Chapter 46

Wrifton

A couple of days later, Skithbladnir glided into the skydocks of Wrifton, its brass-plated hull catching the weak sunlight filtering through the thin haze. Mags stood on deck, gripping the railing as the city unfolded beneath her. Wrifton was a jungle of dark stone. Towers of gray thrust skyward, taller than any tree she’d ever climbed or any spire she’d seen, even in Perun. They rose like blackened needles, their jagged tips raking the sky. For all their height, the city felt smaller, more contained than Perun. Wrifton lacked the chaotic sprawl, the overwhelming crush of skydocks that hummed with endless life. Perun had seemed to hungrily expand outwards, consuming everything in and around it. Wrifton, on the other hand, grew deliberately higher.

Mags asked Calcabrina, who had joined her on the topdeck of the airship, about the tall structures of Wrifton.

“It’s the lack of space,” Calcabrina said, appearing at Mags’ side. The horned girl lazily leaned against railing, watching the city with an expression caught between reverence and boredom. “The island can’t grow outward, so instead it grows upward. The Academies take most of the land on the island, and everything else exists to serve them. It’s more an Academy Town than a proper city—though it’s still larger than most places you’ll find across the Thirteen Crowns.”

Mags nodded, though her focus remained on the cityscape. There was a hum to Wrifton, subtle but insistent, like a plucked string that refused to still. Quieter than the overwhelming cacophony Perun had been, but still so much more active than the isolated Bijel Garden. She could feel it in her bones, a quiet vibration that set her teeth on edge.

By the time the gangplank was lowered, the crew had gathered her things: two heavy chests, a large suitcase, and two worn leather satchels filled to the brim with new clothing and materials. While she had been training at Bijel Garden, the crew had spent a part of their travels obtaining all the materials she would need for her first semester at Brightwash Academy. Alichino and two other crew members hefted the bulk of it with exaggerated groans and smirks.

“Lass, I’d think you a noble Lady on holiday! You know yer attending a military school?” Alichino huffed as he carried one of the large chests towards the gangplank.

Mags felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment—it was more than she’d owned in years, and it still felt strange to have so much.

As she stepped off the ship, a knot of crew members gathered to see her off. Cagna gave her a jaunty wave. “Don’t forget us little people when you’re some fancy scholar, eh?”

“Or an imperial puppet,” Dragnazzo added with a wicked grin, pressing a small package into her hands. Mags unwrapped it to reveal a miniature Sovereign’s Gambit set.

“Keep practicing,” he said. “Wouldn’t want you getting rusty.”

She smiled despite herself, tucking the gift into her Pocket with a simple mental command. “Thanks, Drag. Perhaps you won’t be a half-bad Gambit player by the next time we see each other.”

Scarmiglione, still obscured behind the strange bicolored mask, approached her, pushing away his trench coat with a flourish before he leaned in close, his voice a soft murmur only she could hear. “The road ahead bends sharply, but the stones beneath are steady. Tread carefully, little Magpie.” And with that cryptic farewell, he strolled back onto the ship whistling a jolly tune.

Jebati! I’d be happy to never see him again, she thought, watching the crew’s doctor disappear onto the airship.

Rubicante bowed his head when he approached Mags. He handed her a small, brown paper bag. “Inside are some of my favorite blends of tea.”

Mags smiled. “I’ll try my best to brew them as well as you do. And I’ll miss our conversations.”

“As will I.”

Calcabrina was next. She approached Mags with a smile that oozed happiness, pride, and also a fair amount of sadness. Mags didn’t need a mirror to know her expression probably looked much the same. Calcabrina pulled her into an embrace, a tight hug that radiated with warmth. Mags returned the hug, squeezing the other young woman close to her. “Good luck,” Calcabrina said, her voice soft. “You’ve got this. Don’t let anyone make you feel small.”

Mags swallowed the lump in her throat. “Thank you . . . for being my friend.” She hadn’t realized how badly she needed a friend, a true friend, after what happened in Solstice. She would be forever grateful for Calcabrina.

Calcabrina smiled but said nothing more, letting the hug linger before stepping back.

Libicocco appeared over Calcabrina’s shoulder. The raven-haired, bespectacled woman carried her familiar frown. She approached stiffly, her expression as rigid as her posture.

“Study hard,” her instructor said. “Don’t get comfortable. Brightwash’s curriculum will be grueling.”

“I hope the classroom lectures are the most of my worries.”

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To that, Libicocco gave a curt nod. She extended her hand towards her.

Mags stepped past Libicocco’s reach and pulled her into a hug. Libicocco froze, her arms hovering awkwardly, before she patted Mags’ back once, like someone handling a volatile potion. Mags stepped back, grinning at the flustered look Libicocco quickly masked. Instead of her usual frown, a blush of a smile was on her face.

“Thanks, Coco.”

Malacoda was the last to disembark—carried, no less, by Alichino. The Soulsinger looked like a newborn babe in the red-haired giant’s arms, swaddled in his cloak and loudly snoring. He’s really asleep right now? . . . Actually, I’m not surprised.

The giant man deposited him unceremoniously on the dock, and Malacoda landed on his feet, eyes still closed, gentle snores still escaping his barely parted lips. He blinked awake, looked around. “How’d I get here?” he asked through a yawn. He stretched his arms high over his head, letting out a satisfied groan. Then, he finally seemed to realize where he was and what was going on.

His sharp, red eyes found Mags. He clapped a hand on Mags’ shoulder, grinning a wide, crooked grin.

“You’ll do fine,” he said. “Remember our lessons. Keep things under wraps—but not too much. And kick some ass.”

