Advanced
Weapons Practicum – 13:00
The
classroom hums with tense energy as Korvin steps to the front, the
last traces of the hallway violence still clinging to the air like
smoke. But he pushes it aside, he must. The Trial won’t wait for
bruises to settle or blood to dry.
Lucille
and Cain sit near the front, shoulders rigid, the space between them
crackling with the aftershock of everything that just happened.
Lucille’s knuckles are still swollen, scraped raw. Cain keeps
flicking his attention between her and the doorway, as if
half-expecting Darian to storm in demanding satisfaction.
Korvin
stands at the front and center of the room, arms crossed behind his
back. His presence alone pulls the chatter of arriving cadets into
uneasy quiet. Two additional instructors enter, one from Bladework,
another from Polearms, silent, grim, each carrying a datapad and a
set of combat tokens.
Korvin
nods once, slow.
“Listen
closely,” he says, his voice the low thrum of an approaching storm.
“For six months you have been tested, corrected, broken down, and
reforged. Today, you prove if you were reforged correctly.”
Lucille
straightens, jaw set. Cain shifts beside her, shoulders tight.
Korvin
continues, pacing before the rows of cadets. “The Trial of Fates
will evaluate every weapon discipline covered this term. You will
demonstrate stance, control, aggression, restraint, accuracy, disarm
technique, and adaptability under pressure.” He stops walking. “And
you will do so under the eyes of myself and these two instructors.”
The
Bladework instructor, Old Master Helros, steps forward and plants his
board on a stand. “Scores are final,” he says without emotion.
“Failures will be remanded for corrective trainin'.”
Corrective
training. Nobody breathes at the phrase. Everyone knows what that
means, pain, humiliation, days stripped from them like skin from
bone.
Korvin
resumes. “You will be paired randomly. Your opponent is your
obstacle, not your enemy. You harm them seriously, you fail. You
hesitate, you fail.” His gaze sweeps the room. Then lands, if only
for half a heartbeat, on Lucille.
She
stiffens. Cain sees it.
Korvin
looks away deliberately. Professional. Controlled. But the message is
clear: You can’t lose
control today.
Not
after what happened.
He
claps his hands once. The sharp crack snaps through the classroom.
“Weapons racks will be opened. You will retrieve your assigned
weapon when called. Stand by for pairings.”
A
murmur ripples through the cadets, some excitement, some dread.
Cain
leans toward Lucille. “You ready?” he whispers.
She
doesn’t answer immediately.
Her
bruised cheek throbs. Her blood is still hot. Her pulse hasn’t
settled since she hit the ground under Darian’s first punch.
Finally,
quietly, without looking at him, “I’m always ready.”
Korvin’s
command snaps the room taut. “Cadets. On
your feet. Training
floor, now.”
Chairs
scrape. Conversations die. The class rises as one and spills into the
sparring arena, a sunken rectangle of padded flooring surrounded by
racks of blunted, rubber-edged weapons. The air hums with tension;
everyone knows what the Trial of Fates means. Six months of drills
come down to what they show today.
The
other instructors, Sia Varn and Old Master Helros, step into place
beside Korvin. Together, they begin calling out pairs.
“Seraphine
Veyra and Lucille Domitian.”
Seraphine
groans aloud, rolling her eyes in dramatic agony.
“Cain
Aurellius and Dacien Voltur.”
Cain
sighs but gives Lucille a quick glance, a silent let’s
not cause any more disasters today.
Lucille only cracks her knuckles, jaw tight, the earlier brawl still
simmering beneath her skin.
Once
every pair stands opposite each other, Korvin steps forward.
“This
is a spar,
cadets. You will demonstrate technique, restraint, and discipline.
These are blunted weapons. Protective edges are in place. If you
attempt to maim someone,” his gaze lingers on Lucille for a
fraction of a second, then on Seraphine, “I will end your Trial
myself. Begin on my mark.”
He
raises a hand. “Begin.”
The
room erupts.
Metal
strikes metal in dull thunks, the sharp rhythm of boots scraping
against the floor, bodies circling, feinting, lunging.
