IN THE PRESENT

Time blurs between dry lessons on Might, learning the details of Dorne’s personal life, and adapting to an entirely different style of fighting.

Today is just another day of getting the shit kicked out of me. So it’s no surprise that I find myself back in the training room on the accursed mat with this cursed IR-blade in my hand.

“Again!” Killian barks as his blade bites into the skin of my forearm, leaving a nasty burn. We have been slowly lowering the safety levels of the weapons since duels are fought with the blades all the way to lethal for, as Killian puts it, ‘a feeling of authenticity'.

I want to grumble something about how hard it is to concentrate on fighting when he is grilling me with questions about Might branch operations but I know it won’t do anything other than make him into even more of a hardass.

I roll my shoulders and reassume the starting stance, my blade out in front of me, glowing red with an angry intensity that matches my own flushed cheeks.

“Second-class officers issue information out to the third class to relay to troops. Second and first officers never interact directly with troops or cadets except in cases of emergency or off-duty interactions, such as being directed to a location or in mess halls, but this is generally seen as going below station.”

I manage to get it all out this time as I block a fury of blows. Sweat drips into my eyes but I don’t dare wipe it away. I’m afraid to even blink.

“You sound like a robot.” he chides as his blade slams down into mine, forcing me to step back or risk burning myself.

“First class officers,” I continue, the blow ringing through my arm, “are recognized by their solid collars of gold, silver, or bronze. Second class officers have two stripes and third class has one.”

His only acknowledgment is a grunt before he continues, “Information relaying during interrogation?” He sidesteps and swipes at my side. I twist around, sliding back and down, pivoting on my knee before jumping up to his right and lunging for his unprotected back.

Without looking, he parries the shot and returns with one of his own. This time I am not so lucky and his blade bites into my skin again, leaving a long line of angry flesh across my stomach. My shirt splits along the line, leaving a gaping hole.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

He assumes the starting stance, his eyes not leaving mine. I know he is waiting for my answer.

I take a deep breath, trying to ignore to searing pain that shoots up my chest as I twist back into starting position.

“When the interrogation is held by the Might against a soldier or officer, all pertinent information is relayed regardless of situation or treatment. A Might officer does not fear pain and will not give in just to make the pain end. They will relay the truth, always. Loyalty must come before all else. It is the soldier's fault for being in such a situation.”

Killian nods, both in agreement, and to tell me to advance on him again.

“And when interrogation is done by someone outside of the Might?”

“Nothing. We do not bend or break. We die before we scream because we are already dead.” Even as I say the words, they are impossible for me to accept. Might soldiers swear an oath before graduating from cadet training. They swear that their lives are already forfeit, they are already dead, and thus do not fear death nor pain. The worst thing that can happen to a Might soldier is to be released from duty dishonorably.

My blade drives forward to meet Killian’s but at the last second, he drops his. My mind reels as I try to stop the swing. I turn to the side, my sword swinging frantically to the right. The hilt slips from my grasp and the blade clatters to the ground, shutting off.

“Why didn’t you strike?”

I look up at him, breathless, my eyes wide at the ridiculous question.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I would have killed you!” I throw my hands up. “Why would you do that?”

“You cannot hesitate. You cannot give quarter.” He grabs my wrist and pulls me to him. Our bodies don’t touch but I can feel the heat radiating off of him. It takes every ounce of strength I have left not to look away from his piercing gaze.

“We are of the Might. We are already dead.”

I tuck my lower lip in, biting it to keep myself from yelling. When I trust myself to stay calm, I say as evenly as possible, “You can’t really believe that. Where is the value in such a brainwashed self-sacrifice?”

With his other hand, Killian reaches up and brushes the hair that has fallen out of my bun behind my ear. His voice is quiet but hard, “You will die if you do not conform. You are not Zoriane. Zoriane died on the day of her execution. Embrace that death and live as a shade of what Dorne could have been.”

I search his eyes for a hint of anything to tell me that he isn’t serious but I find none. “What if I can’t do that?”

He releases my wrist and takes a step back, tucking his IR-blade into its holster. “Then, I can’t help you, let alone save you.”

He turns on his heel and leaves without looking back. I stand watching him go, my sword still discarded on the mat.

Can I really let go of myself, of my desire to find my brother, of my want to continue my uncle’s work, or of my need to avenge my parents?

But I know the answer already. To do what needs to be done I need to abandon all of that. I need to be the soldier I am expected to be or else I will not survive and neither will the people depending on me.