my hands are dry and cracked from work

my soul is black and living hurts

my lance lifts up the Devil’s skirt

Death’s a tease, and War’s a flirt

excerpt from “Dreams of Work,” by Jaelin Meir, a Bathunian lancer

160 GKE – 182 GKE

I spend the next morning in the medi-center. My supervisor Arely is a short, gruff woman with a burn mark splitting her left nostril. She keeps me busy wrapping minor cuts and scrubbing bedpans. I leave with an aching back, swollen joints, and bandaged feet—Arely dressed my blisters when she saw me limping.

At the Ludos Magnus—a glass building lined with dueling mats—Lanista Quincey works me harder than Arely. The gray-haired man teaches me to hold a spear, then spends the next few hours clocking me within an inch of my life. I do my best to keep up with him, and when it’s time to leave for my tutoring session at the literary center, he nods approvingly.

“You have good instincts, and you learn quickly,” he says. “Keep the tip raised when you thrust. Carry your weight with your toes, and—”

“Stay focused,” I say.

“Mm.” He squints at me. “That.”

###

Lanista Pierre-Marie is waiting for me inside Bathune’s literary center. She introduces herself with a firm nod and a once-over, takes me to a back room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and points to a wooden chair. I sit, nervous—her gray gaze is penetrating, and her tongue is pierced with a metal rod.

She grabs a dozen texts off the shelf and slams them in front of me.

“Before we get started, I have questions,” she says. “How many years were you in unders?”

“Ten.” A steady twinge pulses behind my temples. “I was in my last semester before I came to Bathune.”

“Staffmaster Belén told me you were uneducated,” she says suspiciously. “Where did you study?”

“Public school.” I rub the back of my neck. “Downtown Valenès. Ninth and L-Street.”

“How’s your literacy?”

“Mediocre.”

“We’ll start with an assessment so I can gauge where you’re at.” She exhales through her teeth. “From there, we’ll study militant analyses, tactics, strategy, and history. Specifically, the officers of lore…”

I read my way through a children’s book with ease, but I blanch when she gives me a copy of Love’s Testament.

“Open to the sixtieth page.” She nudges the holy text toward me. “Book 5, 7:12, Ballad of the Vestal.”

I flip through the grasspaper book and shift on the wooden seat.

the man whom I refused to wed

dreamed he dragged me to his bed

he awoke with hands stained red

I lay beside him, claimed but dead

the masses say his love was cursed

they speak of me in song and verse

they say I’m in a better place

but how could anywhere be worse?

“You’re nowhere near illiterate,” she says. “Give yourself some credit.”

My cheeks warm.

“Self-doubt comes with the territory of being fourteen.” Her lips twitch. “Let’s get started on your assigned readings.”

“I have assigned readings?”

Pierre-Marie opens a massive, overstuffed textbook—The Leaders of Yesterday and Tomorrow. She ruffles through the grasspaper sheets and taps the center of a page. Chapter nine. “Strategists of Pre-Circuit Lore.”

We spend the next two hours studying Alexander the Great, the cruel and megalomanic tactical genius. Julius Caesar, who toughened his men into monsters. Cromwell, bold and innovative, who understood the principle of concentrating his force on a part of the enemy and defeating targeted troops before turning on the remnants.

“How’s this going to help me as a medic?” I ask Pierre-Marie mid-lecture. “Shouldn’t we be studying the doctors of history?”

“I have degrees in tactics, strategy, and formational science.” She raises a pierced eyebrow. “If Killián wanted you to be a medic, you’d be studying under Bard.”

“I’m sure Bardic has more important things to do than teach me to read.”

“I was an elite guardsman until two years ago,” she says coolly. “A hollowood blast mucked up my legs a week before my twenty-eighth yearday.”

“Oh.” I blanch. “Sorry, madame.”

“You can call me lanista.” Her expression softens. “These days I’m an adjunct professor at L-DAW.”

“Why did Killián transfer you here?”

“To prepare you for the academy’s curriculum.”

The feathered pen in my clenched fist taps against the table. I want to curl up in a dark room with my arms over my face until the pressure eases from my temples. The pain makes it hard to think.

“You seem way too important to be here with me,” I say.

“Agreed.” She seems pleased I’ve come to this realization on my own.