Cain
and Dacien start cautiously, practiced opening forms, controlled
footwork. But Dacien’s mouth moves constantly, and the venom in his
words carries.
“Prince
Aurellius, playin' guard dog again? All that prestige and you waste
it on a Domitian rat.”
Cain
keeps his stance. Keeps his breathing even. But his jaw ticks,
tightening with each quiet insult.
Lucille’s
match is louder from the start.
Seraphine
fights with a sneer, every strike harder than regulation allows. She
mutters insults under her breath, too low for instructors to hear,
but loud enough for Lucille.
“You
don’t belong here, Domitian. You’re an embarrassment to the
Praevectus.”
Lucille
bears it. She tries.
She takes the hits, absorbing Seraphine’s aggression and answering
with clean, technical counters, just as Korvin drilled into her.
But
Seraphine pushes harder, landing a sharp blow across Lucille’s
ribs. Pain flares. Lucille staggers.
Seraphine
grins. “Come on, orphan. Fight back.”
Lucille
breathes once. Twice. Then she snaps. She steps into Seraphine’s
next attack, letting the blow land, a calculated sacrifice, and hooks
her leg behind Seraphine’s. A twist. A shift of weight.
Seraphine’s
balance disappears.
She
crashes to the floor with a brutal thud that echoes through the
training hall.
A
few cadets gasp. Instructors look up.
Lucille
stands over Seraphine, chest rising and falling, eyes dark, wild, yet
still holding enough control not to strike while Seraphine is down.
Barely.
Korvin,
Helros, and Sia Varn watch the chaos unfold with practiced, predatory
stillness.
Helros tilts his head,
ancient eyes narrowing at Lucille’s recovery. “Feral little
thing,” he mutters under his breath, half-admiring, half-concerned.
Sia folds her arms, lips
tightening. “She doesn’t break. But she will, if she
keeps lettin' rage steer her blade.”
Korvin says nothing. His
gaze remains fixed on Lucille, dark and unreadable, jaw set. His star
pupil… and his ticking time bomb.
The duels continue.
A sharp crack echoes across
the training hall as Dacien lands a solid hit on Cain’s ribs. Cain
gasps, stumbling back, the impact vibrating through the blunted
steel.
Dacien smirks. “What’s
wrong, Aurellius? Fightin' for gutter trash teach you bad footin'?”
Cain’s self-control
flickers, then burns. He retaliates in a flash, catching Dacien’s
guard just high enough to rattle him. The blow is sharp, clean,
perfectly legal… and just vicious enough to make Dacien pale.
But not enough to draw an
instructor’s wrath.
Meanwhile, Seraphine lunges
again.
Her strikes are faster now,
meaner. She aims for joints, bruises, anywhere she thinks she can
make Lucille hurt. Lucille absorbs hit after hit, refusing
to yield, every muscle in her small frame trembling with barely
contained fury.
Then Seraphine catches her
across the face, hard. Lucille’s head snaps sideways, teeth sinking
into her own lip. Blood beads instantly, metallic and hot on her
tongue.
A snicker escapes from some
cadet watching nearby.
Lucille doesn’t look at
them.
She growls low in her
throat, a feral, animal sound, and forces herself upright again. Her
legs wobble, but she plants her stance. Shoulders squared. Eyes
blazing.
Seraphine sneers. “Just
stay down, Domitian. Make this easier on yourself.”
Lucille wipes the blood
from her lip with the back of her hand. When she speaks, her voice is
raw gravel. “Make me.”
Around them, the
temperature of the room seems to drop. Even Korvin’s jaw flexes.
Korvin calls an end to the
round after several minutes with a sharp blast from the brass whistle
at his hip. The sound cuts through the din of clashing blades and
labored breathing, and every cadet freezes.
Lucille and Seraphine
stagger back from one another, both heaving, both bruised, both
refusing to look away first. Seraphine wipes at the corner of her
mouth where a smear of spit and sweat clings, scowling. Lucille’s
ribs throb where Seraphine’s last strike landed, and her cheek
stings from a baton-glancing blow, but she stays upright.
A draw. Hard fought. Ugly.
