The first semester at Falmuth Military Academy was one of adaptation and quiet observation for Illiad. As expected, the students were segregated into two groups: the nobles’ class and the commoners’ class. Within the commoners’ class, the atmosphere was surprisingly amicable. Many of his peers had come from modest backgrounds, like farmers, tradesmen, or laborers, sharing a sense of camaraderie that made settling in easier for Illiad.
Their shared struggles and aspirations forged an unspoken bond among the commoners. There was laughter during breaks, collaboration during studies, and encouragement during training. Life inside their class felt supportive and productive, free from the oppressive weight of entitlement or judgment.
However, stepping outside the confines of the classroom revealed a starkly different world. The nobles, many of whom carried themselves with a haughty air, made no effort to hide their disdain for the commoners. Conversations in the halls often turned into whispers and snickers when a commoner walked by, or worse, outright sneers.
“They don’t belong here,” one noble student muttered to another in Illiad’s hearing one afternoon. “The Academy should remain a sanctuary for the future leaders of this kingdom—not for farmhands and gutter rats pretending to be soldiers.”
The sentiment was shared widely among the noble students. To them, the very presence of commoners in the Academy was an insult to the natural order, a challenge to their birthright as rulers and commanders. While the Academy claimed to foster meritocracy, many nobles viewed it as a breeding ground for rebellion, where commoners dared to imagine themselves as equals—or worse, as competitors.
Illiad, however, was indifferent to their scorn. He had neither the time nor the patience to entertain their prejudice. His goals were far too critical to be derailed by petty power plays or elitist sneers. The weight of his past life kept him focused on what mattered most: training his body, sharpening his mind, and preparing for the day he would face his enemies.
There were moments, though, when the divide threatened to erupt into open conflict. A commoner who outperformed a noble in a sparring session or excelled in a class could expect icy glares or veiled threats later. For Illiad, this was yet another layer of the system’s inherent imbalance—a microcosm of the very corruption and arrogance he had sworn to dismantle.
But Illiad refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing him falter or lash out. Instead, he met their disdain with quiet determination, using their arrogance as fuel for his resolve. Every insult was a reminder of the injustice he had endured and the heights he needed to climb to achieve his vengeance.
Among the commoners, his focus and discipline earned him quiet respect. While others vented their frustrations about the nobles’ behavior, Illiad remained calm and resolute, embodying the perseverance he would need to survive not just the Academy, but the greater battles that lay ahead.
**
Sparring Session: Testing Skills and Wits
The sparring courtyard bustled with activity, the air ringing with the clash of wooden practice swords and the shouts of instructors. Illiad stood across from Lorian, his calm demeanor contrasting with Lorian’s ever-present smirk. The other students had already gathered around, eager to see how the bout would unfold between two of their most promising peers.
"Let’s make this fun," Lorian said, spinning the practice sword in his hand with a playful flourish. "You know, for someone so intense, you’re weirdly easy to rile up. You’ll probably end up a grumpy old bachelor with nothing but your sword for company."
Illiad chuckled, shaking his head. "I’ll worry about that later. Right now, I’m focused on building the right team to reach the top. Partnerships can come afterward."
"A dream team, huh? Alright then," Lorian said, stepping into a ready stance. "Let’s see if you’ve got what it takes to lead."
The bout began with Lorian launching a rapid series of attacks. His strikes were swift and precise, aimed at exploiting openings in Illiad’s guard. Illiad, however, remained composed, his wooden sword meeting Lorian’s with solid, calculated blocks. Each clash echoed through the courtyard, drawing murmurs from the watching students.
"You’ve got a solid defense, I’ll give you that," Lorian said, his strikes coming faster. "But if you keep just blocking, you’ll lose eventually."
Illiad parried another strike and stepped back to create distance. "And if you keep attacking like that, you’ll burn out before I do."
Lorian laughed, clearly enjoying the exchange. "Fair point. But let’s see how you handle this!"
He feinted a strike toward Illiad’s chest, forcing him to raise his sword in defense. In a split second, Lorian shifted his stance, pivoting to deliver a blow aimed at Illiad’s blind spot. The spectators gasped, some already murmuring that Illiad wouldn’t recover in time.
