Marix fell, no sons in sight

Loss’s loss was her lost crown,

stolen in the morning light.

What happened then? What happens now?

“Secrets,” by an anonymous graduate

I stumble a bit on the way back to my dormitory. Osyrus, Dune, and Rowan collapsed on their bunks. They didn’t even crawl beneath the blankets. Osyrus drools. Rowan snores. The sound is grating. I press my hands to my ears.

I lurch toward the shared washroom. Fill a tub with cold water. Strip, leaving my clothes on the floor.

In the tub, I splash some water on my face. Wash beneath my arms and everywhere else. I scrub until my skin is raw and tender to the touch, and then I scrub some more. I glance at my sub-armor cottons and leathers rumpled in a heap beside the washtub. The white is stained with blood. They smeared red across Leómadura’s floorboards.

I wonder if he’s scrubbed it up yet.

I get out of the tub. I grab a towel and dry my hair—the dark, thick locks are almost to my shoulders—and I wrap the cloth around my waist. I glance at the mirror on the northern wall, and I immediately regret it. Three meals a day combined with PT put a layer of muscle on my chest and arms, but I still feel skinny. A few birthmarks are speckled across my torso, and my brow creases as I study them. I grab a handful of brown skin and wonder if it would be a bad idea to slice the moles off.

I turn away from the mirror and unpin my titles from the jacket. I leave the leathers on the floor.

Back in the dormitory, I pull on my raggedy pants and the Ivo Lorsan sweater. I promised I’d give it to Dune, but I don’t have anything else to wear. I shove the titles in my pocket and run a hand through my hair. I think about pulling it into a knot. I leave it down.

I take the stairs two at a time, brushing by the fourth landing without glancing at Leómadura’s office. I slow my pace when I reach the top floor.

I’m walking down the hall.

My hand hovers over Segolé’s door.

I could knock.

I don’t.

I push it open.

Segolé’s seated in his armchair. A woman is perched on the edge of his desk. She’s the woman from the painting, I think—Staffmaster Reign—but she’s older now. Her hair is gray, and her face is lined. Both are holding mugs, and a sweet smell fills the air. Tea and milk. I think they call it thé au lait in the First Circuit.

Segolé’s expression twists. Surprise. Amusement. Concern. Anger. I can’t tell which.

“Diable,” he snaps. “Is there a reason you’re bursting into my office, uninvited and unannounced?”

The woman clicks her tongue. Segolé growls.

“Reigny, this is one of my students,” he says. “Deuxcruité Ko, meet the retired Staffmaster Reign. Reign, Ko. Ko, Reign.”

Reign wiggles her fingers.

“Hi, Ko,” she says lightly. “It’s a pleasure.”

I press two fingers to my lips and flick them in her direction. She smiles at me.

“Why aren’t you wearing your leathers?” Segolé’s voice is harsh. “No. We’ll get to that. Why are you in my office? You’re getting your cuts tomorrow—”

“I thought I should let you know I’m dropping out of L-DAW,” I say. “Here are my titles.”

I set the pins on his desk.

Segolé’s jaw locks. He takes a deep breath, then another. He pinches the bridge of his nose. His expression is livid. I was expecting that. Look at me and my on-point gut instincts. I should be a future-reader.

“What. In. Hel,” he snaps. “What in the name of Yosif’s saggy, wrinkled… Reigny, can you give us a minute?”

She leaves, looking concerned. The door closes behind her.

I don’t wait for him to speak.

“I signed a ten-year contract,” I say. “I intend to honor it. Put me in the vanguard. Send me to the frontline. Have me hanged. I don’t care.”

“Sit down and shut up,” he says roughly.

I don’t want to sit down.

Everything hurts.

I sink onto the wooden chair anyway.

Segolé interlaces his fingers in front of his lips. “Walk me through this piss-poor decision, because I can’t fathom why you’d throw your life away.”

I don’t respond. His eyes narrow, and he leans forward.

“Are you drunk?” he demands.

“I had one drink,” I say. “It’s worn off.”

I don’t know why I’m being so honest about things that don’t matter. The bravery laurels are sitting on his desk. I make a silent vow to Yosif that I’ll never put them on again. I don’t care if Killián owns my soul. If he’d want me to tell the truth. It doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters.

“I thought you didn’t drink,” Segolé says.

“I don’t.”

“So walk me through this!” he yells. “Because I’m fairly certain you’re having a nervous breakdown. If that’s the case, your next stop won’t be the frontline. It’ll be the goddamn medi-center.”

