clean. No signs of infection. Wounds already beginnin' to
mend. Considerin' what they reported… it’s impressive.”
Korvin’s jaw works, a
tight flex that betrays the pride he tries to hide. Renn’s
shoulders subtly lift and drop in a silent laugh of disbelief, of
course those two would bring half a damn pack back with them.
Quintis only nods, slow,
deliberate. “Very well,” she says. “Let’s see our cadets.”
And she steps forward as
Cain and Lucille straighten, tired but unbroken beneath the
fieldlight glow.
Quintis looks Cain and
Lucille up and down for a few, dreadully silent moments. Then she
steps between them, grabbing one of the rolled hides. She unfurls the
hide with a simple flick of her wrists and inspects it.
Korvin steps forward, his
boots crunching through the frost. His expression is cold,
disciplined, but his eyes betray the flicker of something warmer when
they land on the two blood-stained cadets.
“You exceeded
expectations,” Quintis says, voice low, even. “Both of you.”
Renn huffs beside them, a
short breath that might almost be a laugh if it didn’t sound so
frayed at the edges. “You two…” he mutters, “Five days out
there with nothin' but basic kit… gods damn miracle you came back
walkin'.”
Lucille and Cain exchange a
brief look. Exhaustion dulls the shock, but it’s still there, the
surprise of seeing Korvin and Renn waiting for them, not in a
classroom or training hall, but here, outside, in the freezing wind.
Korvin uncrosses his arms
and crouches beside one of the sleds. He runs a thumb along one of
the scraped-clean femurs, checking its smoothness, its finish. Then
he flips the nearest hide, inspecting the tanning attempt, the cut
lines, the stretch.
His stoic mask cracks for a
heartbeat. “This is professional work,” he murmurs. “Better
than half the recruits in the Corps.”
Renn moves to Cain’s
side, eyes narrowing at the bandaged arm, the stiff set of the boy’s
shoulders. He lifts Cain’s chin slightly with two fingers,
inspecting the shallow claw wound there.
“You treated this
yourselves?” Renn asks.
Cain swallows. “Yes,
Instructor.”
Renn nods once, sharp.
“Good.”
Quintis still hasn’t
spoken. She rolls the hide back up, tight and precise, then steps
toward the two cadets. Her eyes flick from Cain to Lucille, lingering
on Lucille’s wrapped hand, the hand missing its smallest finger.
She says nothing about it, but she sees it. She sees everything.
Finally, she inhales and
straightens. Her voice carries, crisp and authoritative. “You have
completed the Trial, amazingly well.”
The assistants behind her
stand a little taller. Medics step aside, giving the moment to
Quintis alone.
“You were not expected to
thrive,” she continues. “You were expected to endure. Survivin' the winter trial at all is commendable.” She gestures toward the
sleds. “This… this goes beyond survival.”
Lucille shifts on her feet,
unsure where to look. Cain squares his shoulders though he trembles
slightly from cold and adrenaline crash.
Korvin glances at Quintis,
waiting, almost expectant. Renn folds his arms, watching the cadets
with a restrained kind of pride.
Quintis steps closer. Her
hand lands on Cain’s shoulder, heavy, grounding. Then she places
her other hand on Lucille’s.
“You two did the
impossible,” she says quietly. “And you did it together.” She
releases them both and steps back.
Korvin finally speaks
again, softer this time, but his tone holds weight. “You’ve
earned rest. Both of you.”
Renn nods once, firm.
“Report to the infirmary. Let the medics check you over properly.
We’ll handle the gear.”
Lucille opens her mouth as
if to protest, those are their kills, their work, but Korvin gives
her a small shake of his head.
“You’ve done enough for
today,” he says.
Cain exhales, the tension
slipping from him all at once. Lucille nods, slow and tired.
Together, the two cadets
turn toward the Academy buildings, leaving bloody prints in the snow
as Quintis, Korvin, and Renn watch them go, three hardened
instructors, three unreadable faces, but a shared truth simmering
beneath.