But Illiad had been waiting for this. With a sharp pivot of his own, he intercepted the strike mid-swing and used the momentum to push Lorian off balance. Without missing a beat, Illiad stepped forward, forcing Lorian onto the defensive with a calculated series of strikes.
Lorian, now on the back foot, struggled to regain control. Each time he tried to counter, Illiad’s precise and measured attacks disrupted his rhythm. Finally, Lorian dropped his sword and raised his hands in mock surrender.
"Alright, alright, you win," he said, laughing as he stepped back. "You’re like a rock—impossible to shake."
The crowd clapped and cheered, impressed by the display of skill from both combatants.
Illiad extended a hand to Lorian, helping him up. "Perseverance is key," he said, quoting one of Renar’s teachings. "A calm and collected approach always yields better results."
Lorian grinned, dusting himself off. "Wise words, Mr. Serious. Next time, I’ll keep that in mind before I burn through all my energy trying to crack your defense."
The two walked off the sparring field together, the tension of the match replaced by camaraderie. Though they were rivals in training, a sense of mutual respect was starting to form.
**
A Tense Lunch Break
The midday break was supposed to be a time for respite, but at Falmuth Military Academy, even something as simple as lunch could carry undercurrents of tension. Illiad and Lorian, now accustomed to navigating the social minefield between commoners and nobles, entered the bustling cafeteria. The aroma of roasted meats and fresh bread filled the air, but so did the hum of conversations laced with judgment and disdain.
The nobles occupied the center of the cafeteria, their tables laden with the finest selections the Academy could offer. Dressed in well-tailored uniforms and exuding an air of entitlement, they lounged in groups, laughing and talking loudly, often at the expense of the commoners who scurried around the edges of the room.
Illiad and Lorian joined the short line at the serving counter, blending into the crowd as much as possible. But as always, it was difficult to go unnoticed. A group of nobles seated nearby had already turned their attention to the pair.
"Look at them," one sneered, his voice carrying just loud enough to be heard over the chatter. "These commoners strut around like they belong here. It’s pathetic."
"Pathetic indeed," another chimed in, smirking. "They should stick to mucking stalls or plowing fields, not pretending to be soldiers."
Lorian, standing beside Illiad, clenched his jaw but kept his eyes forward, resisting the urge to retort. Illiad gave him a sidelong glance, their silent understanding passing between them: Don’t take the bait.
The pair collected their food quickly—simple but filling portions of stew and bread—and made their way out of the cafeteria. They could still feel the nobles’ disdainful gazes burning into their backs as they exited.
“I swear, one day I’m going to shove their arrogance down their throats,” Lorian muttered under his breath once they were out of earshot.
Illiad chuckled softly. “And that day will come—just not today. Let them underestimate us. It works in our favor.”
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
They found refuge in the small courtyard behind the Academy, where a lone tree stood offering shade. The rustling leaves and chirping birds provided a welcome contrast to the cafeteria’s oppressive atmosphere. Sitting beneath the tree, they dug into their meals.
“Why did you join the Academy, Illiad?” Lorian asked after a moment of silence, his tone curious but casual.
Illiad paused, considering his answer carefully. “It’s always been my dream,” he replied simply, keeping his true motivations concealed.
Lorian tilted his head, clearly sensing there was more to the story but choosing not to press further. Instead, he smiled faintly and shrugged. “Well, my mom wanted me to join. She said it’d be good for the family.”
Illiad nodded, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that Lorian’s words carried a weight they weren’t ready to share. Deciding not to pry, he shifted the conversation. “What do you think of the training so far?”
“Challenging, but manageable,” Lorian replied, brightening. “Although sparring with you is like trying to break through a wall.”
Illiad smirked. “And fighting you is like trying to catch the wind. We balance each other out.”
Their conversation shifted to lighter topics as they finished their meals. The courtyard’s tranquility offered them a brief reprieve from the rigid hierarchy and daily struggles within the Academy.
As they headed back to their next class, Lorian cast a glance over his shoulder at the cafeteria. “They’ll keep pushing us, you know,” he said quietly.