I think that over.

“Killián told me to be honest,” I say. “I’m telling you, honestly, that I can’t live up to my battle cry. Tough up. I can’t do it anymore. If you want to discharge me for this, I’ll go back to Leisure Street. It’s where I belong.”

My voice cracks. Segolé takes a slow, steadying breath. When he speaks, he’s no longer yelling.

“Damn your battle cry,” he says. “Basing your personality on a couple of words is something stupid people do. On the frontline, you have to be stupid—that’s how the tradition got started. But it’s just that. A tradition.”

“Are you discharging me?”

“No.” He shakes his head and laughs a hoarse cough. “Damn. You’re sure about this?”

I nod.

“And you won’t tell me why?” He holds up a finger when I open my mouth. “I’ve seen hundreds of students come through here, and I’ve seen most of them leave. I know when a kid is giving me shit.”

I open my mouth, then close it.

So long as you never lie to me, so long as you remain as honest as you’ve been henceforth, you and I won’t have any problems, Killián had said.

I could tell the truth, I guess. Leómadura told me not to say anything—just between us, Whoreson—as he shoved a bleu in my leathers. Maybe Segolé would understand. Maybe he wouldn’t. Does it even matter? When it came down to it, I didn’t fight. I didn’t say no. He’s a three-titled swordsmaster, and I’m an L-Street whore.

Some things can’t be put into words.

I don’t trust my own voice, so I shrug.

Segolé scrubs a hand over his chin.

“Here’s what we’re going to do.” He hisses out a sigh. “Every student has to complete an internship before they graduate. There’s a range of programs. The prison camps in Cahuela, the bowmanship métier in Ávila…Hyacinth did his with the bladesmiths in Navolidad, and Saxxon studied with a sect of counterintelligence specialists. The kid managed to weasel reinforcement plans out of a high-ranking target. That’s how he got his second title. I digress. Placement doesn’t matter. It’s about giving you bushy-tailed morons some real-world experience. Under normal circumstances, I never send students off before they’ve completed Session One. Nevertheless, you’re on track with your PT, and Pierre-Marie says you’re ahead of schedule with your studies—”

I can already see where this is going.

“I won’t come back,” I tell him.

I can’t.

“Yeah, yeah.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m sending you to Cahuela anyway. I’d hate to see you rot to bits as a correctional officer, but the schedule is strict, and the COs are good. The lockup matron, Cyra…she’s a hardass, but a brilliant lady. The experience will give you a chance to get your head on straight. If you’re not back in three weeks—”

“Three?”

“It’s a few days’ travel, even if you take the trains.” He taps his fingers on the desk. “As I was saying, if you’re not back in three weeks, I’ll sign the papers and have you deployed there permanently. Supervising POWs and felony offenders isn’t fun, but they’ve got good pensions.”

I can’t look at him. I keep my gaze fixed on his tapping fingers.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

“Give this to Cyra.” He pulls open a filing cabinet and shoves a sheet of grasspaper across the desk. “Tickets and meal vouchers to get you to the Sixth Circuit…what am I forgetting…oh, yeah. Take your laurels. Unless you’ve done something really stupid, I’m not stripping titles from you. You earned these.”

I shake my head.

“Don’t shake your head,” he barks. “Take the pins, Ko.”

“I did something stupid.” My eyes burn. “Or…something stupid happened.”

I don’t deserve them, is what I’m trying to say. If I had the cognitive capacity to think things through, I’d know why, but I don’t want to think right now. All I know is that I need to get away from the academy as quickly as possible. I need to run. Run as fast and as far as I can, and never think about my time here again.

He squints at me. “Why do I get the feeling you smoked a nub, or aimed a kick at a squirrel, or some shit like that?”

“Don’t you get it?” I slam my hands on his desk. “I said no!”

My chest heaves. My hair spills over my shoulders in damp, clumpy knots. My sweater’s getting wet from the drips.

I expect Segolé to draw his bistaff. At the very least, I expect him to flinch—he may be a seasoned vet, but I just assaulted his poor escritoire. He doesn’t move. He stares at me, his face a lined, stony mask framed by gray.

My hands shake. I tuck them in my armpits.

“Sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have yelled. Take back the internship. Cut my forearms.”

“Shut up,” he says. “Take a deep breath. Count to ten.”

I close my eyes. Take a long, unsteady breath. Then another.

I count to ten.

I do it again.

“What’s going to happen to my bluedeer?” I ask.

I don’t open my eyes. The words come out wet.

