my father taught me how to kill

my arms were swords, my heart was free

he pinned me down and slit my throat

I writhed around and screamed with glee

I came of age, and off I went

I won four bouts in sandy lore

my sergeant took my heart and soul

I held my tongue and gave him more

“Silence” by an anonymous academy washout

201 GKE

The next week is like swimming against the current in the Rivière Rugueuse, surrounded by bloodsucking needle-teeth fish, with a lead sack tied around my waist. The constant saluting is exhausting. At the end of day three I catch myself standing at attention for a squirrel on the way back to Colçon’s Tower.

“Knothead,” Sabilli mutters.

Her shoulder slams against me as she passes. I jog to catch up with her. Osyrus, Dune, and Rowan are already in the mess hall—I have no idea how long I’ve been saluting a rodent.

I touch her arm. “Are you okay?”

She shakes me off. I always forget—it’s licentious to touch anyone here, though you wouldn’t know it by the way Leómadura corrects my form when we’re dueling practice bouts.

I dropped my sword by the smithies after the first morning. Tough up stares at me every time I cock the weapon. They scraped the rust off and sharpened the blade, and it smacks against my back. I have to jog to keep up with Sabilli.

“I should be packmaster,” she says. “I outscored you in the Colosseum. I’ve lapped you in every run, and I’m setting the curve in our afternoon classes.”

It’s true—she answers every question our lanistae throw at us, even during Pierre-Marie’s guest lectures. She stumbles around active combat paradigms, and sometimes her phrasing seems off, but she’s brave enough to give it her best try. She’s got that on me.

“I’m not disagreeing.” I stop in front of the mess hall. “There’s a lot I can learn from you.”

Her face twists, then softens.

“You’re a nice person,” she says.

I rub the back of my neck.

“I’ll forgive you for being Leómadura’s golden boy.” Her posture straightens. “But I want something in exchange. Would you mind sticking up for me when the guys call me titties?”

“The guys call you that?”

“Just Rowan,” she says. “I’d beat his lights out, but I’d rather be titties than psycho bitch. When I tried to talk to him, he had the audacity to call me hysterical. I can’t report him or I’d be a joke. I can’t cuff him or I’d be a—”

“I’ll get him to stop,” I say firmly.

She smiles a mischievous, wicked smile. The look in her eyes reminds me of Felicity.

“If we’re friends now, you can call me Billi,” she says. “Everyone does—Da wanted a son, but he got three daughters. How’d you get your name? Ko sounds like a sneeze. Is that rude? Sorry. Sometimes I have trouble filtering—”

“I was named after my mother’s pimp,” I say. “My given name is Kolton Whoreson.”

She chokes out a surprised laugh.

“Friendly tip,” she says. “Don’t go waving that around the First Circuit. Da raised me to be openminded, but we’re a minority.”

“I’m not ashamed of myself or my family.” I quote her words back to her. “If we’re friends now, you need to respect that.”

“Is this a rabbit you’re willing to slay for luck?”

“Shouldn’t it be?”

“It’s pretty to think so, but no,” she says. “The Septemvirate and the lesser courts are made up of so-called puritans. When I was thirteen, a few lordheirs took it upon themselves to rank the vestals in order of desirable virtue. Guess who topped their list?”

“You?”

“I’m a dame, not a vestal.” Her grin is coquettish. “I’m Yosif’s daughter by honor, but my bloodline can’t be traced to an heir—I don’t get the royal honorific. That said, ta for sharing your thoughts on my virtue.”

“Are you teasing me or flirting?”

She laughs. Her cheeks are a little pink. I think this conversation has gotten away from her—it’s gotten away from me too.

“When I’m mucking with you, I’ll call you Kolton,” she says. “That way you’re in on the joke. In return, you have to invite me into your elite coven of merry misfits. Do you know how awful it is to be partnered with Rowan in every class? A girl can only take so much.”

“You don’t need an invitation to hang out with us,” I say. “I bunked with Dune and Osyrus in Bathune. We’re not an…elite coven, or whatever.”

