[x] Allow Lucille to remain in command.

[x] Write-in: Show her support to give her confidence when she needs it. This is not a wyvern again, after all.

You can't bring yourself to push Sieglinde into taking command of the situation, even if you think she's better qualified for it than Lucille; nor do you think Elizabeth is the person for the task, admittedly for entirely different reasons. That ultimately means leaving the status quo be, to allow the highborn apprentice whom everyone expects answers out of - even if she is the one most reluctant to provide those answers - to lead.

Although that doesn't necessarily mean doing nothing.

You don't actually know Lucille very well. You've gotten along better with Melanie, and her obvious glowing regard for the Celestia - together with your own positive personal impression - makes you want to believe that Lucille isn't entirely incompetent and just needs proper encouragement. The idea that you are the one who has to give it, though, is perhaps more than a little bewildering. Amidst the murmuring and the unease, you try to work up a smile as you say to the elven lady, "A-At least it isn't a wyvern. The d-direwolves seem small by c-comparison."

Lucille shudders a little at the memory, hunching her shoulders in on herself. "I didn't do so well with that wyvern either, did I?" she says with a soft, brittle, bitter laugh, and you worry that she's taking the entirely wrong message from this; her words aren't exactly inspiring confidence right now. Her gaze slides briefly over to the impassive Sieglinde again, but when the taller elf remains impassive, Lucille sighs, looking much more resigned to what seems like the increasing inevitability of her leadership here. "I'm the best we have, aren't I?"

"You j-just have to t-try your best to keep everyone s-safe," you whisper back urgently. Easier said than done, but you want to get ahead of this line of conversation; Lucille's self-deprecation is having a noticeable detrimental effect on the crowd's confidence.

"My best, huh?" Lucille doesn't look any less dubious, but a glance around at the worried girls watching the two of you is enough for her to sigh and try to tighten her features into a determined grimace. "Yeah. Okay. Okay," she repeats, raising her voice, trying to sound authoritative; you wonder if it's for everyone else's benefit or her own. "Everyone back into your rooms. No, I mean," she quickly amends, "everyone, stick with your squads, and try to share a room with at least one or two other squads. Lock and bar the doors, and try to look out the windows for any instructors."

A siege mentality, then, focusing on a static defense rather than any particularly daring strategy. It's not a bad idea, at least in your rookie opinion; you doubt the direwolves can squeeze their way in through the doorway, nor do you think - large and strong as they are - they have the power to smash through your dorm doors. Assuming they even understand what a door is.

If nothing else, most of the apprentices seem to feel somewhat more relieved - even if the anxiety and uncertainty remain - by the thought of sticking with others and hiding in the familiar comforts of their rooms until an outside solution presents itself. Stephanie, at least, seems a little bit less tense. Sieglinde's expression is far more tightly schooled, as you've come to expect, whereas Elizabeth seems annoyed in the manner of someone watching a particularly dense child do something particularly foolish, but nonetheless too lethargic to intervene either way.

Squad Four ducks back into your room, sharing the space with another squad, a squad of only three: Lani was the first casualty in the West Wing, and her surviving roommate is still sobbing inconsolably even as her squadmate tries to comfort her, hugging her and whispering something into her ear.

"What do you think is going on?" asks the remaining member of Lani's squad - an aseri with practice daggers in a belt over her nightclothes - as she locks the door, agitation clear in her tone, in her fox ears folded back, in her raised tail.

When it becomes clear that no one is in any hurry to answer that question, you relent and allow, "M-Maybe it's the Tennies." You try to keep things vague, to only what you should reasonably know from the Roldharen field exercise, as opposed to what you accidentally heard outside the bathhouse on a night that suddenly feels like it was so long ago. "Th-The same people who loosed a w-wyvern in Roldharen."

The aseri doesn't need much convincing as she scowls, "Damned Tennies." It's a logical explanation, certainly not one that - fortunately - requires further elaboration; who else would attack a Caldran mercenary academy like this?

"The window doesn't face the rest of the Academy," Stephanie announces from where she has quietly moved over to the window. "I only see Faulkren." From your vantage point, you can see smoke and flames still dancing amongst the buildings.

"Is it on fire?" the girl comforting Lani gasps, craning her neck to look out the window with wide, startled eyes, her shock shared with her aseri squadmate who bolts over to the window for a better look. With their dorm room window facing the inner courtyard of the Academy, it's no wonder why they've only just noticed this. "They're attacking the town too?"

"Yeah, it's why some of us were up."