“Who cares?” Segolé demands.

“I care.”

Segolé sighs the longest, loudest, most frustrated sigh I’ve ever heard.

“She’ll be cooked,” he says. “Court lore says bluedeer meat brings you closer to the God King.”

I nod mutely.

“It’s horse shite,” he says. “People only believe it because they’re stupid.”

“Stands to reason,” I say.

Silence curls between us.

“I’m not going to cut your forearms,” he says. “You don’t kick a man while he’s curled on the ground. You don’t piss on a dead horse. And you don’t use corporal punishment on kids who are balls deep in a dissociative episode.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“That’s because you didn’t make it to The Inner Psyche,” he says. “It’s Session Four coursework.”

He pulls me to my feet and forces papers into my hand.

“Where’s your kit bag?” he asks. “Where’s your sword?”

I have to think for a minute. “In my dormitory.”

“Let’s go get them,” he says.

He leads me down the staircase and waits for me outside the room. I emerge with my gear, and he makes sure the papers are tucked in the outer compartment of my kit bag.

“This is empty.” He scowls. “Save for a flask of water and some socks.”

“That’s all I’ve got,” I say.

“What happened to your leathers?”

“They’re contaminated.”

He stares at me.

“Bloodstained,” I add helpfully.

“They’ll give you a uniform in Cahuela,” he says slowly. “If you come back, I’ll make sure we’ve got new armor waiting for you. If you ask me, there’s nothing stupider than giving teenage boys one set of leathers. It’s downright ludicrous—”

I fold my arms over my chest.

“Yeah, yeah.” His expression is dour. “We’re killing daylight. Let’s go, boy.”

We exit Colçon’s Tower and pass wall after wall of curved sandstone. I swore I’d have the layout memorized by the end of my first week, but here I am—day seven—leaving this place for good. It’s hard to think about, so I don’t. I stare at my feet and focus on walking. One foot in front of the other. One. Two. One. Two. One…

I stop suddenly.

“I need to say goodbye,” I say. “To—”

Dune. Osyrus.

Billi.

Ila.

I never had time to visit Lefe’s forge, and now I’m leaving.

No.

I can’t face her. I can’t.

“To Sinope,” I lie. “I love that horse. I bonded with her.”

Segolé stares at me.

“She’s gone,” he says. “The general’s troops deployed last night. They took her with them.”

Thank Yosif.

“Wait here,” Segolé says. “Go sit on that bench. I need a word with the guards about your transfer.”

He says something else, but I’m not listening. I sit on the granite bench, and he limps toward the guard tower. The breeze is frosty. I adjust my sweater and resolve to pay a hussar to take it to Dune as soon as I arrive in Cahuela. As soon as I have something else to wear.

A hand pokes my shoulder.

I turn and find Brid staring at me. She’s in a lacy dress, the kind that’s too extravagant to be practical. A rich-girl dress. The whiteness makes her olive complexion darker by contrast, and the flowing sleeves draw attention to her spindly limbs. She nudges me again, scowling, and I scoot over. She sits beside me, her expression dark.

“I see you’ve still got your sword,” she says.

It’s strapped to my back. I think Segolé fastened it to me. I don’t want to think about the blade. Five days ago, I dropped it by the forges to get tough up engraved on the fuller…

“This is your last opportunity to steal it from me,” I say.

She pauses. “Are you leaving?”

“Mm.”

“Forever?”

“Yeah.”

She folds her arms over her chest and shrinks in on herself.

“I thought you hated me,” I say, and I almost smile.

“Nae.” She offers me her battle grin: eyes narrow, lips curled, teeth bared. “You’re a knothead, but you’re good with a sword. When I’m general of Death’s Guard, I’ll make you my lieutenant. We’ll vanquish an army of enemies, paint our faces with Xobrite blood, and end the never-ending war. Then we’ll hunt venombeasts and sew armor from their skin! Doesn’t that sound fun?”

“You’re delusional,” I say.

The smirk melts off her face. “What?”

“You’ll never succeed your father,” I say. “Dulce will turn you into a proper lady. Give her time.”

She recoils. “I don’t want to be a proper lady!”

“Too bad,” I say. “That’s all you’ll ever be.”

Silence stretches between us. She stares at me with huge, damp eyes. I turn my gaze to the grass.

“I changed my mind,” she says. “I do hate you.”

“I hate me too,” I say. “I guess that’s one thing we have in common.”