Mess Hall Tango – The
Next Day – 12:50
The
mess hall’s doors hiss shut behind them, warm air giving way to the
academy’s cold stone corridor. Lucille and Cain walk shoulder to
shoulder, boots scuffing the floor in tired, steady rhythm. Both
still move a little stiffly, bandages under their uniforms tug
whenever they lift an arm or turn too sharply, but they pretend not
to notice.
They drop their trays into
the receptacle. Metal clatters. Lucille exhales sharply, rubbing her
temple with her still-bandaged hand.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Philosophy and
Psychological Reasoning,” she mutters. “I swear Veil writes those
exam questions just to watch us suffer.”
Cain snorts. “It wasn’t
that bad.”
Lucille gives him a stare
that could peel paint. “I spent half of that test wonderin' if any
of those hypothetical people deserved savin'.” She gestures
broadly, frustrated. “He wants us to analyze motives, weigh
emotional states, predict behavior, and I just…” She bites down
on her words, jaw tightening. “People don’t make sense. They
don’t even try to.”
Cain slows, turns slightly
toward her as cadets stream past in small groups. “You overthink
it.”
“No,” she says. “I
don’t think the right way. That’s the problem.”
Her voice drops, more
bitter than she intends. “Everyone else gets those trick questions.
I just get angry.”
Cain bumps her shoulder,
gentle, careful of her bruises. “Lucy… I’m sure you did fine.
Even if you miss one exam, just one, Veil himself said it doesn’t
end the whole trial.”
Lucille shakes her head but
the tightness in her chest loosens, a breath escaping her she didn’t
know she was holding. “Maybe.”
They walk again. The
corridor’s tall windows spill pale winter light over them, washing
their shadows long across the floor.
Cain smiles, quiet, soft.
“Look, you survived five days in the snow. You killed two coyotes
in the dark. I don’t think one written test is going to end you.”
Lucille huffs a faint
laugh. “You killed three. I only got two.”
“Still counts.”
She rolls her eyes, but
there’s color in her cheeks now, something lighter than the grim
heaviness she carried out of Veil’s classroom. “Thanks,” she
says at last, barely above a murmur.
Cain shrugs like it’s
nothing.
Lucille and Cain move down
the corridor, the clatter of their boots echoing faintly off the
whitewashed walls. The scent of wood polish and faint smoke from the
mess hall still lingers, but it is fading as they approach the armory
doors leading to the Weapon Drills hall.
Cain glances at Lucille, a
small grin tugging at his lips. “At least next is Weapon Drills,”
he says, tone light, teasing. “I know how much you like it. And…
you know, Korvin seems to have taken a real shine to tutorin' you
these past months.”
Lucille huffs, cheeks
burning, folding her arms in an effort to hide her embarrassment.
“I—It’s not like I like him,” she mutters. “He’s just…
demandin'. Perfection in his eyes is impossible. And he throws all my
worst weapons at me anyway!”
Cain chuckles, shaking his
head. “Right, like he’s secretly tryin' to watch you flail with
the halberd.”
She rolls her eyes but
can’t help the faint grin tugging at her lips. “Don’t even
joke. I dread every time the bigger weapons show up. I’m fine with
the smaller ones, but those massive things…” Her voice trails
off, frustration mixed with determination.
Cain falls into step beside
her, slower now, letting her vent. “Hey,” he says gently, “you’ve
come a long way. Even with the heavy stuff, you’ll figure it out.
You always do.”
Lucille glances at him, the
faintest spark of hope in her eyes. She tightens her grip on her
satchel, straightens her shoulders, and together they approach the
Weapon Drills hall. The heavy doors loom ahead, a promise of
challenge and the comfort of the familiar chaos they both thrive in.
Lucille and Cain are
mid-step, still talking about the upcoming Weapon Drills when the
collision happens. Darian Tarsa steps carelessly into Lucille’s
path, his polished boots crunching over the corridor tiles as though
he owns the place.