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

“What?”

“It’s a quote from an ancient text, you uneducated swine,” she says with another grin. “Be ashamed of your ignorance, Kolton.”

I laugh in spite of myself.

###

PT is a lot more fun with Billi cracking breathless jokes between sets of pushups, death sprints, and practice bouts. Dune and Osyrus stare at me when I partner with her in our ethics class, but they don’t make a big deal out of it.

They don’t take it as well when she waltzes into our dormitory at 1900 with a stack of textbooks. Osyrus stares at her like she’s Lady Love and Dune tries to get her to leave. She busts out a sleeve of practice tests.

“We’re studying together,” she informs them. “Your kingpin invited me into the happy coven of hooligans. Get used to my presence, plebs.”

“Are you on sophoria?” Dune asks.

I turn to Rowan, who’s lounging on his bunk. “Want to study with us?”

Without looking up from his book, he puts two fingers under his chin and strokes them in my direction.

Fair enough.

“Flip to chapter two of A Puritan’s Guide to Battle Strategy,” Billi says brightly. “We should go over the Fourth Battle of Draguilun…”

We could really do this, I think as she pins battle maps to the wall above my bed. We could make it through our grunt session.

###

Unfortunately—and predictably—things go to shite the next morning.

I shake Dune and Osyrus awake at 0400, and they tell me—not kindly—to tongue the Fifth Lady until 0445. I walk across the quad with a grasspaper bowl of beef stew, shivering despite my leathers. The grass is frosty beneath my feet, and my breaths are starkly silver. The sun has barely kissed the horizon, and the grounds are menacing and dark.

The sandstone is unyielding, with tower after tower of identical brick rising toward The Fjords. I haven’t memorized the castle’s layout like I did in Bathune, and I’ve been out here every morning since Tuesday. There’re too many damn buildings…

Movement slides across the corner of my vision.

I turn.

A cloaked figure ducks behind a turret—the Tower de Fin D’études. The intruder hops onto a window ledge and tries to pull themself onto the balcony. Tremors rack their body, and their arms give out. They fall.

I drop my bowl and sprint across the courtyard, drawing my sword as I run. The hooded figure rises and grabs for the banister trailing down from the turret…

I sweep their legs out from under them, put a knee on their back—realize how effing small they are—and twist the assailant around to face me.

Vestal Brid Naya’il di Vivar stares up at me.

“Egad,” I say.

She squirms. “Get off me, you flesh-monger!”

I jolt away from her. She pulls herself to her feet and fluffs her dress—a crimson gown with silver lacing, flared around her arms under the black frock. She smiles that damn grin at me: lips pulled back, eyes narrow, canines bared.

“You assaulted a vestal,” she says. “I should have you stoned for molestation.”

I eye the rivet she was trying to climb. “Are you sneaking out?”

“I’m sneaking in.”

“Why?”

To my surprise and horror, tears pool in her tawny eyes.

“Vestal Coraline is a venombeast.” Her lips quiver. “I got locked out last night—this isn’t my fault! I’ve never misbehaved, not once in my entire life!”

That’s…definitely not true.

“Where’d you sleep?”

“Yosif’s palazzo.” She jerks her head toward Royal Road. “Obviously.”

“How’d you get there without anyone seeing?”

“Roofs.”

“Did you say roofs?”

“I said no such thing.” She sniffs. “I can’t get caught out here, Ko. Lady Dulce will axe me! She’ll chain me up by the ankles and whip me until my bloodless carcass rots!”

“I don’t believe you.”

“She’ll snitch to Da, and that’s ever so much worse.”

I rub the back of my neck. “He won’t hurt you, will he?”

“He’ll be disappointed.” She shudders. “I’d rather be flayed alive.”

If I hadn’t met Killián—if I wasn’t acutely aware of the insane behavior that comes with craving his approval—I’d be amused.

“How’d you get locked out?” I ask.