“They will,” Illiad agreed, his voice steady. “But the more they push, the stronger we’ll become. Just watch—they’ll regret underestimating us.”
Lorian grinned, a flicker of mischief in his eyes. “I like the way you think.”
**
Lessons in Tactics
The sun dipped lower in the sky as the commoners’ class filed into the lecture hall, its high stone walls adorned with maps of historic battles and diagrams of military formations. Lieutenant Garven stood at the front, his posture rigid and commanding, his sharp eyes sweeping over the room as the students settled into their seats.
Garven was a seasoned officer, known for his no-nonsense approach to teaching. His lectures were as much about instilling discipline as they were about imparting knowledge. The session began with a map of the Valtheris borderlands projected onto the wall, the intricate lines of rivers, mountain ranges, and territories glowing in the dim light.
“Today, we’ll discuss defensive strategies in border conflicts,” Garven announced, his voice cutting through the room like the snap of a whip. “Pay attention, because one day, your ability to execute these tactics may be the difference between victory and annihilation.”
He began outlining the fundamentals of defensive warfare, from fortifying natural chokepoints to establishing supply lines. The students scribbled furiously, trying to keep up as he explained the significance of terrain, resource management, and morale.
“For example,” Garven said, tapping the map with a pointer, “if you’re defending a valley, you don’t spread your forces thin across the entire line. Concentrate them at strategic points—river crossings, mountain passes—where the enemy must funnel through. Make them fight on your terms, not theirs.”
As the lesson continued, Garven posed questions to the class, testing their understanding.
“If you have a smaller force defending a narrow pass against a larger army, what’s your best course of action?”
Several students hesitated, unsure how to answer. Illiad raised his hand.
“Focus on controlling the pass and creating bottlenecks,” he said confidently. “Use the terrain to limit how many enemy troops can engage at once, neutralizing their numerical advantage.”
Garven nodded approvingly. “Correct. A smaller force can hold a narrow pass far longer than open ground. But remember, bottlenecks work both ways—if you’re cut off, you have no retreat. Always plan for contingencies.”
Illiad's answer caught the attention of his peers, including Lorian, who sat nearby with a puzzled expression. While Illiad absorbed the lesson with ease, Lorian struggled to grasp the intricacies. His sharp instincts and agility served him well in combat, but theoretical strategy didn’t come as naturally.
During a brief break, Lorian leaned toward Illiad, his brow furrowed. “How do you make sense of all this? It’s like he’s speaking a different language.”
Illiad smirked. “It’s all about breaking it down into simpler pieces. Think of it like sparring—you don’t overwhelm your opponent with everything at once. You adapt step by step.”
When the lecture resumed, Garven introduced a hypothetical scenario: defending a village from a larger enemy force. The students were tasked with creating a plan using what they had just learned.
Illiad quickly sketched out a strategy on the parchment provided, mapping defensive positions around the village and identifying fallback points. Lorian, on the other hand, stared at his blank sheet, chewing the end of his pencil in frustration.
“Need help?” Illiad whispered.
Lorian sighed. “I get the whole defend-the-village thing, but all these details—supply lines, troop movements—it’s overwhelming.”
Illiad glanced at Lorian’s paper, then leaned in. “Start with the basics. Where would you position your archers?”
Lorian pointed to a ridge overlooking the village.
“Good,” Illiad said. “Now think about where the enemy is likely to attack. How would you funnel them into a trap?”
With Illiad’s guidance, Lorian began piecing together a plan. By the end of the exercise, he had a workable strategy, albeit rough around the edges.
When Garven reviewed the submissions, he paused at Lorian’s. “A solid effort,” he said. “Your positioning is sound, but your fallback plan is vague. Remember, every position you take must have an escape route.”
Lorian nodded, a mix of relief and determination on his face.
Garven moved on to Illiad’s plan and raised an eyebrow. “Impressive. Your defensive layers and use of terrain are well thought out. You’ve even accounted for contingencies. Where did you learn this level of strategy?”
“I enjoy studying,” Illiad replied simply, masking his knowledge from his previous life.
Garven studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Keep it up. With refinement, you could excel in this field.”
As the lesson concluded, Lorian nudged Illiad with a grin. “You’re secretly a tactician, aren’t you?”
