elites want peace they’ll never get
I raise my blade for good and right|
countless men court Lady Death
War’s at her mercy every night
excerpt from “The Real Fight” by Freya Ansel, an academy washout
180 GKE – 197 GKE
Sabilli bobs up and down on the canvas seat. Her dark, shiny curls stream over her shoulders—she looks like a loupwolf pup. Rowan sits beside her. His expression is less enthusiastic but far more smug. Osyrus and Dune sit on either side of me.
“How the Hel did you beat a legacy staffmaster?” Osyrus asks.
“I got lucky,” I say. “So did you guys. I guess that time in Ávila paid off.”
Dune looks heavenward. “Hope our luck lasts.”
I make a noise of agreement. According to Pierre-Marie, only twenty percent of students complete all four academy sessions without washing out.
I smoke a nub from Dune’s spare pack, my neck aching and my fingers twitching. The headache lessens. For a few blissful moments, I forget about my conversation with Felicity. I don’t have to think. Thinking is a cruel and terrible hobby, I decide as I loll on the plush seat. No one should ever do it.
###
When our train pulls up to the First Terminal, the sight of the castle steals the breath from my lungs. Le Château du Roi Dieu—the God King’s palace. Sandstone walls stretch as far and high as I can see, the stones layered. Lined pillars arc toward The Fjords, and openings for artillery crenellations have been cut into the walls.
We exit the caravan and walk toward a chapel-like tower, crossing a metallite drawbridge that overlooks a moat. I stare at the dark water and almost trip over the ornate slats. Dune throws an arm around my shoulders.
“Ivo Lorsan grew up in Poussin’s palazzo,” he says.
"I have no idea what that means.”
“You still got the sweater?”
I pat my kit bag.
“Can I have it?”
I raise an eyebrow.
He sighs. “Promise you’ll will it to me.”
“I don’t have a will,” I say.
“You should get that straightened out,” Osyrus says. “Once we’re deployed, survival odds aren’t great. I give you three months before you’re offed.”
“Thanks, friend,” I say.
“We don’t say thanks or cheers or much obliged in the First Circuit,” Sabilli calls over her shoulder. “That’s peasant talk.”
She’s never spoken to me before. “Thanks is peasant talk?”
“Say ta instead.” Her voice is chipper as she spins to face us. “Hello is lo, shit is shite, and family housing units are palazzos. Your father is da if you love and fear him. If you’re going to insult someone to their face, throw a with all due respect out there. Eff not screw—that’s common courtesy. Welcome to heaven, boys!”
She winks. Dune snickers. So does Osyrus.
A guarded, gated checkpoint looms over us. Sabilli paves the way forward, Rowan at her heels. Osyrus and Dune stick close to me. We’re ushered through the gates and patted down by stern-faced swordsmen. Our bags are searched. Dune’s candydrops are confiscated. Apparently heaven has a strict no drugs policy.
“When’s our first day?” I ask a guard.
“Borvlov will escort you to the L-DAW dormitories.” He points to a sun-weathered lancer. “I-Day starts tomorrow at 0500.”
“I-Day?” Dune asks.
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“Induction day.” Sabilli turns away from the swordswoman rifling through her suitcases. “Make sure you’re not late. Lanista Leómadura is pedantic.”
Swordsman Borvlov leads us past a complex boasting seven arrow towers and a bartizan walkway. We turn into a garden. A field of flowers release a sweet, honeyed stench into the air. Sabilli narrates as we walk. Rowan drifts away from the pack, but Dune, Osyrus, and I draw close to her. She gesticulates, grinning a mischievous smirk and pointing out landmarks.
“Royal Road is that way,” she says. “The seven titans commissioned familial estates—their descendants live in the holy palazzos to this day. The manors are beautiful, home to more dead than living. Walk the paths if you have a spare moment.”
Creepy, nonsensical, and cool. I decide I like her. “I have follow-up questions.”
“Ask away, friend.”
"How many manors are there?”
“Six,” she says. “Marix died before he got one.”
“And the lords of the manors are…”
“Audrin, Killián, Bardic, Galtero, Lefe, and Ra'mes.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “Their spirits in order—Love, Death, War, Hope, Fate, and Life.”
