Dolor awoke in the poorly lit staff room of the Lower Deck. The springs of the old sofa he’d crashed on groaned heavily as he got up. He shuffled through the staff kitchen, where a group of waiters and bussers were playing cards. None of them greeted Dolor or even acknowledged his presence.

  He checked the time on the wall-mounted clock. 4 p.m. The Lower Deck would soon open its doors to customers. He must’ve been out for a day, maybe longer, which wasn’t surprising given everything he’d just been through.

  Dolor couldn’t remember anything after the dinner and "conversation" with Petros. He must have passed out from exhaustion and been brought here to recover.

  He found the staff bathroom and flipped the light switch. The cracked, grimy mirror greeted him with a bleak reflection: a broken man with disheveled clothes, matted hair, and a patchy, unshaven beard.

  “Good morning, Princess! Hope you didn’t pee your pants in your sleep. I know you’re the Captain’s guest, but we’re running out of spare underwear, you know,” said Barco, suddenly appearing behind him with a wide, toothy grin.

  “Wow, so fucking funny, Barco. You ever thought of abandoning your career as Petros’ bottom-bitch assistant and pursuing your dreams in stand-up comedy?” Dolor was in no mood.

  “You know,” Barco replied gleefully, “if the Captain hadn’t instructed me to make sure you fully recover before the job, I would’ve used your stupid human face to repaint this bathroom. We’ve been long overdue for staff area renovations.”

  “You always say that and never actually deliver, Barco!” someone called out from the kitchen - one of the card players, judging by the burst of laughter that followed.

  “Shut the fuck up, Larry! You should be grateful we’re even letting you hide here from those twelve counts of anti-regime propaganda waiting for your ass outside. You still want to talk shit?”

  “No, sir, please carry on,” Larry replied—another round of raucous laughter.

  “What do you want, Barco?” Dolor asked after splashing cold water on his face.

  “Here.” Barco held out a neatly folded stack of clothes: military fatigues, cargo pants, combat boots, and a long overcoat. “Take a shower, you stink. Get changed and head to the Captain’s office. He wants to talk to you about the job.”

  “Great, thanks. What about food? I’m starving,” said Dolor, accepting the bundle.

  “Those who don’t work, don’t eat, Dolor-boy. The Republic wasn’t built on the backs of freeloaders and wreckers. Work first. Rewards - including food - come after.” Barco turned and walked to the door. “And don’t be late. The Captain hates it,” he added, shutting it behind him.

  * * *

  Dolor knocked on the door to Petros’ office.

  “Come in,” came the elf's voice, calm but commanding.

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  “You wanted to see me?” Dolor asked, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

  “Not really. But I needed to see you, Lance Corporal. Please, take a seat.” Petros gestured courteously toward the chair across from his desk.

  Dolor sat and leaned back. He was still uneasy around the elf, never quite sure what to expect. His experiences with elves had confirmed plenty of the usual prejudices - the mood swings, the impulsiveness. People said that their long lives, paired with a deeply ingrained superiority complex, and the fact that they were a racial minority in a human-dominated society, twisted their personalities. Schmal and Petros hadn’t done much to disabuse Dolor of that notion.

  “So, what can I do for you?” Dolor asked.

  “You, Lance Corporal, possess a rare gift and an even rarer artifact. Nyxfang is now bound to you. No mage can control it, even if they kill you. And believe me, if that was an option, you wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

  “Gracious as always.”

  “Quite.” Petros leaned back. “As I said, since only you can control Nyxfang, I’m assigning you to handle a few business problems of mine. But first…”

  He rang a small bell. The office door creaked open, and Barco stepped in, bowing slightly.

  “Barco, tell her to come in.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  The orc vanished, and a moment later, a human woman entered. Athletic, fair-skinned, hair tied in a tight ponytail. She wore the uniform of a Lower Deck waitress. As she approached, a heady scent of juniper and raspberries followed her in. She bowed.

  “You called for me, sir?” Her voice was low, feminine, controlled.

  “Ah, Martha. So nice to see you. Hope you’ve been well.” Petros gestured toward Dolor. “My guest here - former Lance Corporal Dolor Patiens - is in urgent need of some basic magic training. He was manaless until just a few days ago, when it turned out he’s somehow capable of controlling a special grade magicarm.”

  Martha blinked, stunned.

  “Don’t ask how or why. I don’t know either. Preliminary examination suggests he’s a savant, casting directly from an unusually high innate mana reserve. But his technique, theory, and control are nonexistent. So: fundamentals. Train him.”

  “Sir, what’s his rank? I need to know where to start.”

  “Officially? He wouldn’t fall under standard ranking due to the savant classification. But practically? Assume he’s Rank 0. Train him like a child who just discovered magic. Get him to Rank 3 in one week. Use any method you like. Report back to me when it’s done.”

  “It will be done, Captain.” Martha nodded and turned to Dolor. “Be in the staff room in ten minutes. For every second you’re late, you’ll be struck by a purple lightning bolt.” And with that, she left.

  “She’s something, isn’t she?” Petros said, eyes twinkling. “Real firecracker. One of my best.”

  “So… what now?” Dolor asked, increasingly wary.

  “What do you mean? You heard her. Go meet Martha. Training starts now. And I wouldn’t be late if I were you, she hates tardiness even more than I do. That’s why I like her.”

  “I guess I’ll see you in a week?”

  “I guess you will. Good luck with your training, Dolor. Conclave knows, you’ll need it.”

  “Why? Is it that hard? I’m a war veteran, you know.”

  “That’s the spirit, Lance Corporal. Nothing’s impossible if you really put your mind to it. Now go. Don’t keep her waiting.”

  Dolor was halfway to the door when Petros called out.

  “Oh, and Lance Corporal? One thing I forgot to mention. You will want to complete the training successfully. Because in one week, I’ll test your abilities. If you’re not Rank 3 by then, I’ll dispose of you.”

  “What?! You said if you killed me, you still couldn’t use the dagger. What’s the point?”

  “No, I can’t use it. But I can sell it. And if I give it to the State? Might even get some brownnosing snitch bonuses. Nothing to scoff at in this economy.”

  “Then what’s the point of training me at all?”

  “The job I need done is time sensitive. It requires a certain level of magic proficiency, which you currently do not have. You’ve got one week. If you fail, you’re useless. And I don’t have room for useless.”

  Petros leaned forward, eyes sharp as razors.

  “Be smart, Dolor. Don’t become a headache for me. Prove yourself useful, and you might earn a future yet. Not a good future. Not a safe one. But better than the meaningless meandering toward your inevitable death in some dark ditch that you have been on so far. Am I clear?”

  “Yes. I understand.” Dolor’s voice was steady, but inside he already knew: if he wanted to survive, he had no choice but to go with the current. For now, Petros was the only one keeping the SSB off his back, and that was his main concern.

  “Good man,” Petros smirked and tapped his wristwatch. “And now, you’ve got about thirty seconds left to get to Martha.”

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  The next chapter drops on a regular schedule (next Saturday or Sunday)... or maybe even sooner, depending on my schedule.

  - G.A.