Looking between the sobbing girl and her two squadmates, you hesitantly ask, "I-Is she...w-will she be alright?" She's crying so hard that she barely seems aware of what's going on.

"She'd better be," the aseri snarls before wincing a little - realizing what she just said in the heat of the moment and now feeling ashamed about it - and reining her temper back in. "She was close with Lani. Roommates, I mean. I guess no one else would've taken it as hard as her."

The seven of you settle into an awkward silence. And, for minutes, this seems to be all that makes up your world: The sounds of sobbing, of distant shouts and panic, and - out the window - flames dancing and leaping into the night.

So many minutes pass, in fact - or perhaps it is the oppressive air that stretches those minutes out - that the aseri apprentice finally notes with deep uncertainty in her voice, "It's been a while." When this does not prompt a reply from any of you, she looks about helplessly and asks, "Should we just...stay here?"

"We shouldn't," Elizabeth curlty replies without warning after having been silent all this time, her clear enunciation a contrast to the dazed, quiet tones of everyone else, causing a few of the room's occupants to jump slightly.

Frowning, the aseri apprentice starts, "Lady Lucille said..."

"Celestia's an imbecile," Elizabeth cuts in, harsh words carried by a soft voice, and yet another stretch of awkward silence ensues, thick with uncertainty among the others as to which noble elf they are supposed to listen to.

"She's in command," Sieglinde declares, although her voice is perfectly neutral, a statement of fact without irritation of prejudice, as if she does not actually have her own thoughts on the matter. "There's no need to second-guess her. Or undermine her authority."

"What authority?" scoffs Elizabeth.

For a moment, Sieglinde does not reply. Either she simply doesn't care to make her point with Elizabeth any further...or she doesn't actually have a counterpoint to that. But whatever reply Sieglinde may or may not have given is suddenly interrupted by the rapping of knuckles on a door.

The knocking isn't on your door; it seems to be coming from at least two doors down the hallway. And it is neither sharp nor loud, as if whoever is doing the knocking is trying to be discreet about it. Then there's a voice, muffled by architectural barriers and distance. "It's all clear out here," calls a woman; you can't tell who it is, but it certainly sounds mature enough to be one of your instructors. "Get out here and get your weapons!"

"The instructors are here!" the aseri apprentice laughs with a mixture of relief and shakiness, jumping up to wobbly feet to open the door. But she doesn't get far: Sieglinde suddenly materializes beside her, a tight hand on the aseri's shoulder. Your squadmate was so fast, it takes you a moment to process the fact that Sieglinde is suddenly in the center of your vision with little preamble or warning.

Sieglinde does not immediately respond - verbally or otherwise - to the aseri's look of confusion, but nor does she let her go. A long moment of this awkward silence reigns, at least until - after what seems like a long while - there is another knock on a door that's still not yours, but this one sounds a little closer. Then another soft, muffled call: "It's all clear out here. Get out here and get your weapons!"

Although Sieglinde leans close to the aseri apprentice's ear, everyone else in the room can hear her clearly as the tall elf whispers: "Would our instructors really be knocking on our doors one-by-one so quietly under the circumstances?"

The aseri's eyes widen, then narrow. To the side, Stephanie's expression is equally grim. You understand what Sieglinde is getting at: This is a trap. Behind locked doors, it is easy to barricade yourselves in relative safety. And if a quick escape is really necessary, you're only on the second floor; a drop out the window may hurt, but is unlikely to kill you. But with the squads sequestered in their own rooms, with no meaningful way of communication, with only training weapons, and with no eyes on the outside, the enemy - the Tenereians - can afford to get creative.

Stolen novel; please report.

And even though the occupants of your room don't fall for this, you can hear a neighboring door out in the corridor being opened, followed by the shouts of alarm and terror, and then the cacophony of combat.

Scowling and muttering an expletive, the aseri apprentice pries Sieglinde's hand from her shoulder, charging for the door while drawing her training daggers, rushing out to assist whomever is caught in the Tenereian trap. So, too, does the apprentice comforting Lani, barely managing to whisper a word of comfort before charging for the door. You, too, find yourself grabbing your practice buster sword from where you left it against your bedside wall, angling it over your shoulder in a ready stance, advancing to meet what is undoubtedly the enemy.

