I spent four seasons in this place

I ran, I wept, I sang, I sinned

I lost my soul within these walls

there are some fights no man can win

“The Academy,” by an anonymous graduate

Sunday morning at 0400, we’re taken to the quad for our first assessment.

We’re placed next to the five upperclassmen. They don’t break attention as Leómadura lines us up. The other drill-lanistae lurk nearby, just out of Leómadura’s torchlight. Deres, Romi, Segolé—they coach Session Twos, Threes, and Fours respectively. I have no idea why Lanista Romi is here; all her Threes washed out under Lanista Deres. She could be in bed right now. Maybe she’s here to study the Twos she’ll get next season.

“Some introductions are in order.” Leómadura paces in front of our line. “Packmaster Saxxon, name your fighters.”

“Saxxon, Session Four deuxcruité, at your service, swordsmaster!” Saxxon steps forward, a mop of dark hair falling into his eyes. “To my right is Hyacinth, Session Four recruité.”

Leómadura gives a sharp nod. “Packmaster Rypress, name your fighters.”

A dark-skinned girl with braided hair steps forward and lets her arms fall behind her back.

“Rypress, Session Two recruité, at your service, swordsmaster.” Her voice is smooth. “To my left is Zeph, Session Two recruité, and Theo, Session Two recruité.”

“Good girl,” Leómadura says.

An expression I don’t recognize flashes across her face.

“Packmaster Rowan,” Leómadura says. “Name your fighters.”

Rowan takes a step forward. His movements are stilted, and he watches Rypress and Saxxon carefully. His gaze moves from the upperclassmen to the ominous sandstone complex surrounding us on all sides. The darkness casts eerie shadows across the quad. The moon shines down on us. The only other light is the glowing torch in Leómadura’s hand.

“Grunt!” Leómadura snaps his fingers. “Stop balking—name your fighters.”

“Rowan Cunn, Session One recruité, at your service, sir.” His voice shakes, but he raises his chin. “My…uh…fighters are as follows. Osyrus Rhodes, Session One recruité. Dune Callisto, Session One recruité. Sabilli Oziaz, Session One recruité. Kolton Whoreson, Session One deuxcruité.”

Rowan chose to use surnames—he didn’t have to. It’s not part of the official announcement formula. He also made the conscious decision to say Whoreson instead of Diable. I’m not ashamed, but that doesn’t mean I’m thrilled about the snideness in his tone.

“Let’s begin.” Leómadura turns on his heel and begins to pace. “Rypress, can you give my grunts an overview of the night hunt?”

Rypress pivots.

“We’ll be divided into two teams.” Her gaze is steady. “Every student gets a guarded lance marked with colored chalk, and we’ll enter the Célestial Forest at 0415. If you’re marked by the other team’s chalk, put down your spear and return to the quad. You’re dead, and you’ll be graded accordingly. It’s a simple premise. Mark your opponents and don’t get marked yourself. Team scores affect your individual rating, so protect your pack.”

Lanista Romi moves down the line, passing out spears.

“There’s a catch,” Rypress continues. “We have to complete a series of tasks—”

“Tonight’s challenges are as follows.” Leómadura cuts her off. “Bring back three items from the woods. A bluedeer carcass—it needs to be fresh, so don’t go corpse-hunting. A rock covered with neogreen algae, which only grows in Scout’s Pond—good luck finding that in the dark. Lastly, a four-leaf clover from the backland meadow.”

We have two hours to do all that?

“One more thing,” Leómadura says. “We’ve stationed twenty lancers behind the tree line. Their spears are lined with pink chalk. Stay quiet. They’re frontline veterans and have experience hunting at night.”

Despite the impossibility of the task, excitement churns my stomach.

“Rypress and Saxxon,” Leómadura says. “You’ll be tonight’s packmasters. Pick your teams.”

“No.” Segolé’s grim voice cuts through the darkness. “Rypress and Ko will lead the hunts.”

Leómadura stills. Shouldn’t the captains have been picked behind closed doors? According to Sabilli, that’s how the night hunt is supposed to work. What’s happening?

“Rypress.” Leómadura’s voice is calm. “You get first pick.”

“Zeph,” she says without hesitation.

The blond girl steps forward, beaming at Rypress.

Leómadura juts his chin in my direction. “Your turn.”

Everyone is staring at me. Thirteen sets of eyes gleam in the darkness, illuminated by torchlight.

“Saxxon?” My voice turns up like a question.

If Leómadura wanted him to lead a team, he must have merit. Strategically speaking, I snaked the pack out from under him. I’d rather not be on bad terms with the only other deuxcruité—I wonder what he did to earn his second title. I guess it doesn’t matter. I have no idea how to lead a hunt, and I need an upperclassman for backup.