“What if I don’t win my bouts?” I ask. “Why is Killián investing so much into me? None of this makes sense.”

“Do you know how to play chess?”

“Not really.”

I know what the pieces look like—Felicity and I found a few at the scrapyard, and we took turns throwing rocks at them to work on our aim. That doesn’t say much about my ability to strategize.

“Pawns are weak,” she says. “After their first move, they move forward one square at a time. Novice players see them as disposable, but pawns are protectors. They guard each other, and they set the formations. If they cross the board, their power increases tenfold. They can—and should—be utilized.”

I get the feeling she’s not going to give me insight into Killián’s actions. The only reason she’s indulging this conversation is because she likes to talk strategy.

“Killián has plans for you.” Her gray eyes narrow. “If he thinks you might be valuable, we need to get you educated. End of story.”

I grind my knuckles into the back of my neck.

###

A few hours later, I duck out of the literary center and find Osyrus leaning against the brick wall. A cig is pressed to his lips, and he exhales a breath of gray smoke into the darkening air. Backlit by the setting sun, he looks like a seraph—smooth brown skin, gleaming eyes, a coiffed crop of black hair that covers the left side of his face.

“You look exhausted, mate,” he says in greeting.

I hoist my kit bag up my shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

He drops the cig on the ground and grinds it into the cobblestones with the toe of his boot. “Waiting for you.”

“Why?”

“I thought we could have a chat,” he says sweetly. “Want to take a walk?”

I glance across the quad at our dormitory. My bed awaits. I rub my temples.

“Sure,” I say. “But it’ll cost you a candydrop.”

He opens the paper canister and pulls a cig from within. With steady fingers, he strikes a match and holds it to the tip. I take it from him, press it to my lips, and breathe in a long, slow breath. My body spasms—just once—and then I relax.

We head toward the duke’s château. I’m not sure what we talk about—his family, maybe mine. My words are short and close together, and I’m rambling about Ila before I can stop myself. About her apprenticeship. About how much I miss her, and Akeeva, and Felicity…especially Felicity.

“I know what you mean.” He nudges me with his shoulder. “Family’s all we’ve got. It’s weird being away from home. You miss L-Street?”

My mind is cloudy. I get the feeling he’s dancing around whatever he wants to say. We’re outside the Ludos Magnus—we’ve walked past the town square, Rue d’Azur, and a dozen eateries and shops. The glass building stands in front of us, gleaming in the light from the rising moon. I don’t remember making the walk. It’s almost curfew, I realize, then—no. That’s not for another half hour. What time is it?

“Time is so weird,” I say, interrupting him.

“Did you hear anything I just said?”

“No,” I say. “Sorry.”

I hand him the half-smoked cig. My hands shake, and I can barely see through the darkness.

“Here’s the deal, Ko,” he says. “In five days, we’re gonna fight. Spearwork is my weakest event, so I’m not sure who’ll win. Either way, I’ll be fine—my mother is a swordsmaster. Even if I don’t test into L-DAW, I have a voucher that’ll get me into épée school. I earned some wiggle room after my first bout—points are cumulative across the four events. If I lose, I might still be in the running for an academy slot. If you lose…”

He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. Of the one hundred and eight trainees, fifty survived the first elimination. I won, but I didn’t score points until the last thirty seconds of our bout. Osyrus placed fifth. I placed forty-second.

“If I flush out, I’ll be a medic,” I say. “Killián said he’d deploy me to Ávila.”

“Oh.” Osyrus shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Are you offering to throw the bout?” I ask, grinning.

“I like you, but not that much.”

“So why am I here?”

I wait for him to answer, but he doesn’t. He grabs my elbow and leads me back toward the town square. This time, I’m able to focus—the lightheadedness recedes.

He scrubs a hand over his chin. “No matter what happens Monday, I’ll have your back at the end of the day.”

“That’s…” Sweet. Strange. Unsettling. “…nice. Thanks, man.”

He thinks I’m going to lose. This is his way of saying goodbye. He’s probably right, but still. It hurts, especially after my tutoring session with Pierre-Marie. I was in the literary center for four hours straight. I could summarize the strategies of twenty-five militant leaders of pre-Circuit lore. I could give Osyrus an in-depth overview of the chain-of-command, from the divine general to the lowest lancer. Apparently I’m nowhere near illiterate…

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Mate,” Osyrus says. “You’re ignoring me again.”