And neither girl satisfied with it.
Cain lowers his practice
blade and steps back from Dacien’s prone form. Dacien isn’t down,
but he’s certainly defeated, kneeling, one hand pressed to his
sternum where Cain’s last clean strike landed with absolute
precision. Cain barely looks winded. His eyes flick to Lucille
instead, checking her first, then he steps back into line.
Old Master Helros strokes
his long gray beard, eyes narrowing at the Aurellian boy. “Prodigy,”
he murmurs under his breath.
Sir Varn hums in agreement,
arms folded, one brow raised as she studies Cain’s stance. “He
fights like a seasoned veteran. Like someone who’s bled before.”
Korvin says nothing. His
expression is unreadable, but his gaze lingers on Lucille, on the
bruises she’s trying to hide, on the defiant set of her jaw, on the
fire that refuses to dim even when it should.
He clears his throat,
commanding immediate silence. “Cadets,” he says, voice even but
carrying an undertone of simmering authority, “you have two
minutes. Recover what breath you can.”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The students sag in relief,
dropping onto benches or leaning against the walls. A few groan.
Others whisper excitedly about the fights, replaying moments with
bravado or envy.
Lucille sits, gingerly,
rubbing the side of her ribs. Cain joins her, offering his canteen.
She takes it without meeting his eyes.
Across the training floor,
Seraphine glowers like she’s planning vengeance. Dacien avoids
Cain’s gaze entirely.
Korvin steps forward into
the center of the room, clasping his hands behind his back. The other
instructors flank him like silent judges.
“In two minutes,”
Korvin announces, “we move on to the second stage of the Trial of
Fates.”
The cadets straighten
despite their exhaustion.
“And this stage,” he
warns, “will test far more than your technique.”
He scans the class, making
sure every one of them understands the weight of what’s coming.
Especially Lucille.
Especially Cain. The air grows tighter. Thicker. As if the exam
itself is waiting to strike.
“Rest,” Korvin repeats.
“Because the next trial will not show mercy.”
Academy Corridors –
14:03
Lucille
and Cain step out of Korvin’s classroom, the heavy doors shutting
behind them with a thud that echoes down the stone hallway. Another
exam awaits, another gauntlet to survive before the day is over.
Cain rolls his sore
shoulder with a grimace. “Second stage was just as rough as the
first,” he mutters. “Feels like Korvin was tryin' to kill us, not
test us.”
Lucille only snorts under
her breath. Her sleeves hide most of the bruising, purple blooms
already forming along her forearms, upper arms, ribs, wbut every step
reminds her of them. It burns. It aches. But she’s long past
flinching at pain. Long past caring.
Cain glances sideways at
her, jaw set tight. “Seraphine was hittin' you hard. Harder than
she needed to.” His tone is sharp, more anger than concern. “I
don’t understand why none of the instructors stepped in. Korvin saw
it. Helros saw it. Varn definitely saw it.”
Lucille shrugs, though the
motion twinges something in her shoulder. “Why would they stop
her?” she says. “It’s an exam. We’re meant to be pushed. Hurt
a little.” She forces a faint smirk. “Besides. I gave as good as
I got.”
“You’re bruised to
hell,” Cain snaps, but quieter. His eyes flick to her sleeves
again. He knows what’s hidden there.
Lucille exhales through her
nose, a low, irritated sound. “Cain, I’ve been bruised worse for
less.”
He doesn’t like that
answer, she can see the way his jaw tightens, but he doesn't push it.
He never does.
They turn a corner, headed
toward the eastern wing where Instructor
Musa’s class waits like a storm cloud on the
horizon.
Lucille tilts her head
toward the hallway ahead. “Think Musa’s exam will be written? Or
simulations?” she asks, as though the possibility of another
grueling trial doesn’t faze her.
Cain groans softly. “With
our luck? Both.” Then he shakes his head. “But honestly… I have
no idea. Musa’s unpredictable.”
“Unpredictable,”
Lucille echoes, “usually means painful.”
Cain gives her a dry laugh.
“Yeah. Perfect. Just what we need. More pain.”