“Hyacinth,” Rypress says, jerking her chin toward the Session Four recruité.

“Billi.”

“Theo,” Rypress says.

“Dune.”

Rypress glances at Segolé.

“I don’t care which grunt I get,” she says. “Ko can have last pick.”

“Osyrus,” I say, and he scurries forward.

“Guess that leaves me with Rowan,” Rypress says.

She examines her pack, and I examine mine. Saxxon’s expression is guarded as he approaches us. Dune and Osyrus fill in. Saxxon puts his arms around them as we head toward the tree line, and Billi glues herself to my right-hand side.

“Here’s how this is going to work.” Saxxon keeps his voice low. “We’re going to stick together and complete the tasks—”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Segolé drift closer. Leómadura’s ahead of us, his torch beelining toward the looming mass of foliage.

“If we stay together, it’ll take longer,” I say.

“If we split up, you grunts won’t make it twenty minutes.” Saxxon’s voice is firm.

“With all due respect—” I start.

“I’ve played this game once a week for nine months,” he says. “The grunts die first, Whoreson.”

Segolé moves toward Team Rypress.

I close my eyes and try to remember advice from Training the Untrainable. Acknowledge where he’s coming from, I tell myself. Sympathize. Stroke some egos. Strike.

“I’m sorry you got stuck with grunts,” I say. “But we have no intention of mucking up our first assessment.”

“Y’all have finished one week of training,” Saxxon says.

Y’all is a colloquialism. He’s from the Fifth Circuit. Maybe the Sixth. I hope he’s from Five—they’re self-governed collectivists out there. Communication will be easier if he’s team-oriented. Either way, I need to get his respect. The Whoreson matronymic isn’t helping me; I need to get ahead of it.

“I grew up on Leisure Street.” I meet his gaze and let that implication fester for a few seconds. “Avoiding people who want to hurt me is my specialty. Billi and Osyrus graduated from the juvenile camp in Ávila. Dune’s a blacksmith by trade, so he’s been carrying weapons since he learned to walk. You have to trust us.”

Saxxon hesitates.

“All right, packmaster,” he says. “What’s your plan?”

“Take Osyrus and Dune,” I say. “Get the rock and the clover. Billi—you grew up in the castle—have you ever been in the forest?”

“Of course, Kolton,” she says. “Da took me hunting by the streambed loads of times.”

Kolton. Okay. So there’s a chance she’s never been in the woods, but either way, she’s backing me. I don’t know how to feel about that, but it’s working. Saxxon looks impressed.

“We’ll get the bluedeer,” I say.

I turn to see if Segolé’s watching, but he’s limped into the darkness.

###

Team Rypress enters the tree line as soon as it appears before us. I lead my pack half a mile east. We jog silently, moving through the moonlit grounds with careful steps. Once we penetrate the foliage, darkness envelopes us. Slivers of moonlight cut through the branches at odd intervals, but they’re few and far between.

Somewhere to our left, a twig breaks. We freeze.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Coyote,” Saxxon mutters.

“Are you sure?” I whisper.

“Pretty sure.” He pauses. “Whatever made that noise didn’t weigh much.”

We move deeper into the forest. The scent of pine rises around us. I cough and plow onward—my pack is counting on me.

After fifteen minutes, I stop in a puddle of moonlight. A cracked statue gleams in the dull glow. A loupwolf pins a young girl to the forest floor. Her stony eyes are wide with terror, and the beast’s jowls are an inch from her throat.

“A tribute to Yosif’s daughter, Vestal Bridn’l, from Tales of the Pure,” Billi mutters. “Lore says she was killed in this spot.”

Horrifying. I don’t have time to dwell on it.

“Meet here when the tasks are done,” I say.

Saxxon leads Dune and Osyrus north. Billi and I duck into the shadows. She grabs my hand. The back of my neck prickles, and my face heats.

“I thought physical touch was a no-no in the First Circuit,” I say.

“I’m a rebel,” she says coyly.

I decide to ignore that, because I have no idea how to react. “Did your father take you hunting, or were you messing with Saxxon?”

“Once.” She pauses. “I was eight.”

“Catch anything?”

“A couple of skrillbirds.”

“That’s a good start,” I lie. “How’d you do it?”

“We were hunting with crossbows. Distance weapons are easier to wield when you’re small.”

I exhale a long, slow hiss. “This isn’t going to go well for us, is it?”

“Bluedeer aren’t nocturnal,” she says. “We could look for dens, but we won’t be able to find one this close to the castle. The further we move into the woods, the darker it’ll get. We won’t be able to see each other, let alone…”

She trails off, but I get the gist of it. We won’t be able to see anything else. Anyone else. I glance at her guarded, chalky lance. It’s illuminated in the moon’s glow, and that’s risky. I pull her further into the shadows. We turn so we’re heading eastbound.