Illiad chuckled. “Just paying attention, that’s all.”
Walking back to their dorms, Lorian was visibly energized. “Thanks for the help today. I’ll get the hang of it eventually.”
“You will,” Illiad said with a nod. “It’s not about getting it right the first time—it’s about improving every time.”
Though the day had been grueling, Illiad felt a sense of quiet satisfaction. Every lesson, every exercise brought him closer to his goal. And along the way, he was finding allies who, like Lorian, might one day be invaluable in his journey.
**
A Curious Refusal
After a long day of sparring, lessons, and strategy exercises, Illiad returned to the dormitory with Lorian in tow. The evening air carried the faint chill of autumn, the golden light of the setting sun filtering through the tall academy windows. Students bustled about in the corridors, chatting about the day’s events or preparing for the next.
Illiad tossed his bag onto his bunk and stretched, feeling the strain in his muscles from the intense sparring session. Turning to Lorian, who was quietly unpacking his things, Illiad said, “Let’s hit the showers. Feels like I’ve got half the training yard sticking to me.”
Lorian paused mid-motion, a faint flicker of hesitation crossing his face. “You go ahead. I’ll clean up later,” he replied with a casual shrug, not meeting Illiad’s gaze.
Illiad raised an eyebrow. “Later? By then, the showers will be freezing, and it’s always more crowded. Why wait?”
Lorian waved him off, feigning nonchalance. “I like the quiet. Besides, I don’t mind cold water—it’s refreshing.”
Illiad frowned slightly, sensing something amiss. In the academy, it was common for students to shower together in the communal bathhouses. It was practical and efficient, a routine that built camaraderie. Lorian’s reluctance struck him as odd, but he decided not to press the issue.
“Suit yourself,” Illiad said, grabbing his towel and heading out the door.
As he walked down the corridor toward the bathhouse, Illiad couldn’t help but reflect on the interaction. Lorian had always been friendly and open, quick to joke or banter, yet there was a guardedness in moments like this. Illiad had noticed it before—the way Lorian avoided physical contact, or how he changed the subject when certain personal topics came up.
“Everyone’s got their quirks,” Illiad muttered to himself, brushing the thought aside.
Back in the dormitory, Lorian let out a small sigh of relief once Illiad was gone. She leaned against her bunk, staring at the ceiling. Maintaining her disguise was becoming increasingly challenging. Sharing a dorm with boys, attending sparring sessions, and navigating the academy’s routines required constant vigilance.
“Just a few more months,” she whispered to herself. “Once we’re past the first semester, things will get easier.”
Her reason for pretending to be a boy weighed heavily on her mind. As the only child of her family, Lorian had no choice but to protect their dwindling fortune and fragile status. Her father, a disgraced minor noble, had long since lost his lands and influence, leaving her family with few options. The military academy was a lifeline—a chance to reclaim some semblance of honor and stability.
But the academy didn’t accept girls in the combat track, at least not openly. Noble families saw female soldiers as an anomaly, fit only for roles in logistics or medicine. Lorian’s mother, however, had taught her differently. “You’re just as capable as any boy,” she’d said. “Prove it, and carve out your own place in this world.”
Lorian smiled faintly at the memory. Her mother’s encouragement was her anchor, giving her the strength to endure the charade. Yet, as she grew closer to Illiad, she found it harder to maintain the distance her secret demanded.
Illiad returned a short while later, his hair damp and his expression refreshed. He gave Lorian a curious glance but said nothing, sensing the atmosphere had shifted slightly.
“Enjoy your cold, quiet shower later,” he teased lightly, breaking the tension.
Lorian chuckled, brushing off his concern. “Don’t worry, I’ll manage. Now get some rest—we’ve got another full day tomorrow.”
Illiad nodded, letting the subject drop. As he climbed into his bunk, he thought once more about Lorian’s curious refusal. Whatever the reason, he decided, it wasn’t his place to pry. Everyone carried their own burdens, and he had more than enough of his own to bear.
Across the room, Lorian pulled her blanket tight, her mind racing with thoughts of the future. Trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford—not yet. For now, her secret remained safe, and she vowed to keep it that way until the time was right.