“Whatever happens on Monday, there’ll be no hard feelings,” I agree.

“Fantastic.” He nudges me with his shoulder. “I’m glad we had this talk…wait. What’s that?”

A commotion kicks up in front of the mess hall. The oil lamps, hung at regular intervals around the perimeter of the quad, cast gleaming lights onto the cobbled circle. A dozen lancers have gathered. I squint at their moving bodies. A strum rings through the air.

“Troubadour.” Osyrus peers at the throng. “Wanna go watch?”

“What’s a troubadour?”

“A traveling musician,” he says. “My dad’s one.”

“I thought your dad was a lancer.”

“He only does one combat tour per year. If you meet my mother, don’t bring it up.”

“The troubadour part or the tour part?”

“Both,” he says. “Stillstryder pride runs deep.”

I quote Linden. “Pride is a crime.”

“I know.” He grins at me. “That’s why my dad sings love songs and dances for the Ladies like a fool. It’s his realm—we’re just living in it.”

We head toward the lancers, ducking across the plaza to the left-hand side of the commotion. Together we sit on a stone bench beside a statue of Yosif the Great. There’s a decent view from this angle—the musician is illuminated by the oil lamps. He’s holding a large, six-stringed instrument, and the wood wraps around his neck like a noose. Sporadic tufts of white hair obscure his chiseled face.

He uses his foot to kick open a small trunk, offers the crowd a smile, and twists pegs above the throat harp. The lancers break into halfhearted applause. A man at the front of the cue tosses an empty bottle of appleshine into the case. The musician makes a rude hand gesture in his direction, clears his throat, and begins to play.

“Come hither, my friends, and I’ll tell you my stories

from the end of the world to the fables of lore.

So open your ears and take heed of my warnings

for I’m the realm’s best troubadour!”

Osyrus winces. “You’d think the realm’s best troubadour would be able to hit a note.”

I elbow him—we’re close to the musician’s left-hand side, and he didn’t take care to keep his voice low.

“Let’s go back to the end of days

when Lady Death laid down her curse.

Bombs fell, and mushroom clouds razed all—”

“Hey, mate,” calls the same lancer who tossed the bottle into the case. “I think you skipped a verse!”

I cringe. Osyrus uses a fist to cover his smile, and a few of the lancers cackle. The musician pauses, his hands stilling over the throat harp. He throws a dower glare at the crowd, and sullen silence falls again.

“What’s their problem?” I ask.

“It’s the song,” Osyrus murmurs. “‘The Seven Titans’ is controversial.”

The troubadour resumes playing, and Osyrus falls silent.

“Six long years before the end

The God King led us to his lair.

They said our bunker was a cult—

they died. But we lived on down there.

The God King, a prophet foretold

saw Armageddon’s slow descent.

Thousands thrived under his rules:

Repopulate. Atone. Repent.

The bombs, they ceased—we came back up!

The God King left, that much is true.

He left us hope. He left a plan!

…He left us seven children, too.

The seven titan heritors

birthed a bold, savage domain—”

He pauses for a second too long. The lancers start to murmur, and beside me, Osyrus stiffens. I look around, wondering what’s going on. The troubadour casts a nervous glance at the crowd. Why’d he stop singing?

“Shite, what are the lyrics?” The musician’s smile gleams. “Forgive my old and feeble brain.”

“Smart choice, cutting the last two lines,” Osyrus mutters.

Judging by the whispers being passed among the lancers like potent hollowood bombs, they share the sentiment. Once again, the man’s fingers begin to move over his throat harp. I want to ask how the stanza was supposed to end, but the troubadour has already resumed his playing.

“As oldest, L’Angly took the throne.

He’d mastered all his father’s games.

The Lord of Love was tall and feared—

revered by men, adored by dames.”

“Tweak that last line!” someone yells. “They say he liked the younger dames. Lord L’Angly went after little girls—”

The musician doesn’t pause.

“The next born, Yosif, rallied troops.

His dreams predicted foe crusades.

He built Death’s army from the ground.

His mind killed more men than his blades.”

For the first time, the lancers break into raucous applause. A few whoop. I turn to stare at Osyrus, who shrugs.

“Say what you will about the song, but soldiers love the di Vivars,” he says.