“I’ve read books about tracking,” she says. “If we find hoofprints or scat, I might be able to locate a den.”

“If we find a bluedeer, do you think you can kill it?” I ask.

“Of course,” she says. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know if I could,” I say. “I’ve seen paintings. Their fur is all glossy, and the antlers…egad. Maybe we should’ve stuck with Saxxon.”

Her hand tightens in my own. “Do you have a body count?”

I’m used to her steering the conversation wherever the Hel she wants. Still, I choke out a surprised laugh. The noise leaves an eerie presence in its wake. Billi lets go of my hand. She tosses her braids over her shoulder, and I catch a whiff of minty hairsoap.

“I meant murder, not intimacy,” she says. “Zounds, Ko. Get thee to a nunnery.”

“A nunnery?”

“Da collects texts from the pre-bunker era.” She huffs out a sigh. “The coins he drops sends Mother into conniptions. Never mind that. Have you ever killed anything? I’m your recruité, and I’m flanking you, so it feels like a relevant question.”

That’s…fair. I need to get a hold of myself.

“I offed a couple of venombeasts,” I say. “And I knifed a guy in a back alley. I didn’t stick around to see if he got up.”

Her voice is breathy. “That’s sick.”

“I was trying to get Felicity home safe,” I say. “Some guys came after us with shanks.”

“That’s…less sick?” She pauses. “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.”

“Felicity’s my sister.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” I need to change the topic—my face is on fire. “I don’t want to kill something for the sport of it.”

She huffs out a laugh. “You sound like my mother.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

She takes a long time to answer.

“I don’t know,” she says finally. “You’re a lovely person, Ko, but I’m not sure you’ll make a good soldier.”

###

We decide to try our luck at the Hurrington streambed—nocturnal or not, bluedeer are animals, and animals need to drink. The gurgling water masks our footfalls. Loupwolf howls split the air; distant, but too close for comfort. Billi presses against me. In one hand, she holds the chalked spear. In the other, she holds her bistaff.

We hear them before we see them.

A branch breaks to our left, then to our right, then in front of us. Billi reclasps her bistaff and cocks her lance. We stand by the waterfront, partially hidden by shadows, too vulnerable for comfort. A cough comes from behind us. Rypress’ entire team must have us surrounded.

“Split?” Billi whispers.

Rowan lunges toward us from the right. I duck under his flailing spear. Behind me, I hear Billi splashing across the streambed…

Rowan’s spear flies toward me again. I parry. Someone’s behind me—labored breaths echo from nearby. I kick Rowan’s legs out from under him and brush my spear along his chest. It leaves a yellow streak in its wake. I turn on the other assailants—damn, damn, damn!—they have me cornered. Two in front, two behind, one at each of the cardinal directions.

“Loupwolves!” Billi screams. “Kolton, get your sword!”

Zeph and Rypress—the ones in front of me, the ones I can see—whirl toward her voice, their expressions panicked. Both reach for their blades. My hands don’t twitch. I whirl around and slash Theo with the tip of my spear. Chalk streaks across his chest. Hyacinth is in front of me—I fake left, then dart right. Icy water fills my boots, and my body jolts. Somehow, I reach the shadows on the other bank. I feel around, heart hammering, legs shaking with the effort to stay silent.

A warm hand takes my own.

“Here.” Billi’s breath is hot against my ear. “Climb.”

She guides my grip to a branch. I strap the spear to my back, feel around for a foothold, and kip onto the front. The bark is weathered in my grip, and skin tears off my palms. I wedge my foot in the trunk, drive myself upward, and hear a sharp intake of breath. Billi loses her grip on the tree. I reach out to catch her, but there’s no need—she steadies herself and continues to climb. The leaves whisper a fluttered, restless song as we break through the foliage.

We still when we hear them under us. Soft mutters drift through the air. Billi eases down from the branch above me and nuzzles against my side. I think about shifting away—she’s really close—but I don’t move.

“Where’d they go?” Rypress asks.

“Eff that.” I think that’s Hyacinth. “Where’re the loupwolves?”

“That was a fake.” Rowan’s voice is sour. “Titties is a reprobate. My pillow keeps disappearing—”

“You’re dead,” Zeph says. “Dead people can’t talk.”

“Zeph’s right,” Rypress says. “You got yourself offed twenty minutes into the hunt. Go back to the quad, grunt.”

“Tongue-kiss Lady Death,” he snaps.

“Watch your mouth,” she says. “Beating my subordinate to death would eff the curve, so don’t tempt me. Piss. Off.”

His voice rises. “I’ll get lost!”

“We’ll go together,” Theo says. “I’m dead too, remember? Ko’s a beast.”