The two apprentices who charged out ahead of you form a forward screen, providing you with the time and space - if only for a second - to assess the situation as you bolt through the open door. Already, the frontlines before you have erupted into a flurry of blows, practice weapons flailing about to keep very real weapons in check. Daggers and swords of steel swing in the hands of four women shrouded in darkened cloth, a clear sign that these are very obviously not your instructors. Three of them are pressing down hard on your two fellow apprentices, trying to flank them; the last of their number remains in the rearguard, the corridor not quite wide enough to admit a fourth combatant. You quickly charge into the left flank to plug the small hole in your formation, to deny the enemy's flanking maneuver, but your foot hasn't even settled onto the floor where you're supposed to be when the enemy on the left - a human who was giving the aseri apprentice a hard time just a split-second before - suddenly swivels cleanly and thrusts her shortsword at you with alarming speed. You are forced to block and give ground, trying to parry and swing your practice buster sword in these confines even as real steel - steel with its sharpened, deadly edge - lashes out in rapid succession at you.

As blows are exchanged, it is painfully evident that this Tenereian woman you fight has the advantage over you in terms of equipment, not only because her weapon is real, but also because it has all the advantages for the environment you're in, with its short reach unobstructed by corridor walls, its ease of use a powerful asset in a darkened environment, its light weight perfect for this crowded battlefield. Your swings with the practice buster sword, by contrast, are necessarily predictable, a repeated up-down chopping motion that doesn't wipe out your allies in close proximity with a careless swing. This takes advantage of your weapon's strengths - or at least mitigates its weaknesses - and you are fighting against a human who can easily recognize such patterns, not a beast like a direwolf.

Fighting this woman - almost certainly a Squirrel - is difficult, harrowing, terrifying. You have sparred with other apprentices, with prodigies like Aphelia, with your instructors. Yet this is something entirely different from all those other times, and not simply because this is real, not only because this is quite possibly to the death. Your opponent is not like Wendy, who has decisive advantages over you in specific areas and weaknesses in others. Nor is this like Sieglinde, who seems faster and stronger than you in every way.

The Squirrel you duel - with her darting motions and tricky swordplay - does not necessarily seem decisively faster or stronger than you, nor does she necessarily seem decisively more skilled; you don't feel hopelessly pressed into a corner the way you do when you spar with Sieglinde or Aphelia. But there is something about her movements - something about how she fights - that feels like she's constantly one step ahead of you, in your head, reading your moves. Even before you finish taking that first step forward to execute another up-down chop with your practice buster sword, the Squirrel has already pivoted on a heel, spinning to the side - further than you thought possible in these confines - to attack you from another angle, forcing you to awkwardly shift your center of mass in a clumsy attempt to balance yourself, negating the weight behind your attack. You start lowering the tip of your blade for a thrust instead, prepared to send many kilograms of hardened wood into the Squirrel's chest, but she charges you before you're ready, forcing you to give ground again and nearly expose your ally's flank. Her offense similarly puts you on a back foot, relentless but not reckless. She does not test you the way Wendy did when you first sparred against her with a buster sword. Wendy, at the time, tried an array of different blocks, parries, counterattacks, and dodges in an attempt to determine the best answer for your colossus of a weapon, something she had never faced before. The Squirrel before you, however, does no such thing as she simply dances by your slashes, if not with grace then at least with confidence.

Like butterflies, they flit adroitly at the edge of your ability to inflict harm on them. You and your two allies are forced to give ground not because these women are "better" combatants on some arbitrary metric of strength or speed or skill. Rather, it's plainly evident that they are far more experienced. They may not have had the training you're still undergoing, three years under the instruction of some of the most powerful warriors on the continent, but they move and strike with the weight and burden of years on the battlefield, years behind enemy lines, years of fighting dozens and dozens of people just like you. You are just another cluster of triggers for years' worth of muscle memory.

Yet the alarmed grimace on the face of the Squirrel you fight tells you that you're putting up a decent showing, that your training - incomplete as it is, unreinforced by experience - is doing its work. Your instructor has drilled into your head the notion that your greatsword's offense is its defense, that its defense is its offense, that its long reach and heavy momentum easily force foes into a more manageable defensive or evasive posture even if your attacks do not connect. The weapon may be heavy and slow and cumbersome, but when wielded properly, your opponent is left with a very narrow margin of error. Although you are not pushing the Squirrel back, you and the other apprentices are keeping her and the other Squirrels at bay, keeping them on their toes, exceeding their expectations. She thought you weak, immature, and inexperienced, and now she realizes she's desperately wrong, that her years of battlefield experience - perhaps greater than that of all the apprentices at Faulkren combined - just isn't quite enough for her to break through the defenses of a dryad girl in her nightgown with a training weapon.