The musician, possibly enthused by the positive reception, starts to improvise. His twiddling fingers, which have maintained a morose and steady beat, quicken on the strings.

“This is the part where I’d bust out my shoes

and dance a bright jig while the lot of you clap.

But a group of rogue teens stole my best tapping clogs—

“Hey—you in the back,” he calls suddenly. “Don’t you dare laugh!”

Osyrus snickers.

“I take back what I said,” he murmurs. “Voice aside, he’s a professional. See how he’s keeping the rhyme scheme while he plays with the crowd?”

“Leclère used her divine right

to oversee the fields of wheat.

What she had in brains and charm

is what she lacked in sanity.

The triplets craved more land to rule:

Baumé, Vandame, and Marix.

Marix slept with both eyes closed

and seven heirs turned into six.

The sneaky pair usurped his turf

but our empire’s name stayed strong.

We venerate the seventh heir

even though his land is gone.

“That’s why we’re called the Seven Circuits of L’Anglimar even though there are six territories?” I murmur. “I’ve always wondered.”

“Six territories, six lords, six dukes, six churches,” Osyrus confirms. “Marix effed things up by dying sonless—the Lord of Love gets the tiebreaking vote when the Septemvirate deadlocks.”

"Which Lady got shafted?”

“Loss. Jury’s still out on who she is and what she does. Her magic died with Marix.”

Even rich with his new ground,

Baumé longed for Leclère’s wheat.

Some say greed’s what stopped his heart.

In truth, she cooked and ate his meat.”

“Leclère didn’t kill anyone!” someone calls from the back of the crowd. “Stop demonizing her!”

“He’s not demonizing all women, Melka!” someone else yells. “Leclère was non compos mentis.”

“She was not!”

“For Yosif’s sake! She baked Baumé into a pie—”

The yells rise around us, and once again, the troubadour hesitates. This time, it only takes his spindly fingers half a second to resume their strumming.

“Stop saying she was just a girl

with silky frocks and snow-white dresses!

Her diaries have all been published.

She ate Baumé—she confesses!”

“Damn,” Osyrus whispers, grinning. “He’s funny.”

I stare at him. “Did Leclère really…”

“No one knows.” His voice is hushed. “Her diaries are more controversial than this song. They read like violent, smutty fiction and were penned by a teenage girl. Scholars and analysts get really uncomfortable when debating the historical accuracy.”

“Next came Poussin, bold and good

the sweetest son, the best alive!

The kind fool sipped from Leclère’s glass

that’s how six turned into five.

Yosif had the saddest end.

Combat left him comatose.

Vandame hanged himself that night—

the two had always been quite close.”

“Mate!” the balding lancer jeers from the front of a throng. “Read a textbook that wasn’t cleaned up! Death and War were more than close.”

“May Yosif rest in The Fjords!” someone else screams. “But Bonifác’s not wrong. Yosif and Vandame were definitely—”

The troubadour aims a swift kick at those closest to him. The balding man—Bonifác—takes a few stumbling steps back. Osyrus laughs. Once again, the bard starts to improvise, his fingers quickening on the strings.

“Shut up, you fools—they weren’t involved.

This song’s for kids, you incestuous swots.

You want to tell this tale in my stead?

Yeah, you heathens—that’s what I thought.”

Bonifác lunges forward. Those nearest hold him back. This isn’t going to end well, I realize. Most of the crowd is armed with spears. Judging by the acidic stench of whisky, they’ve all been drinking.

“The facts came out about Leclère.

No lass alive was more perverse.

She prayed they’d lie about her death—

it’s said she drowned; the truth is worse.

They say Clèr tripped into a well

but we all know that she was led.

By whom? Well, who am I to say?

I’m just thankful that she’s dead—”

“It was L’Angly!” someone yells, and I flinch again. “If you’ve read her diaries, then you know he’d been molesting her since she was a child.”

“It wasn’t L’Angly,” the troubadour snarls. “Please shut up—

Their affair’s not widely known.

He was married; he had sons.

Leclère herself was barely grown.”

The crowd grows still. Silent. It’s not the good kind of quiet. I reach out to grip Osyrus’s hand as if he’s Akeeva. I expect him to shake me off or cast a confused glance in my direction. He doesn’t. His gaze remains on the throng of lancers. He’s not laughing anymore. He’s not even smiling. His forehead creases.