Their footsteps continue
down the corridor, the noise of cadets spilling between doors around
them. Another class. Another trial. Another chance to fail, or
survive.
And they move toward it
without slowing.
The moment Lucille and Cain
round the corner, two Praetorians step directly into their path.
Tall, masked, draped in the silver-trimmed silver of the Order.
They stop so abruptly that
Lucille and Cain nearly collide with them. Lucille freezes. Cain’s
hand instinctively goes toward her arm.
“Cadet Lucille Domitian,”
the first Praetorian says, Caelis,
his voice cold as hammered iron. “You are to come with us.”
Lucille feels her blood
turn to ice. Her heartbeat spikes so fast she’s certain they can
hear it pounding through her ribs. She opens her mouth, but nothing
comes out. She has no idea what they want, until the memory
slams into her:
Darian. His blood on her
fists. The crowd. Korvin tearing her off him.
Her stomach drops.
Cain immediately steps
forward, putting himself slightly ahead of her. “She has an exam to
get to,” he says, trying to sound composed but sounding very much
like a prince who is one breath from panic. “Instructor Musa is
expectin' us. Whatever this is—”
“It will be addressed,”
Caelis cuts him off. “Your exam may be rescheduled. Cadet Domitian
must report to the Praetorian Hall. Now.”
The second Praetorian,
Lysander,
reaches out and grips Lucille’s shoulder with a gauntleted
hand. Not painfully, but firmly enough that there’s no possibility
of slipping away. Lucille stiffens; she feels the tremor trying to
crawl up her spine and forces it down.
Cain’s hand presses
lightly against her back, fingers curling as if ready to pull her
behind him. “She didn’t do anything wrong,” he tries, quieter.
“Darian started that fight. She was defendin' herself.”
Neither Praetorian reacts.
They don’t care. They don’t need to.
“This is not up for
discussion, Cadet Aurellius,” Lysander says. “Return to your
class.”
Lucille barely breathes.
“Cain…” she manages, voice low, raw.
He shakes his head, jaw
tight, helpless fury simmering. “Lucille, just do what they say.
I’ll…I’ll talk to someone.”
Her throat tightens.
Useless. Dangerous. He’ll only get himself into trouble.
But the words won’t come
out in time.
Caelis steps back, turning
sharply. Lysander begins moving with Lucille in tow, his grip guiding
her forward whether she’s ready or not.
Lucille’s eyes flick back
to Cain one last time as she’s led away. He stands frozen in the
hallway, fists clenched at his sides, watching helplessly as she is
marched toward the Praetorian Hall, toward judgment, or punishment,
or worse.
Lucille swallows hard. The
hall seems colder with every step.
Captain Caepio’s
Office - The Praetorian Hall – Continuous
Caepio doesn’t rise when
Lucille is ushered in. He barely moves. Only his eyes lift, cold,
unreadable, pale like polished steel, following her as she steps
inside. His pen continues scratching across the page for several more
seconds, the sound far too loud in the suffocating quiet.
Lucille forces herself to
stand still, though every instinct screams to run.
The Praetorians shut the
door behind her with a heavy, grinding thud. She flinches. The latch
clicks into place. She is locked in with him.
Caepio finally places his
pen down. Slowly. Deliberately. He closes the folder in front of him,
aligning the edges with clinical precision. Only when the papers are
squared to his exact standard does he lift his chin fully to her.
Caepio doesn’t speak at
first. He simply looks at her, through her, like his gaze
alone can peel back skin and bone to expose the nerve beneath.
Lucille stands stiff, hands at her sides, fingers twitching only once
before she forces them still. Her breath is trapped somewhere in her
chest, refusing to go all the way out or all the way in. The silence
stretches.
Then Caepio leans back in
his chair.
The leather creaks like
something dying.
“Lucille Domitian,” he
says, her name rolling off his tongue like a verdict, not a greeting.
His voice is calm.
Controlled. Almost gentle. Which somehow makes it all infinitely
worse.
Lucille tries to keep her
expression neutral, to not betray the panic hammering beneath her
ribs. She nods once, because she doesn’t trust her voice yet.