“I’ll loathe you for the rest of my life.” Her hands clench into fists. “When you’re on your deathbed, I’ll cackle over your emaciated corpse. I’ll pluck worms from your carcass and feast upon their leathery bodies!”

“Don’t start crying again,” I say. “I can’t deal with you right now.”

“You’re wrong,” she says in a choked voice. “I’ll find a way to succeed Da—”

That’s it. I’m done. I can’t take it anymore. I just can’t. I’ve had enough of her shit.

“Dreams are for children, Brid!” I whirl to face her. “Grow the Hel up, and realize your life is never going to get any better!”

She flinches.

I hiss a long, slow exhale through my teeth and tap my foot against the grass. One of my hands rests on my kit bag. The other tangles in my hair. I need to get it cut. There’s no point wearing it long. Not anymore. As far as I know, correctional officers don’t wear helms. If I make it to the Sixth Circuit, it’ll be something else for the inmates to grab.

“Life is a bitch.” My voice cracks. “I’ll grow old in a dead-end job as a correctional officer. You’ll marry Lordheir Lucian, or whatever his name is. You’ll become a Lady, and you’ll have his babies. You know why? Because that’s what Killián wants from you.”

Unlike me, you might be able to make him proud.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“Lucian’s mean.” Her voice wavers. “He’s a pompous, arrogant rat bastard. His heart is a wicked, black thing. But he’s a better man than you are. He never fooled me into thinking he was my friend.”

I close my eyes and try to remember what it feels like to hurt. I’ve been sliced, stitched, stabbed, bloodied, and beaten. I won four bouts in the Colosseum and was hit by Quincey’s lance in every way imaginable. I’ve been clubbed by scagheads and lost a chunk of my leg to a metal pipe in the scrapyard. I was strangled to blackness by Souteneur Kolton on more than one occasion. I held Felicity after her first shift while she shook silently in my arms, and I stood witness while my mother OD’d on scag. Twice. I went into Leómadura’s office. According to the clock on the northern wall, I was in there for thirty-seven minutes. Give or take.

I’m never coming back. Never. I can’t afford for Brid to miss me. I can’t do that to her.

I open my eyes. I meet her gaze.

“Girls like you don’t have friends,” I say. “Go away, Briddy.”

I fall silent. I wait. She’s going to eviscerate me with her words, because that’s what Brid does. I want her to do it. I deserve the wave of insults that are headed my way.

Maybe if I get lucky, she’ll steal the sword from my back and run me through with it.

Instead, she scrubs her cheeks with the back of her hand. She opens her mouth to say something, but her expression crumples. She gets up and hurries off, her black cloak fluttering behind her like the wings of a deadcrow.

I almost call after her.

I don’t.

###

Segolé comes back for me after he’s finished with the guards, and he walks me all the way to the First Terminal.

“The trains run Sunday through Thursday,” he says, “0800 to 1700. Do you know the routes?”

“Kind of,” I say.

“There are maps everywhere,” he says. “Stay in the Third Terminal hostel tonight—those vouchers I gave you will cover it. The route will pick back up tomorrow morning. There’s only one train that goes all the way to Cahuela, and it runs on off days. You might have to kill a day in the Fifth Circuit. Reign and our boys live out there. It’s a good place.”

“Thank you.” My voice comes out flat. “For everything.”

He squints at me. “If you think I’m leaving before you get on the train, you’re a moron.”

We sit on the iron benches facing the weathered path. In the distance, stronghorses pull a two-car coach toward us. Their pelts gleam with sweat, and their nostrils flare. I inhale the syrupy stench from the flower fields that line the tracks, and I burrow deeper into the cashmere sweater. I pull the sleeves past my hands and clench my fists in the makeshift gloves. The frigid wind ruffles my hair, blowing wet strands into my face. I shiver.

Segolé pulls something from his pocket. The next thing I know, he’s pinning the titles to my sweater. I think about jerking away, but I’m too numb to move.

“I don’t want them,” I say.

“I don’t want my thirdborn son to marry a sociopath who’s cheated on him a dozen times, but according to my wife, that’s what’s happening.” He cracks a wan smile. “You’re a kid, Ko. You don’t know shit, and I’m smarter than you.”

My tongue feels swollen. I can’t speak.

“You’re mucked in the head right now,” he says. “But you’ll do well in Cahuela. The lockup matron will take care of you, and things’ll get better. They always do. Deep breaths, yeah? Give it everything you’ve got.”

I wrap my arms around my stomach. I glance down. The laurels gleam, catching light from the overhead sun.

With everything I’ve got.

I like that better than tough up.