Shoulder to shoulder, they
collide. Lucille stumbles, nearly hitting the ground, but Cain’s
reflexes are sharp. He catches her under her arm, steadying her
before she can fall. Her breath hitches from the surprise, eyes wide.
Darian barely registers her
presence beyond his own indignation. “Watch where your goin'!”
he snaps, voice sharp, dripping with disdain. He straightens,
adjusting the cuffs of his uniform, clearly offended that someone of
lesser station dared cross his pat
Behind him, Atria Dain
crosses her arms, leaning back slightly, the faintest smirk on her
face. “Really, Darian?” she scoffs. “Was that necessary?”
She’s younger than Lucille but carries the weight of her own house,
and her look is one of detached superiority.
Lucille exhales quietly,
her anger restrained but simmering. Cain’s hand stays on her arm, a
silent shield. His silver gaze meets Darian’s for a moment,
measuring the prince’s arrogance.
“I-I’m fine,” Lucille
says through clenched teeth, regaining her balance. Her voice is
calm, but the edge is there. “You should watch where you’re
goin' next time.”
Darian blinks, taken aback
by her audacity, and Atria’s smirk deepens. Cain tightens his grip
subtly, ready to step forward if the situation escalates.
Cain opens his mouth,
stepping slightly forward, ready to defuse the situation. “Darian,
it’s not worth it—” he starts, but Darian’s eyes catch on
Lucille’s face, and recognition dawns.
“Oh.” Darian’s lip
curls in disgust. “Of course… you’re the infamous
Lucille Domitian.” His voice drips with condescension. “The
little orphan girl who somehow crawled her way into the Academy…”
His words are venomous, each syllable carrying a mix of disbelief and
disdain.
Atria’s eyes widen as
well. “Lucille Domitian?” she repeats, sneering. “So this is
the girl they’ve been whisperin' about?” Her tone is equal parts
mockery and fascination, as though she’s studying a curiosity she
can’t fully understand.
Cain subtly shifts,
positioning himself directly between Lucille and Darian. His silver
eyes flare, cold and protective. “Back off,” he says quietly, a
steel edge beneath his calm tone.
Lucille’s chest rises and
falls, her small fists curling at her sides. Her lips twist into a
smirk, sharp and fearless. “You should learn some manners, Prince
Tarsa,” she says, her voice low but clear. “Bein' born into a
house doesn’t make you better than everyone else.”
Darian flushes with rage,
his jaw tightening, as if her words are a physical strike. “How
dare you—”
“Enough,” Cain
interrupts, tone now sharper, warning. But Lucille doesn’t back
down. Her gaze is unwavering, her stance firm. The animosity between
them simmers, a near-visible heat.
Atria scoffs, amused by the
tension, but even she senses that this is no ordinary clash. The tiny
girl before them radiates defiance that refuses to bow to titles, and
Darian realizes, far too late, that underestimating her was his first
mistake.
Darian’s expression
curdles into something ugly. Lucille’s disrespect is one thing, an
orphan mouthing off, he can stomach punishing that, but Cain
Aurellius defending her? A prince lowering himself to
shield gutter-born trash? That, to Darian, is an outright perversion
of order.
“Unbecomin' of you,
Cain,” Darian spits. “Associatin' so closely with the lowest
class possible… Is your House so desperate for companionship?”
Atria nods sharply, though
for her it’s less about class and more about gender. In Dain
ideology, women eclipse men entirely. So even as an orphan, Lucille
has, barely, more worth in her eyes than either Darian or Cain. But
she still looks at Lucille as one might examine a cracked artifact:
technically valuable, but flawed, disappointing.
Cain leans toward Lucille,
voice low, urgent. “Lucille… let it go. Ignore him. This ain't worth it.” He’s not trying to protect Darian. He’s trying to
keep her from doing something reckless, because he can feel
the tension in her muscles, see the tremor in her jaw. Her rage is
rising like a tide.