“Let me guess,” I murmur. “L’Angly’s also controversial.”

“They’re all controversial,” he mutters.

The troubadour’s back is erect. The oil lamp highlights the sweat dripping down his creased forehead and cheeks, and he looks around desperately. For the briefest of seconds, I meet his eyes. He turns back to the lancers, cocks his throat harp, and clears his throat.

“Ahem.

L’Angly was the last to fall

but the realm did not despair,

For like his father, L’Angly

sired seven noble heirs.

I’m done! Rejoice! Wait…not that much—”

I’m not sure which is louder: the hissing or the cheering.

“Leave coins—I’ve saved you lot from fear

With our great royals, old and new,

There’s no realm better ruled than here!”

Screams. Slurs. A few scattered beats of applause—sparing applause—and then the crowd of lancers detonates.

A bottle of appleshine hits the troubadour square in the head. He staggers back. The lancer at the front of the cue—Bonifác—moves forward. He yanks the throat harp away from the musician’s throat. It smashes against the cobblestones, sending splinters of wood in every direction.

Another lancer slams against the performer, knocking him down. I jump to my feet, draw my sword. Osyrus holds me back, but I pull away from his grasp. Before I know what’s happening, I’m at the front of the queue. My blade is cocked, my breathing is heavy, and the musician cowers behind me. His brittle hands grip my leathers.

A dozen angry faces circle me. Osyrus fills in on my left side. We retreat until the troubadour is tucked between us and the mess hall. For every step we withdraw, a few people push forward. Half the mob has disappeared. Maybe slight resistance is all it takes to break the spell.

“You’ve all been drinking.” My voice wavers. “Let’s not do anything we’ll regret, okay?”

Bonifác glowers at me. My sword may be raised, but so is his lance. I’d bet everything I own he has more experience than me in combat—the silver scar across his neck tells me he’s a veteran. The oil lamps cast just enough light for me to see his gleaming leer, and he’s close enough I smell his lemony cologne.

“I’ll die before I take orders from a trainee,” he murmurs.

His lance plunges toward my chest—

I start to parry, but there’s no need. A woman lunges forward, blocking the blow with her own spear. The gaze she fixes upon him is menacing, and he balks beneath it. She’s tall and broad, with dark hair pulled back into a braid.

“He’s not a trainee, Bonifác,” she says.

“He’s a child!”

“Look at his chest,” she snaps. “He has a title. He outranks us.”

I glance down at my leathers and find the metallite pin gleaming back at me. Egad. Can I order these people around? I have no leadership experience—no combat experience—and Bonifác looks ready to kill me. I force myself not to flinch from his hungry, dazed eyes.

“You broke my harp!” the musician howls. “I’ll be pressing charges—”

“You can’t file a suit if you’re dead,” Osyrus hisses. “Shut up, mate.”

I don’t turn my gaze away from Bonifác’s face.

“Go home, lancer.” The voice that exits my mouth is not my own. “Sleep it off.”

Bonifác spits at my feet. I move my boot, and his saliva splatters against the cobblestones. The woman’s hand is still on his arm, and she guides him away. The few lancers that have remained follow. I wait until they’ve stumbled across the quad before I sheathe my sword. Only then do I start to tremble. I sink in on myself, wrapping my arms around my stomach. My eyes burn.

“What just happened?” Osyrus murmurs.

“They broke my harp!” the bard wails. “They killed my beloved Bathelzda! That’s what happened, you curs! You did nothing to stop it!”

“We kept a bunch of drunk assholes from enacting mob law,” Osyrus snaps. “How about some gratitude?”

“Oh, Bathelzda.” The troubadour picks up a chunk of wood and runs his fingers along a snapped string. “Slain in your prime…”

“Why’d you have to play that damn song?” Osyrus asks. “Couldn’t you have gone with ‘Ballad of the Fighter?’”

“He’s not the one who escalated things.” I turn my gaze to the musician. “Sorry about your instrument.”

His eyes well with tears. “Bathelzda.”

“Sure,” I say patiently. “Sorry about Bathelzda—”

Somewhere nearby, the clock tower chimes 2200.

It’s curfew.

Osyrus grabs my arm, and together, we run toward Barrack 2.