There’s something she’s not telling me. The last time I saw her, she asserted her nonexistent dominance all over the place like a fur-clad pimp. Now, her gaze is fixed on the ground. She opens her mouth. For a second, I think she’s going to confide in me.

“Tongue-kiss Lady Death,” she says.

She looks away and rubs an angry fist over her damp cheeks.

“Want to talk about it?” I ask.

“I turned twelve last week.” She buries her face in her hands. “My life-clock ticks toward the miserable inevitability of my own demise.”

“…death?”

“Marriage,” she says grimly. “I have four years until I come of age. Death would be preferable.”

Oh. Right. The age of adulthood is sixteen in the First Circuit. I try to figure out how to respond. It’s not my place to interfere. I should leave her to figure this out by herself, go back to my dormitory, and get ready for PT.

But I can’t walk away. Not from Brid.

“You don’t want to get married?”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“Brilliant conjecture, gumshoe.” She huffs out a sob-like laugh.

“Have you told your father?”

“Don’t talk about Da,” she snaps. “You don’t know him.”

I stay silent—I have a nagging suspicion Brid does most of her talking when she’s met with a quiet audience. Everything I say can and will be used against me. I wonder what’ll happen if I say nothing at all.

After a beat, she looks up. Tears stream from her eyes.

“I want my bistaff back,” she murmurs.

I wait.

“Da took it from me,” she says. “He said I wasn’t fit for combat, and he sent me to finishing school. Before that, he trained me with Miro. From the time I was three to the day I cut off two toes, I was tutored by swordsmasters and scholars. I’m a better fighter than my brother. I beat him in every practice bout. I deserve the opportunity to prove my worth in Bathune. How am I supposed to train with Hope’s noose wrapped around my neck?”

I don’t respond.

“No.” She takes a deep breath. “Eff Lady Dulce. I’ll find a way to succeed Da if it’s the last thing I do. I’m the rightful general of tomorrow. I’ll cut myself open and feast upon my intestines before I sell my hand to the highest bidder. I’ll stew. I’ll practice. I’ll train. I have a sword, after all.”

“I thought your father repossessed your bistaff.”

“He did,” she says.

Her foot slams against my wrist.

I drop my blade. Before I know what’s happening, she’s snatched it up. I lunge for her, but—damn, damn, damn!—she tucks it in her woven belt. She’s made it halfway up the drainpipe before I reach the wall, and her hand closes around the base of the balcony. Her arm shakes, but her body kips anyway. I grab for her swinging skirt. Her leg hooks around the railing. My fist closes around air, and she heaves herself through a second-story window.

She stole my sword. She stole my sword! I make a rude hand gesture at the window, and I swear as loudly as I can. The building is silent. Stony. I can’t pursue. It’s the finishing school. I could be hanged for trespassing.

I’m screwed. I’m effed.

I’m dead.

###

“Pretty-boy!” Leómadura calls as soon as we line up at attention. “Did you forget something this morning?”

I keep my posture straight and remain at attention—two fingers pressed to my lips, back erect. I eye the sandstone complex and try to avoid looking at Leómadura. It’s not an easy task. His hardened face is inches away from my own.

“I lost my sword, sir,” I say.

“How exactly does one lose a sword?”

I’m furious with Brid, but I’m no rat. I stay silent.

“Did it walk off while you were in the washroom?” He rubs his chin. “Did it say, I’m tired of being strapped to an L-Street whore? To Hel with this—I’m going to find a real man to carry me?”

Despite my new surname, I guess he figured out my history. Rowan barks out a short, harsh cough that sounds suspiciously close to a laugh.

“Yes, sir,” I say. “That’s exactly what happened.”

Leómadura claps his hands in front of my face. To my right, Billi flinches. I don’t move, not even when he does it again, his fingers millimeters from my quivering lips. Whatever he does to me, I’ll take it. I deserve what’s coming, letting a twelve-year-old steal my blade. I felt sorry for her. I let my guard down. This is my fault, and no one else’s. If I get a demerit for this—if I wash out—it’s on me.