Lucille’s breath shakes.
Her vision tightens. The sneers, the way everyone looked down on her,
everything she’s swallowed for years seethes up and shatters the
fragile wall of restraint she has left.
She snaps. “I’d rather
be gutter filth,” Lucille spits, “than whatever self-important
waste of oxygen you are.”
Darian freezes. His eyes go
cold. Then the fury hits like a storm. “You insolent little
lowlife,” he snarls, stepping forward. “You will bow
and you will apologize
properly. You do not look nobility in the eye. You do not speak
to nobility. You exist to serve us, nothing more.”
Cain moves instantly,
stepping between them. “Darian, enough,” he snaps. “You’re
actin' like a jackass.”
The word hangs in the air
like a knife. A prince calling another prince’s son that, in
public.
Darian’s face twists, and
for a heartbeat, the corridor is silent, the air taut, violence only
one breath away.
Lucille doesn’t move. Not
an inch. Her chin lifts, eyes blazing, and the refusal is carved into
every line of her small frame. “I ain't bowin',” she says. “Not
now, not ever. And you can’t make me.”
Darian’s face twists,
fury and wounded pride tangling into something ugly. Before he can
spit back, Atria leans in with a delighted sneer, voice low and
poisonous.
“Go on, Darian. Show her
your true male colors. Prove you’re not all bark.”
Her taunt snaps something
in him.
Cain tries one last time,
reaching for Lucille’s shoulder, whispering sharply, “Lucy, let
it go. Please. Walk away. This isn’t worth it.”
His voice trembles at the edges, he knows exactly where this is
heading.
But Lucille’s breathing
is shallow and uneven, rage simmering through every bone in her body.
She can’t let it go. She’s never been able to let it go.
Darian steps forward,
towering over her, voice booming through the hallway. “If you
refuse to apologize, then I’ll make you kneel. A lowborn
wretch like you shouldn’t even be allowed to look at nobility. Much
less insult us.”
Cain snaps, “Darian,
stop. Nobility should be settin' the example.” His tone is sharp
enough to cut, but Darian’s already beyond reason.
Lucille stays perfectly
still. She waits. She’s been trained for this.
Darian swings first,
exactly as she wanted. His fist crashes across her cheek, the blow
violent enough to knock her off her feet and slam her onto the cold
stone floor. Pain flashes white behind her eyes.
Cain moves instantly,
shoving himself between them, shouting, “Darian! That’s enough!”
But he makes the mistake of
looking at Darian, not at Lucille.
She rises behind him, slow
and deliberate, blood on her lip, hair wild, eyes burning with
something feral and long-caged. The moment Darian tries to push past
Cain, Lucille launches herself over Cain’s shoulder and attacks.
Darian reels only for a
heartbeat, shocked that someone so small could hit that hard, then
his face splits into something feral. He dives at her, and Lucille
meets him without flinching, the two of them slamming together with
the force of colliding storms.
They crash into the
opposite wall. Plaster dust shakes loose. Lucille’s fist snaps up
toward his jaw; Darian’s forearm blocks it, his elbow driving into
her side. She snarls through the pain, refusing to give even a gasp
he could count as victory.
Atria stands off to the
side, delighted. Arms folded, chin lifted, she watches the violence
unfold with the gleam of someone observing a festival performance.
When Cain throws her a murderous glare, she only smirks wider, this
is exactly the kind of entertainment she was hoping for.
Cain hovers, torn, muscles
coiled. He knows he needs to stop them, knows this will end in
detentions, demerits, bruises, worse, but Lucille’s rage has gone
white-hot and Darian looks just as willing to bleed for his pride.
Cain rushes in anyway.
It is a mistake.
As he wedges himself
between them, trying to shove them apart, a wild elbow catches him
across the jaw. Or maybe it’s Lucille’s head. Or Darian’s fist.