Mags grinned. “Yes, sir!”

Finally, Frey Sarto emerged from Skithbladnir’s deck. The small crowd of crew members parted like reeds before a rising tide. Sarto’s smile was soft, almost motherly, but her eyes—those eyes—remained inscrutable. Mags couldn’t look away from them. Something in the back of her mind wanted to give itself over to Sarto, to kneel before her, to obey. She scratched the back of her head.

In the months she had spent with the Ghost Hounds, the Company’s captain was an enigma—a bigger mystery than even Scarmiglione. Not all masks need to be worn, she reminded herself. Like the Ravaelian Empire, wearing the mask of the protector, the loving overseer. It was all lies. And though the woman before Mags didn’t give her much more comfort, she offered Mags something of value: the opportunity for vengeance.

In Sarto’s hand was a tightly sealed scroll. She held it out to Mags, who accepted it carefully, depositing it into her Pocket without breaking the seal.

“Your special recommendation,” Sarto said. “It will get you admission as a recruit at Brightwash Academy. Well done, Magdalena. But this is just the beginning. Remember your purpose: the title of Dux per Par.”

Mags straightened, nodding sharply. “I won’t forget.”

Sarto’s smile deepened, just enough to make Mags’ chest tighten. That feeling in the back of her mind blossomed. She wanted Sarto’s pride, her approval. Without another word, the Captain turned and ascended the gangplank.

The crew followed her, except for Alichino who was tasked with helping her transport her belongings. Together, they hefted her belongings and carried them into the labyrinthine streets of Wrifton. Mags glanced back once at Skithbladnir before the city swallowed her whole.

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Near the dock’s exit was a parade of parked, garuda-drawn carriages.

The garuda harnessed to a specific cart near the front of the procession drew Mags’ attention the moment she and Alichino reached the row of carriages. Massive and regal, the creature preened its vibrant green feathers, wings shifting lazily. Its talons, each as thick as her wrist, curled around the hitching post. The carriage it was tethered to was modest but well-maintained, its lacquered wood gleaming faintly in the dim afternoon light.

Two men loitered near the front of the carriage. One was lean, with a weathered face and a pipe clenched between his teeth, while the other was shorter, his bulk packed into a too-small coat. They straightened as she and Alichino approached, their gazes flicking over her and then her towering companion.

“How much to Brightwash Academy?” Mags asked, her tone clipped but polite.

The pipe-smoker squinted at her. “Cutting it close, aren’t you? Most of the other hopefuls got in days ago for the admissions testing. Yesterday, latest, if they were from the regional exams.” His two front teeth were larger than normal, separated by a pronounced gap. “I hate to break it to you, but you might be too late.”

“Has the welcome ceremony already happened?” she asked.

The man shrugged. “Er . . . Can’t say. Probably not, I suppose. But it won’t be long now.”

Mags lifted her chin. “Then I’m still on time. How much?”

The shorter man scratched his chin, his gaze lingering on her boots, which were finally broken in but clean and clearly newer, and then sliding toward her luggage. “Two gold for the ride,” he said. “Another gold apiece if you need help with your things. And your, uh . . . attendant—” his eyes flicked warily to Alichino, who stood grinning like a bear at the attention “—might need his own carriage. We’ve got just the one bird pulling this one.”

Alichino let out a booming laugh that made the shorter man flinch. “Don’t worry about me, lads,” the giant said, slapping Mags on the back with a force that nearly sent her stumbling. “I’ve got other places to be.”

Mags chuckled. “He’s not coming. Just me.” She glanced at Alichino. “Help them load my things?”

Alichino grinned and hauled her chests and suitcase as though they were filled with feathers, depositing them into the carriage with a gentleness that belied his size. The two men stood by, uncertain whether to be grateful or intimidated.

When the last satchel was loaded, Alichino turned to her, his jovial expression softening. “Well, this is it, lass. You’ll do great.” He clapped her shoulder one last time, this time with a gentler hand. “Remember, Brightwash might be the whetstone, but you’re the blade.”

Mags nodded, her throat tightening. “Thanks, Alichino.”

He gave her a mock salute before turning back toward the skydocks, his hulking frame soon lost in the crowd.

Mags climbed into the carriage, the wood creaking slightly beneath her weight. She settled onto the cushioned bench as the pipe-smoker barked an order to the garuda. With a ruffling of wings and a sharp cry, the creature began to move, pulling the carriage smoothly onto the narrow cobbled streets.

The city of Wrifton passed by in a blur of stone and shadow. Towers loomed overhead, casting long fingers of shade that stretched across the streets. Small crowds of people went about their day, their voices mingling with the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the distant hum of unseen machinery. The glare of glass windows on storefronts mixed with the blur of dark stone.

Eventually, the carriage left the city’s confines, the road unfurling into the hilly countryside. The air grew fresher, tinged with the scent of wild grass and damp earth. The garuda’s talons clicked against the stone path, steady and measured. Mags watched as the hills grew steeper, the road curving upward toward an imposing set of iron gates.

As they approached, the gates creaked open, revealing a sprawling campus that took Mags’ breath away. Brightwash Military Academy stretched before her, its austere grandeur unmistakable. Towers of gray and red stone framed the main courtyard, their flags snapping sharply in the breeze. Beyond them, the campus sprawled in all directions—training grounds, lecture halls, barracks—all neatly arranged within the confines of high walls. The place buzzed with activity, students and instructors moving with purpose.

The carriage slowed to a stop, and Mags stepped out, her pulse quickening. She had arrived.