“Cunn.” Leómadura turns to Rowan—he’s the third in our line, with Osyrus and Dune standing to his right. “Congratulations. You’re the new packmaster.”

“Yes, sir!” Rowan says, sounding all too pleased with himself.

“Find me the heaviest stick you can carry,” Leómadura tells him. “I want you dragging it back here. Diable, adjust your corset and settle yourself on the grass for a nice breather. The rest of you, start your death sprints. I want you to clock a mile by the time I’m through with Pretty-boy.”

Does he intend to beat me? I’d rather he cut my forearms—so long as he avoids any veins, my chances of meeting Lady Death are slim. If he intends to assault me with a club…

I’ve taken some pretty bad beatings, I remind myself, staring straight ahead.

It’s a small comfort.

It takes five minutes for Rowan to come back with the branch. Leómadura lugs it over his shoulder. Seeing it raised over his head like that, I really do wince. He makes a twirling gesture with his pointer finger.

“Turn around, grunt,” he says.

Rowan watches, his eyes wide. Leómadura points to the edge of the quad.

“Why are you still here?” he demands. “Start your death sprints.”

Rowan flees. I turn so my back is facing Leómadura and close my eyes. I wonder if I’ll be able to move tomorrow.

I wait for the blow, but it never comes. The next thing I know, Leómadura’s strapping the branch to my back. My knees balk under the weight. I almost tip over, but I catch myself just in time. Rope wraps around my stomach, so tight it restricts my contracting chest. My hands clench into fists. I take a stumbling step forward and almost fall.

I turn to face him. He folds his arms over his chest.

“All right there, grunt?” he asks.

I stay silent. Leómadura takes a step forward. I look around for my pack, but they’re on the other side of the quad.

“Here’s how this is going to work,” Leómadura says. “You’re going to carry that branch around for the rest of Session One, or until you wash out. Whichever comes first. Any time someone asks you what’s on your back, you’ll respond with, I’m not worthy of a sword. Or, if you’re feeling feisty, I love this branch with all my heart. It won’t leave me like my blade did.”

My head throbs. I take a short, shuddering breath. My back cracks.

“Start your death sprints,” he says. “If you don’t break your last time, I’ll slit open your forearm.”

Even with one hundred pounds of solid oak strapped to my back, I don’t think I’ve ever moved so quickly. Heart hammering, back aching, the pain in my head so acute that my eyes water, I hurl myself away from him.

###

I make it through two miles at a thirteen-minute pace before my legs stop working. This is it, I think as I collapse on the cold grass. This is how I wash out.

Billi pours frigid water on my face, and I shudder. She smacks my cheek. Murmurs a few words of encouragement. Leómadura yells at her to keep moving. I turn away, pressing my face into the turf. She rubs a thumb over my forehead. Then she’s gone.

Leómadura pulls me into a seated position and presses a blade against my forearm. Once. Twice. Three times. Warm blood gushes down my arm, dripping off my wrist like paint. I don’t pull away, not even when he leans closer. Hot breath caresses my cheek.

“Segolé’s office,” he says. “Now.”

I can’t stand. My legs are shaking too badly.

Leómadura lets Dune help me across the grassy quad. He pulls my arm across his broad shoulders. My thoughts fade in and out of focus as he guides me up the winding staircase.

Segolé’s office is on the top floor of Colçon’s Tower. Dune leaves me outside the door. He presses a quick kiss to my temple before he goes—he’s a loyal friend. I have to admit, I didn’t think he’d last longer than I would. I underestimated him. Yosif knows he wouldn’t have let Brid take his sword…

The wooden door clicks open. Segolé stares down at me, his almond-shaped eyes narrowing into slits. I manage to stand and throw myself into a salute. Back erect, legs vibrating, two fingers pressed to my lips.

“At ease,” he says, then scowls. “Why do you have an oak limb strapped to your back?”

“I…” What did Leómadura tell me to say? “I love this branch. It’s my lover.”