Caepio’s voice is level,
clinical, yet every word comes with the weight of iron slamming onto
an anvil. “Impressive marks for a Domitian,” he says, as if the
title itself tastes foul. “Korvin. Musa. Renn. They all insist you
may have potential. That perhaps you are salvageable.”
Lucille stands stiff, hands
at her sides, fighting not to tremble. Her pulse roars in her ears.
Caepio lifts another paper
from the stack, her performance report, her conduct file, the hallway
fight, it’s impossible to tell. He doesn’t look at the page as he
speaks; he looks only at her.
“But what use is
potential,” he says, “if the vessel containin' it is cracked?”
His eyes narrow, cold and predatory. “Your self-discipline is
nonexistent. Your self-control, laughable. You cannot follow
authority. You cannot walk a corridor without leavin' someone
bloodied. You started a fight with a younger cadet.” A pause. “A
noble younger cadet.”
Lucille clenches her jaw.
She wants to protest, he hit me first, but the words burn in
her throat. She knows better than to interrupt him.
Caepio continues as if she
doesn’t exist beyond the report in his hand.
“Cadets fear you,” he
states plainly. “They speak of you like an unbroken dog. A
liability. And parents, parents of Houses far more important than
yours, are beginnin' to file concerns.”
He sets the page aside with
deliberate precision.
Then he leans back in his
chair, hands steepled, studying her like she is a piece of rotten
meat someone left on his pristine marble floor.
“You were brought here as
a charity,” he says. “Orphans do not earn placement in
the Praevectus Academy. They are given it. And gifts can be
revoked.”
Lucille swallows. “Sir—”
He raises a hand without
looking up, and the gesture alone is enough to shut her down. “I do
not recall givin' you permission to speak.”
Her jaw snaps shut.
Caepio opens the folder.
The movement is slow, deliberate. Inside, she can see several sheets
of testimony, some handwritten by instructors, others typed out
formally and stamped. Darian Tarsa’s name is printed in bold across
the top page beside the Tarsian crest. Her stomach drops down to her
boots.
Caepio reads aloud, voice
flat with administrative indifference. “Lucille Domitian assaulted
Prince Darian Tarsa durin' academy hours… struck him repeatedly…
broke his nose… dislodged a tooth… inflicted severe bruisin'.”
He flips to the next page. “Prince Tarsa required medical
attention.” Another page turned. “He claims the attack was
unprovoked.”
Lucille’s nails bite into
her palms until the sting borders on pain, but she does not speak.
She knows better.
Caepio finally closes the
folder with a quiet thud that echoes far louder in her head.
“That,” he says, eyes
lifting to her at last, “is quite the accusation for a Domitian to
bear.”
Her pulse thrums like a
drumline in her ears.
Then Caepio adds, almost as
an afterthought, though nothing he says is ever casual, “I also
received a call from General Tarsa and his wife, Lady Virella Tarsa.
They demand disciplinary action be taken immediately. They are…
quite insistent. Both of them.”
He rests a hand on the
closed folder. “An injured prince files a report, and his parents
personally call the Captain of the Praetorian to demand
punishment.” A pause. “Do you understand the weight of that,
Domitian?”
Her breath catches, tight
and cold in her chest.
Caepio finally rises.
Every movement of his
towering frame is measured, intentional. He steps around the desk and
stands directly in front of her, too close, making her feel
impossibly small.
“Look at me,” he
orders.
Lucille forces herself to
lift her head. Her eyes meet his, and it feels like staring into a
storm, cold, merciless, vast.
“Did you attack him?”
Caepio asks.
There is no warmth. No room
for error. No hint of whether the truth or a lie will save her.
Lucille licks her dry lips.
“He hit me first, sir.”
His expression does not
change.
“He stepped into me.
Knocked me down. Then he struck me. I only defended myself.”
Another long, suffocating
silence.
Then Caepio’s jaw flexes,
slowly, like he’s grinding down a stone between his teeth.
“And yet,” he says
quietly, “multiple witnesses claim you continued the attack after
Prince Tarsa ceased resistin'.”
Lucille’s throat
tightens. She doesn’t deny it. She can’t.