And that grimace turns into a look of outright alarm as Sieglinde and Elizabeth join the fight, the former's spear joining your buster sword in repeated strikes that the Squirrel's shortsword cannot keep up with, the latter crackling with bolts of lightning twisting around her. And more doors along the hallway swing open as more apprentices - startled by the sound of fighting - rush out to check on the commotion just as you did, the fight growing larger in your favor.

The shared look on the faces of the Squirrels carries the clear realization that this is not going according to plan. They did not finish off apprentices caught off-guard quickly enough. They did not gain a decisive advantage over you when you rushed out to assist. Now, they find themselves desperately outnumbered.

One of them slams something onto the floor - a fist-sized ball of some sort, or so it seems in the split-second you're able to see it - before the world around you is suddenly engulfed in dust and smoke. Around you is shouting and coughing and a general commotion, voices from the other apprentices also caught in the blast, trying to defend themselves in this haze while trying to regain their bearings. Closing your eyes and trying not to breathe - you have no idea whether this is some kind of irritant or even poison gas - you swing your practice buster sword wildly in front of you, flailing it from left to right in an undignified, unsightly manner. It's not like you or anyone else can see right now, so all you can do now is deny that area in front of you - a spot where you last saw the Squirrels, a spot that you're pretty sure wasn't occupied by a fellow apprentice a second ago when you were still able to see - to an enemy sneak attack. You can only hope that the Tennies can't see you either.

Through all the commotion, you only barely notice your practice buster sword striking something, the force of the impact surprisingly dull and soft; in fact, when the back of your head registers the impact, your immediate subconsciously response is that you must be imagining things. It's the adrenaline. You probably just bounced your practice buster sword off the wall.

It takes almost half a minute for the dust and smoke to eventually settle, for you to see anything half a meter past your face. Your guard is up as you try to assess the situation around you, as you try to continue fighting, only for you to you notice that the enemy is...gone. It takes a moment as your eyes filter through a hallway of familiar faces, but gone are the women who fought you and the other apprentices, leaving only alert and confused teenagers in their wake. Some took injuries, some of which that look quite grievous - deep gashes inflicted by cold steel and fancy swordplay - and those who are learned in healing quickly tend to them. Squads check their own to ensure they haven't taken fatalities, some sharing relieved hugs and excited words when they realize they've made it through intact. Others maintain their vigilance, wary of another attack by direwolves or Squirrels...or something else.

Expelling a breath from your lips, you feel a little less wobbly this time around, a little less likely to sink down onto your knees compared to when you killed the direwolf, and you merely lean to your left against the wall to help steady yourself, to allow yourself to just catch a breath...

...And you slide right off the wall. You stumble and try to catch yourself, except your feet nearly trip on something on the floor, and you almost fail to catch yourself. Regaining your balance at just the last moment, you look back in confusion, trying to see what nearly made you take yet another spill onto the floor...

...And you see a crumpled corpse in the corner.

It's shaped like a person, motionless in a pool of blood. Connected to said pool is a thick trail of similarly-colored fluid running vertically down the wall, interrupted only by a smear where you slipped against the wall only a second ago.

And at the very top of this trail, at head-height, is a large splatter that reminds you of a large tomato thrown against the wall.

Except, looking down, you see that this is no splattered tomato, but the bloody remnants of a head smashed open with sheer brute force, as if cracked open with a giant club. Fragments of a human skull and its contents rest in that pool of dark, coppery fluid. And now that you're looking down, you realize that there is also a splatter of blood on the blunt, wooden edge of your practice buster sword, at a point where you previously only barely registered an impact while flailing uselessly in the smoke.

Not so uselessly after all, it would seem.

You did this. Whether by accident or otherwise, by training or otherwise, by skill or otherwise, you've made your first kill. This isn't a boar that you cut in twain or the corpse of a wyvern or even the cadaver of a dryad huntress hanging from a giant maw. It isn't an apprentice chewed up by a direwolf or lying still with only a neatly slit throat. This is not the first time you've seen a person dead, but this time, she's dead because of you. You killed a person. You killed a person. You killed a person. Someone with a name, a life story, family and friends, hopes and dreams, the capacity for love and violence. Someone who, even as a Tenereian, is a member of the Treiden people, and as you look down at what remains of her face, you realize you can't distinguish her from any other human Caldran woman you've ever seen.

And now she's dead by your hand. You did this. You did this. You did this.

And you feel...

[x] ...sad.

[x] ...sick.

[x] ...proud.

[x] ...thrilled.

[x] ...nothing.

[x] Write-in.