I expect him to laugh. He doesn’t.

“Goddamn hazing,” he mutters. “Leó needs a better hobby.”

He beckons me into his office. It’s a wide room adorned with golden trophies, framed letters, and an ornate desk strewn with papers. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the back wall, along with an impressive collection of blown-glass spider figurines. I want to collapse on the floor, but I force myself to remain standing.

Brid sits in a chair adjacent to the mahogany escritoire. Her legs are splayed beneath her black dress. A stern-faced, breathtakingly beautiful woman in a golden frock stands beside her. Her hair is dark and shiny, flowing down her back in an elegant curtain. I meet her intense brown eyes, swallow, and wonder if I’m facing down the famed Duchess Aminder. There’s one thing I’m certain of—I’m in trouble, and I think Brid is, too.

Segolé sits behind the desk.

“I have your sword, Diable,” he says grimly.

He points to the blade that rests against the wall. I look at Brid. She keeps her glowering gaze fixed on her own kicking legs.

“Vestal Brid will be punished.” The woman offers me a brisk nod. “Thievery is a plebian act, and this will not stand.”

Brid’s lips begin to quiver. Tears pool in her eyes. She looks at Segolé, but his face is a stony mask.

I rub the back of my neck.

“With all due respect…” I begin. “Sorry. I don’t know your name. Are you Brid’s mother?”

“Dear Yosif, let’s hope not,” Brid mutters.

The woman looks at me with pursed lips.

“Dulce Poussin, Lady Hope incarnate, headmistress of the finishing school,” she says delicately. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, deuxcruité. I assure you, if Brid were my daughter, her wayward nature would’ve been soothed long ago.”

“Let’s avoid critiquing Killián’s parenting style while Brid is in the room, shall we?” Segolé says.

“No one’s critiquing Da, because if they did, they’d be dead,” Brid says fiercely.

I get the feeling I’m infringing upon a conversation that’s been had many times over.

“Vestal Brid didn’t steal anything from me,” I say. “I gave her the blade.”

The room grows quiet. Killián would be disappointed in me—it’s a cold hard lie, but I can’t think about that right now. Not when Brid’s looking at me like that.

Segolé breaks the silence. “You did what?”

“I loaned it to her,” I say. “She said she wanted to train, and she promised she wouldn’t do anything too”—Reckless. Stupid. Bloodthirsty—“violent. I thought it might cheer her up. She’s having a tough time at finishing school—I think she’s being bullied. She said something about a vestal named Coraline—”

“I don’t need your help, Ko,” Brid snarls. “I feast on the intestines of my enemies! I bathe in their blood and wash my face with their stomach fluid!”

Yeesh. If I were a twelve-year-old girl, I’d bully her, too.

Lady Dulce exchanges a glance with Segolé, then turns to me with her hawklike gaze. My legs are about to collapse. I adjust my posture, neck aching.

“Weaponry is prohibited in my institution, deuxcruité,” she says. “I’m training the ladies of tomorrow, and ladies—”

“Don’t engage in the aggressive act of bladesmanship,” Brid mutters.

Lady Dulce gives a sharp nod.

“I didn’t see the harm in letting her practice a few swordsmanship drills,” I say.

“It’s not your responsibility to decide what’s best for Vestal Brid.” Dulce’s voice is hard. “I keep a close watch on my girls. I advise you to learn your place.”

“I’m sorry, madame.” I dip my head. “You’re right.”

Something passes across Lady Dulce’s expressionless mask. Once again, she glances at Segolé. He shrugs. She pauses, her back rigid, and then turns to Brid.

“Vestal Brid?” Her voice is stern.

“What?” Brid snaps.

Lady Dulce raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. Brid scowls.

“Yes, madame?” she amends.

“Please inform me why Deuxcruité Ko is concerned,” she says. “If you’re facing any sort of struggle with your peers, I will assist you however I can.”

I glance at Segolé. He’s staring at Brid, his expression unreadable. I catch a glimpse of concern behind his stony mask.

