Dolor was sprinting down the long hallway connecting Petros’ office to the main dining hall of the Deck. After all the beatings he had taken in the last couple of days, the last thing he wanted was to get electrocuted, frozen, or burned alive by magic. He didn’t know how powerful Martha really was, but judging from what Petros had said—and the fact that he’d entrusted Dolor’s training to her—he suspected her magic was considerable.

  He tore down the corridor, cutting corners and desperately trying to remember the path he’d taken earlier from the staff room to Petros’ office.

  Two orc waiters were blocking the hall, carrying oversized trays stacked with food.

  “Hey! Get out of my way!” Dolor yelled, his voice cracking with panic. The orcs looked up, startled by the sound of his galloping footsteps and the desperate, almost terrified tone with which he pleaded. To their credit, they tried to shift aside and leave enough space between them for Dolor to pass through.

  The gap wasn’t big enough.

  Dolor slammed directly into one of the orc’s massive frames. The impact sent him flying, and the trays went tumbling—silverware, glass, and ceramics clattering and shattering across the dining hall floor below.

  The sound cut through the quiet pre-opening ambiance of the Lower Deck like a gunshot.

  Staff began gathering to investigate the commotion.

  Dolor didn’t have time for this.

  He scrambled to his feet, untangling himself from one of the orcs, who was now groaning and muttering curses while wincing in pain. Dolor threw out a half-hearted apology and resumed sprinting, shoving past anyone who dared stand between him and the sweet sensation of not being electrocuted.

  Finally, he reached the staff room. He burst through the door and rolled into the common area, panting and soaked in sweat.

  The usual card players, including Larry, were still there, still playing, still ignoring him like nothing had happened.

  She wasn’t there.

  Did he make it? Or was Martha late?

  Dolor glanced at the wall clock.

  He still had five minutes.

  “Fucking…,” he gasped, still trying to catch his breath, “Fucking Petros… that son of a bitch… got me.”

  “He got all of us, friend,” said Larry, not looking up from his cards. “That’s what it means to work for Petros Vask, Captain of the Lower Deck. Tough but fair—just like the Leader himself.”

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  “Tough… but fair… huh?” Dolor wheezed, finally starting to breathe normally again. “I fail to see… the fair part. But… maybe I just don’t know him as well as you.”

  The door opened.

  Martha stepped in.

  The card players froze mid-game. They all looked up, smiling as wide as they could, and greeted her in unison. Martha nodded briskly, then turned to Dolor.

  “Why are you covered in sweat, Patiens? I thought you were instructed to clean yourself before seeing the Captain,” she said sternly.

  “I did… You see, I just… Petros told me I had less time to get here than I did… which is my fault, I should’ve checked before running here… so you see-”

  “Enough!” she snapped.

  “For a military man—albeit a former and dishonorably discharged one—you sure like to make excuses. From now on, you will only speak when spoken to. You will follow every order I give and hang on my every word as if they come from the Leader himself. Clear?”

  There was something deeply unsettling about how her delicate features clashed with her commanding presence. Dolor figured she must have been a former drill instructor or some kind of officer. He decided to fall back on his old instincts.

  “Ma’am, yes, ma’am! We Follow the Leader!” he barked, giving as heartfelt a salute as he could manage.

  “Much better, dog. Remember to wag your tail and show your master your best puppy eyes when I address you. I do not tolerate insubordination. I do not tolerate incompetence. And most of all, I do not tolerate laziness or lack of effort. Do I make myself clear, Patiens?”

  “Ma’am, yes, ma’am!”

  Dolor was starting to think maybe dying at the hands of the SSB wouldn’t have been such a bad deal after all. He had hated the military, and when he’d been dishonorably discharged, he’d actually felt relieved—freed, even, despite the discharge condemning him to a life of vagrancy.

  “Follow me.”

  Martha turned and walked out of the room. The gamblers remained frozen, cards still in hand. None of them dared resume the game until she was out of sight.

  Dolor followed her into the hallway.

  They wove through a maze of dim corridors before arriving at a large storage room filled with boxes of silverware, plates, and table linens.

  “You are now a student at Martha’s Magic School,” she said flatly, “where I have the impossible task of training you to reach Rank 3 in one week. Normally, reaching that level takes five to ten years, depending on one’s talent, and more importantly, their family wealth and access to disposable mana for practice.”

  She snapped her fingers, and the lamps in the room flared to life all at once, flooding the space with light.

  “Wait,” Dolor said. “Did you just say, ‘Martha’s Magic School’? Have you received your official State accreditation? I’d hate to find out I was being educated by a fraud—”

  He didn’t get to finish the joke.

  An invisible force lifted him into the air and slammed him against the ceiling with crushing force. The air exploded from his lungs.

  Martha stood below, eyes glowing faintly, one hand raised.

  She flicked her wrist, and Dolor’s body twisted midair. Then he screamed.

  His limbs—arms and legs—had been torn from his torso, now suspended by strands of blood vessels. The pain was unimaginable. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He was dying.

  Then, suddenly, he wasn’t.

  Dolor opened his eyes and found himself on the floor, whole and intact.

  “That’s illusion magic,” Martha said calmly, answering the question he was too stunned to ask. “No physical damage—but it causes immense psychological trauma. Useful for interrogations and select combat situations.”

  She stepped toward him.

  “I warned you not to fuck with me, didn’t I? Listen closely. If you ever joke with me again or say or do anything I didn’t explicitly tell you to say or do, I will subject you to mental torture so extreme, you’ll look back on whatever Petros did to you like it was a spa weekend. Got it?”

  Dolor nodded, trembling.

  This kind of magic was rare, seldom used on the battlefield. But he'd heard whispers. Rumors of prisoners driven mad, made to believe they were drowning, dismembered, eaten alive, over and over and over again.

  Before this, Dolor had feared that Martha could hurt him like Petros or the SSB magents.

  Now he knew that Martha’s Magic School was far worse.

  “Fabulous,” she said. “Then let’s begin our first lesson. Take notes. I will not repeat myself. And yes—before you ask—there will be a test.”

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  The next two chapters will drop on a regular schedule (next Saturday or Sunday)... or maybe even sooner, depending on my schedule.

  - G.A.