Caepio leans down slightly,
just enough that their faces are level.
“I warned you once,” he
says, voice barely above a breath, “to keep your temper leashed.”
Lucille’s heart stumbles.
Caepio straightens again,
clasping his hands behind his back, looking down at her like a judge
contemplating a sentence.
“You are an orphan,” he
says. “A Domitian. Your very existence here is a privilege granted
by mercy, not merit.”
The words strike harder
than any punch Darian landed.
“And yet you raise your
fists against nobility. Against a general’s son.” His voice
lowers into something cold as ice. “You threaten the balance that
keeps this Academy from devourin' you whole.”
Lucille clenches her jaw.
“I didn’t start it.”
“That is irrelevant,”
Caepio snaps, the first hint of real anger crackling across the room.
“Your life is not your own to gamble on pride. You do not fight
Tarsians. You do not provoke their wrath. You do not break their
sons’ faces in a public hallway between exams.”
Lucille’s chest tightens.
“Sir—”
“Enough.”
The word hits like a whip.
Caepio circles her once,
slow and predatory, like he is assessing a weapon with a flaw he
cannot quite decide whether to sharpen or discard.
“You will wait here,”
he says at last, moving back toward his desk. His tone is clipped,
businesslike, but heavy with finality. “Your punishment is already
decided.”
Lucille’s breath snags in
her throat.
Caepio doesn’t sit
immediately. He picks up the folder again, holding it loosely, almost
carelessly, like her fate weighs nothing to him.
“General Tarsa has
invoked his right as nobility and as a General of the Order,”
Caepio says, eyes fixed on the papers rather than her. “Under
Academy law, when a noble bloodline demands reparation for assault,
the Academy must provide it.”
Her fingers curl into
trembling fists.
He continues, voice steady
and merciless, “He requests formal discipline for criminal
misconduct, assault upon a noble, and insubordination. Therefore…”
A beat. “You
will be lashed.”
The words hit harder than
any blow Darian threw.
Caepio finally lifts his
gaze to her, sharp, cold, and impassive.
“I have no authority to
alter this rulin',” he states. “The law binds me as surely as it
binds you. When a General demands enforcement, I uphold it. Whether I
agree with it or not is irrelevant.”
Lucille’s mouth dries.
She doesn’t move. She barely breathes.
Caepio’s expression
doesn’t change as he finishes outlining her punishment. His voice
is iron, flat, immovable.
“There will be no delay.
No appeals. General Tarsa has invoked the Academy’s disciplinary
mandates for criminal misconduct and disrespect of nobility.” His
eyes cut to her, sharp enough to flay. “And so the law will be
upheld.”
Lucille’s stomach twists
painfully.
He does not allow silence
to stretch. He merely reaches for the folder, closes it with clinical
finality, and gestures toward the door with a curt tilt of his head.
“You will follow me.”
He opens the door himself,
not for her, never for her, but to signal her forward. The two
Praetorians stationed outside straighten at attention but remain
silent. Caepio does not acknowledge them. He strides down the
corridor with long, purposeful steps, and Lucille has to hurry to
keep up.
They do not go toward the
training rooms. Not toward the courtyard. Not anywhere public.
Caepio would never permit a
spectacle.
Instead, they turn deeper
into the Praetorian Hall, past restricted wings and sealed doors.
Lucille has never been this far inside. Her heart beats so hard it
hurts.
He stops at a door she has
never seen open before, an unmarked chamber, tucked away behind two
support pillars.
Caepio withdraws a key.
“This academy does not
maintain formal facilities for this level of discipline,” he says
as he unlocks the door. His voice remains disturbingly calm. “Such
measures are… archaic. Rarely invoked.”
The lock clicks.
“But General Tarsa
insisted. And what he demands, I must enforce.”
He pushes the door open.
The room inside is empty,
cold stone, no windows, barren except for a single support beam and a
small table containing a tightly coiled leather lash.
Lucille’s breath
stutters.
Caepio steps inside first.
“Enter,” he orders
without looking back.
She does.
The door shuts behind them
with a final, echoing thud.