“I’m fine.” Brid shakes her head. “I just wanted the effing sword, all right? I made up that shite about Coraline.”

Here we are, in a room with our commanding officers, and we’re lying to keep each other out of trouble. Egad. What in Hel is happening?

“Don’t make me wash your mouth with ablution liquid.” Dulce’s expression doesn’t shift. “That would be the third time this month, Vestal Brid. Ladies must learn to watch their tongues.”

Brid’s hands clench into fists. “Yes, madame.”

“The general isn’t paying me to coddle you,” Dulce says. “He’s paying me to turn you into a proper lady. Right now, you’re as far from that as a girl can get.”

A tear drips down Brid’s face. She juts her chin and lets it fall, her expression somewhere between mutinous and humiliated.

“Ladies do not carry blades,” Dulce says. “Ladies do not talk of blood and gore. Ladies do not challenge people to death duels. We respect the court, the Lord of Love, and the Septemvirate. Above all else, we respect the men who stand before us. We marry and reproduce, as is our duty. I assure you, Vestal Brid—your behavior will be modified. Whether or not the sword was given to you with Deuxcruité Ko’s consent, you will atone for your malfeasance.”

Brid buries her face in her hands.

“Sit up straight,” Dulce says.

Brid takes a deep, shuddering breath. She straightens her posture and raises her gaze. Her eyes are glassy and dull.

Dulce gives me one last nod.

“Deuxcruité Ko,” she says. “Staffmaster Segolé. I bid you adieu. Be well.”

“Lady Hope,” Segolé says dryly. “It’s always an honor.”

Dulce brushes by me. Brid follows without glancing in my direction. The door shuts behind them. Segolé doesn’t flinch at the noise; on the contrary, his gaze doesn’t move from my face.

“Sit down.” His voice is tired. “Take that damn trunk off your back.”

I undo the knot. The branch slams against the floor, and the office shakes from the impact. With weak knees, I collapse in the chair that Brid vacated.

“You’ll wear your sword from now on,” he says. “No more lover branches. That’s the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard, and I just bore witness to Dulce’s speech. No one kills the mood like Lady Hope.”

“Lanista Leómadura said—”

“He’s not an elite,” Segolé says. “He’s not headmaster. I outrank him.”

I dip my head. “Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t lick my boots.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “And don’t let this happen again, deuxcruité. I expect you to make it through the rest of your sessions without winding up in my office. No more giving your sword to damsels, you hear me?”

“Brid isn’t a damsel.”

“That she isn’t.” Segolé barks out a short, harsh laugh. “She’d make a good soldier, but Killián wants to keep her away from the frontline. It’s his call. There’s nothing we can do for her. You get what I’m saying?”

Something in my chest flutters. I stare at the ornate oil painting displayed behind his desk. It’s of a young Segolé, his face scarless, next to a dark-skinned woman with a round face and straight teeth. Happiness shines off both of them, from her gleaming smile to his quirked lips. I remember her from a portrait in The Leaders of Yesterday and Tomorrow. Staffmaster Reign, retired elite. The expert of surprise maneuvers, whose tactical success came from her ability to identify and seize opportunities. They’re wearing black leathers—formal wear, not armor—and a bride-veil flows over her shoulders.

Segolé scowls. “You’re bleeding all over my carpet.”

I glance down. Red drips down my fingers.

“Sorry,” I say again.

Segolé opens a drawer and slides a roll of canvas cloth across the desk. I tear off a strip and wrap my cuts. He watches with hard, unyielding eyes.

“Don’t go back to PT,” he says. “Catch a nap before your afternoon classes. Yosif knows you grunts are sleep deprived. I don’t like it. It makes you stupid. Anything you want to tell me before I kick you out of my office?”

I glance toward the blade leaning against the door. Se battre comme le Diable, reads the engravement. Tough up.

I shake my head.

“I’m here if you need me.” Segolé stretches. “My door is always open. If it isn’t, don’t bother me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That was a joke.”

I limp toward the door.