He can’t tell, pain bursts white behind his eyes as he stumbles
back.
“Stop!” he tries, but
his voice is drowned out by the riot erupting around them.
The hallway tightens,
dozens of cadets pressing in. Excited shouts echo off the stone. Some
cheer for Darian. Some for Lucille. Some just revel in the spectacle.
Boots scrape. Someone bets on how long until one of them draws blood.
Lucille gets a knee into
Darian’s stomach, he grunts, doubling, but he still manages to
snatch her by the collar and swing her bodily into the wall again.
She hits with a sharp cry. But she is already moving, already
slashing her arm upward to break his grip, already throwing herself
back into the violence like she was born for it.
Cain wipes blood from his
lip, heart hammering, torn between fear for her and fury at everyone
else.
The fight is out of
control. And it’s only getting worse.
While Darian can easily
overpower the much smaller Lucille, she has something he isn’t used
to fighting; feral
ferocity.
There’s no hesitation, no noble restraint, no polished Academy
technique. Just raw, animal survival.
They crash to the floor in
a tangle of limbs, rolling through the ring of shouting cadets.
Darian snarls, trying to pin her, but Lucille fights like she’s
shredding her way out of a cage. Her elbow slams into his ribs. He
grunts. She twists, slips free for a heartbeat, then he drags her
down again.
But she doesn’t stop. She
doesn’t even think to.
In the chaos, she manages
to wrench herself onto him, knees braced against the floor, small
hands fisting in the front of his uniform as she drives punch after
brutal punch into his face. Something cracks; his nose. Another blow
lands and a bloody tooth spits from his mouth. The crowd erupts at
each impact, a sick, ecstatic roar.
Cain tries again to grab
her shoulder, to pull her off, but he’s forced back by the sheer
momentum of the brawl. Darian’s arms flail wildly beneath her,
trying to shield his face, but she bats them aside and hits him
again. And again.
Atria watches like it’s a
holiday feast, lips parted in savage delight.
And then a sudden shadow
cuts through the ring of cadets. The cheering falters. A few students
immediately scatter. Others freeze, eyes blown wide.
Instructor
Varian Korvin steps into the circle like a blade
sliding into flesh.
He’s silent as he takes
in the scene: Lucille straddling a bloodied, stunned Darian Tarsa;
the crowd frothing around them; Cain with a split lip and murder in
his eyes. Korvin’s gaze flicks briefly to Cain, assessing, noting
the injury, filing it away without commentary.
Then he moves.
In one fluid motion,
Korvin’s hand clamps around the back of Lucille’s uniform like a
steel vise, lifting her clean off Darian as if she weighs nothing.
Her snarl rips through the hallway, feral, breathless, animal. Blood
spatters her knuckles and streaks her cheek, and she claws at the air
as Korvin turns with her, planting himself solidly between her and
her prey.
Darian scrambles backwards
across the floor, choking on a wet breath as blood pours down over
his mouth. The crowd around them jolts, excitement snapping into
stunned silence at the sudden appearance of an instructor.
Korvin sets Lucille on her
feet, but doesn’t release her yet. His bulk blocks her path
entirely, a wall of muscle, dark uniform, and cold authority. Her
chest heaves; she tries to jerk past him, but his arm bars out,
pinning her where she stands without even touching her.
“Enough,” Korvin
growls, low, quiet, but the kind of quiet that kills every sound
within twenty meters.
Around them, cadets shrink
back.
Cain wipes the smear of
blood from his lip, jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumps. He meets
Korvin’s eye, guilt flickering there, apology half-formed. Korvin
gives him only a brief, sharp look, acknowledgment, assessment,
nothing more, but it’s enough to make Cain’s shoulders tighten.
Behind Korvin, Darian
staggers upright with Atria’s help. She keeps one hand under his
elbow and the other cupped dramatically to her mouth, grinning still,
as if the entire scene is entertainment instead of discipline. Darian
spits blood onto the floor, glaring past Korvin at Lucille.