Osyrus stares at Sabilli with flushed cheeks and an open mouth. He’s jogging to keep up with her brisk pace. Her legs are disproportionately long in contrast to her torso, and she’s matching Borvlov’s steps stride for stride.
“The lords are gods?” I ask.
“The lords are masculine divinity incarnate.”
“What’s over there?”
“The main complex,” she says, “also known as the central facility. It houses extended family, elite scholars, craftsmen, builders, and other guests. Home to one hundred nobles—give or take—two thousand servants, and a fair number of soldiers.”
I rub the back of my neck. “That’s a lot of people.”
“You’ll be fine,” she says sweetly. “Avoid anyone in an Ivo Lorsan pullover. Lordheirs are curs.”
Dune huffs out another laugh. Does she know I’m the guy who showed up to Bathune in women’s boots and a designer sweater? She must. According to Dune, gossip was making the rounds during my first week.
“See those wooden structures across the quad?” she asks. “Those are stables for show horses. Killián keeps Death’s cavalry on the other side of the main complex. He likes to joke that he trusts the Lord of Love with his soul, not his steeds.”
“You’re on a first-name basis with the general?” I ask.
“My father is Staffmaster Péri,” she says. “Elite guardsmen are honorary members of the di Vivar family, so I grew up in Yosif’s palazzo. Killián’s my uncle, by honor if not by blood.”
Rowan moves further away. Sabilli glances at him and lowers her voice to a whisper.
“Staffmaster Belén has accommodations in the manor too,” she murmurs. “Rowan’s father was raised there, but he departed for Sojoz when he came of age. Rowan’s from Third Circuit. Until Bathune, I’d never met him or Valentine.”
I raise my hand. Sabilli ignores it and raises her voice.
“That statue depicts Lord Loïc and his shouldered pet.” She points at a granite fountain. “His seventh-born, Audrin, is the current Lord of Love—he killed his eldest brother and usurped the title.”
"He’s the king?” I ask.
“Aye—Audrin’s son is set to inherit the throne on his twentieth yearday,” she says. “Lordheir Lucian is a hellion. I feel sorry for Vestal Brid. Her personality is atrocious, but she deserves better.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Lord Audrin and General Killián intend for Lucian and Brid to wed.”
“Brid’s eleven.”
“And Lucian’s twelve,” Sabilli says. “Child marriages are thé au lait to L’Angly’s family sect. Nevertheless, Da suspects Killián will wait to marry Brid off until she turns sixteen. Tensions between the Darkblooms and di Vivars are high, but he can wait four years.”
“Killián loves Brid,” I say swiftly. “He wouldn’t…”
I trail off.
“The troth would make the di Vivars unspeakably powerful.” Sabilli tosses her hair over her shoulder. “If Brid’s brother succeeds Killián and Brid is named Lady Love…that said, Da thinks Killián is having second thoughts.”
“Aren’t Brid and Lucian cousins?” Osyrus asks.
“Distant.” Sabilli waves a dismissive hand. “Highborns follow a different set of rules to keep the bloodlines pure—don’t think about it too hard. See that chain of towers? Those buildings house the Septemvirate when court is in session …”
I can barely focus on her words. I’m too busy thinking about Brid.
“Over there is the Tower de Fin D’études.” She points at the high, graceful building we’re passing. “…The finishing school. Dames and vestals have their spirits whipped in that place. Headmistress Dulce—Lady Hope—is overprotective. Do yourself a favor and stay away.”
We’re led to Colçon’s Tower, where the L-DAW dormitories and staff offices are located. Sabilli’s housed with upperclassmen; two female pledges are enrolled in Session Two. She waves and ascends the spiral staircase. Dune, Osyrus, and I say our goodbyes. We’re taken to a dormitory on the first floor. Our room is bigger than my family’s temporary housing unit. The floors are clean, the view looks out at the back gardens, and the bunks are oak. Sliding partitions offer privacy between the beds.
We’re given silkroot sheets—silkroot!—and told to make our bunks.
I take it all in.
“Boys,” Dune says. “We made it.”
Rowan and Osyrus make noises of affirmation.
I crawl between the posh sheets, open my copy of War’s Testament, and wonder what I-Day will bring.