“He’s not bad looking, either,” Zeph says teasingly.

“It runs in the family.” There’s a soft scuff. Rowan must be kicking dirt. “His mother was a whore.”

“So you’ve said,” Rypress says. “Theo, get him back to the quad.”

Hyacinth slams his lance against the tree. I can feel the impact even though we’re twenty feet up. Billi grabs my hand. I squeeze. She squeezes back.

“I can’t believe they’re ahead two-zip,” Hyacinth growls.

“Stop worrying,” Rypress says. “I’m not going to lose this hunt.”

“I told you we should’ve split up,” Hyacinth says. “I’ve got two sessions on you. If you’d listened to me—”

“I’m packmaster tonight.” Rypress’s voice is cold. “Put your prick away and follow my orders.”

“You shot yourself in the foot on the first day of bowmanship!”

“How in Hel is that relevant?”

“It’s not,” Hyacinth says. “I just like bringing it up.”

“Be quiet!” Zeph murmurs. “I hear lancers.”

They fall silent. Somewhere nearby, an owl hoots a sad, soft wail.

“We’ll lead them off,” Theo says under his breath. “Good luck, guys.”

He and Rowan stumble toward the river.

“What a great night for a hunt!” Theo says loudly. “Don’t you think so, Rowan?”

Branches break. A voice calls out a low order. Rowan and Theo break into a run, splashing across the streambed into the slim pool of light on the other side. Two sets of footsteps follow them.

The three remaining fighters in Rypress’s pack slip off to the west.

###

Billi and I wait five minutes we don’t have to spare and climb down. We stay in the shadows as we walk northeast, keeping the streambed on our left shoulder. I hold my guarded spear. She holds her bistaff.

The underbrush crunches, and every noise makes my pulse quicken. A thin layer of frost coats the withered leaves beneath our feet, and I shiver as the icy breeze hits. My boots squelch. The leather pants wick water away from my legs, but the river was up to my knees when I crossed it. Mournfully, I long for dry socks.

The silence is smothering, so after a few minutes, I tug the sleeve of her leathers.

“Did you really steal Rowan’s pillow?” I whisper.

“I neither confirm nor deny said allegations,” she says. “But—aye. It’s tradition.”

“Tradition?”

“When a guy’s being a prick, you steal his bedclothes,” she says. “It’s one of the rituals outlined in Lady Leclère’s journals. When a girl wishes to be courted, she adds pillows to her swain’s bunk. Or a stuffed animal, usually a hound. No doubt you’ll get a few before you’re done at L-DAW, so be on the lookout.”

I catch the implication in her words and tone, and once again, I decide to ignore it.

“Didn’t Leclère cook and eat her brother?” I ask.

“You’re missing the point.” She swats me with the back of her hand. “We need to find a trail. It’ll be easier in the soft dirt—let’s move closer to the streambed.”

Directly adjacent to the trickling water, Billi drops into a crouch. I kneel beside her. A sliver of moonlight slices across the muddy path, illuminating a few scattered leaves and a handful of animal tracks. I squint at them, trying to distinguish one from the next.

I point to a pawprint. “Loupwolf?”

“Feline.”

“How can you tell?”

“The back prints fall on top of the front prints.” Her eyes narrow. “Canines don’t have registered walks.”

Despite her assurances that her knowledge is theoretical, I’m impressed.

“How about that one?” I ask.

“Side-sweeping tail print,” she says. “Venombeast.”

“How many things in this forest could kill us?”

“Two years ago, Vestal Brid and Lordheir Lucian snuck off to climb Vandame’s willow,” she says. “It’s a landmark on the outskirts of the woods, and it’s not far behind the tree line. Their fathers deployed eighty soldiers to bring them back.”

“If it’s so dangerous, why’d the lanistae send us in here?” I ask.

“We’re armed,” she points out. “Then again…this was before Brid lost her carrying privileges. She had her bistaff, not that it did her much good.”

“What do you mean?”

“Brid lost two toes on her little adventure.” Billi pulls aside a clump of grass to study the terrain. “There was an investigation, but no one knows the full story. Brid and Lucian wouldn’t say what happened. Killián was livid.”

“Are Brid and Lucian friends?”

“Girls like Brid don’t have friends.” Her fingers run over the damp dirt. “I haven’t had many encounters with the Lord of Love’s heir—thank Yosif—but he makes Brid seem charming and sweet by contrast. It’s a marriage consummated in Hel.”

I swallow.

“Hoofprint!” She points. “See how the edges are sharp instead of round? It’s recent.”

I glance away from the blemish, peering into the darkness. The trail cuts off in the shadows cast by the nearest hickory tree; once we move out of the moonlight, I won’t be able to see a thing.

“Lead the way,” I say.