“You little—”
Korvin’s head snaps in
his direction. Just a turn. Just a look.
Darian’s mouth shuts with
an audible click of teeth.
Lucille trembles. Not with
fear, not with regret, she’s thrumming with the same violent fury
that has been chewing at her bones for months, maybe years. Her
fingers flex as if she wishes she still had hold of Darian’s face.
Her breath comes in sharp bursts; her eyes are rabid and bright.
Korvin lowers his voice
even further, aiming it only at her.
“Domitian. Stand down.”
It isn’t a request.
Lucille tries. The rage
inside tries harder. She shakes beneath his grip, jaw clenched, eyes
burning straight through Darian over Korvin’s shoulder. Darian
flinches despite himself.
Korvin shifts his stance,
angling his body more firmly between them. His presence is immovable,
unyielding iron. And it’s the first thing in minutes that actually
stops her.
Korvin’s voice cracks
across the hall like a whip. “Enough!”
Every cadet jolts. The
crowd fractures back. Korvin stands there, towering, cold-eyed, a
storm bottled in a man’s frame.
“Get to your classes,”
he orders, tone flat and final.
No one argues. Cadets
scatter like frightened birds.
Korvin clamps a steady hand
on Lucille’s shoulder, not rough but immovable. “With me.” He
barely needs to speak; the message is carved in stone. Cain falls in
behind them without being asked.
Inside the Weapons Drills
chamber, Korvin shuts the door, firm, echoing, and the world outside
falls silent.
He turns to them slowly.
Disappointment radiates
from him far more sharply than anger ever could. “Explain,” he
says. Not a bark. A quiet demand. “What caused that fight? And more
importantly, who threw the first punch?”
Cain opens his mouth,
“Sir—”
Lucille cuts him off.
“Darian hit me first.” Her jaw is set like granite. “I only
defended myself.”
Korvin exhales through his
nose, rubs his hand down his face as if the gesture might scrub away
the headache forming behind his eyes.
“Lucille…” He looks
at her fully now, weighing her, measuring her, troubled. “I know
who you were on top of.” His tone turns edged, weary. “Darian
Tarsa. A Tarsian prince. One of General Tarsa’s sons.”
Lucille doesn’t flinch.
Korvin presses on. “Even
if he struck first, and I believe you, engaging him was a terrible
choice. You must choose your battles, girl. You can’t go around
beating the nobility bloody. There will be consequences.”
He pauses, voice dropping
even lower. “If Caepio hears about this…” His jaw flexes. “The
outcome could be devastatin'.”
Lucille scoffs quietly,
bitter. “He started it.”
Her words hang in the air
like iron.
Korvin studies her, this
small, furious thing who refuses to bend, then shakes his head once.
Not dismissing her, but mourning the battlefield she hasn’t yet
learned she’s standing on.
Korvin exhales slowly, a
long, controlled breath, the kind that keeps a man from snapping. The
hallway noise is swelling behind the door as the rest of the cadets
begin filing in, chattering about the fight they just watched. He
glances toward the entrance, jaw tightening.
“Enough,” he murmurs,
more to himself than to them. Then, louder: “Go sit down. Both of
you.”
Lucille stiffens, but
Korvin’s tone leaves no room for resistance. Cain gently touches
her shoulder, guiding her away from Korvin’s scrutiny. She shrugs
his hand off but follows him all the same.
They cross the training
hall, a vast stone chamber with weapon racks lining the walls and
the scars of a thousand drills carved into the floor. The air hums
with the metallic smell of steel and old blood.
Other cadets begin taking
their stations, murmuring among themselves. Some throw glances at
Lucille, some wary, some impressed, some irritated that she has once
again drawn attention. Cain keeps close to Lucille
as they take their seats on the front bench. She sits rigidly,
knuckles still bruised and trembling with leftover adrenaline. Cain’s
lip bleeds slowly down his chin, but he keeps his eyes forward.
