The next day in Battle Formations class, War-tutor Carlyle starts lining people up in their preferred groups. Class hasn’t even started yet, and he’s stomping around like a lunatic.
His exaggerated walk never ceases to make me laugh. Internally, of course.
Boeru scoffs in my mind’s eye. “Has this jester ever even seen a battle?”
“Beats me. He sure knows enough about them though,” I say back, giving Jurso and Layla a fist bump at either of my sides as we get ready for whatever he throws at us. “Oh, and hey, about yesterday. Thanks for the privacy.”
“Mortals and their odd lickings.”
My face scrunches in disgust.
“Regardless, I cannot pin that one. There were various masked scents on our way toward her, then only one,” Boeru says.
“Perhaps the shadows we sensed were shades,” I suggest. “Maybe she’s in league with Tristian and some others we don’t know about.”
“To what end, mortal?”
“I’d ask her, but you know she’s a steel trap. And we’ll probably never see her again by the way she was acting.”
“Eyes up, mortal.”
My brow furrows when I look to my right. There, a set of bright emerald eyes and a petite frame struts through the doors, failing to blend with the other armored cadets at her side.
“You!” Carlyle stomps right up to her. “You’ve been absent since initiation. Foolish plebe. You’ll be stuck as a glass rank for the rest of your days with that attitude. In line! Move. Move. Move!”
I can’t help but smile as she makes her way in. Our kiss yesterday must’ve meant something to her… enough to make her stay.
“Just for that, Renesta Fowler, your group will be up first today. That will be punishment enough.” Carlyle shoves her my way, nearly bowling us over, but Jurso and I catch either of her arms.
“Good to see you,” Jurs says it for me. “Why the change of heart?”
I swallow past a lump in my throat, suddenly wondering what Layla might think if she knew about last night.
“My homesickness subsided a bit this morning,” she says, sending a brief glance my way.
“Time!” Carlyle shouts, then snaps his fingers for two of his armored assistants to shut the doors. “Since most of you have been studying diligently, today I have a special treat.” He presents a man with a red-and-black cowl over his face. “War-tutor Delectibon of the Sharp Wing graces us at my behest. An alt-magic conjurer contains non-elemental sorcery that can turn the tide of battle, if used appropriately, and will serve you this day. Haledyn Winbridge!”
Jitters vibrate through my legs as my name is called.
“Center stage with your marked! Wide rank!”
We fold into position like a living organism, with one delayed arm—Renesta. The rest of the students scatter to the ends of the auditorium.
I stand at the forefront with Layla and Renesta at either of my sides, Misty and Jurso further spread behind them and Rogo at the rear.
“Jurs, conjurers are like illusionists from what I remember in mythos,” I speak over my shoulder.
“Yeah, that sounds right. I think the good ones can throw some manifests in.”
“Speak plainly!” Rogo shouts from the back.
“Whatever this Delectibon throws at us can hurt.”
“Hell yeah! Bring it on.” Misty flexes.
“What have I been missing here?” Renesta draws her sword.
Carlyle stamps his foot and straightens like a military commander. “In the Battle of Tricktin Moor, a troop of eleven held against hundreds. Defensive magi left the sky littered with trip stars, preventing the enemy from sending riders in, and offensive wind magic deemed enemy archers useless. Ground versus ground. What do you do?”
Delectibon steps forward and raises his red-glowing hands, erasing the stone and banners of the massive auditorium and shifting it to a bolstering hot summer day with a skinny bridge forming in front of us. As our tutors and classmates fade away, they’re replaced by a screaming army draped in golden-lined black armor readying to march forward on the other end.
My breath hitches when endless depths span far below us. Memories of scaling the spire flood back into my mind, the heights. I’ve experienced this before.
A strong exhale stabilizes me when I want to run back.
“That’s a strong trick.” Renesta grimaces.
“What do we do, Dragonborn?” Rogo draws his axe.
My mind races. “Rogo and Renesta, switch.” I want my two bulkiest right behind me. I’m not sure whether these are just visions or what, but I’m going to treat it like they’re real, because they look real. “Jurso, nock!” I command, hearing the bowstring twang as he stretches an arrow back. “Loose!”
As the arrow soars, I watch carefully to analyze how serious this conjuring is.
Fsst!
It’s a good shot—the arrow sticks out of an enemy’s collar bone right between the armor slit, leaving the soldier to fall endlessly to his death.
“Did I just—?” Jurso’s voice quavers.
“It’s an illusion,” I call.
“Hell of a shot, Jurso!” Misty laughs.
“Back up, slow. There’s no reason for us to fight anywhere but the base of the bridge. Let them come to us.” I look over my shoulder, counting the steps. “Halt. Jurso, nock!”
I repeat the process, not to reduce their ranks, since there are so many, but to slow them. If we’re to actually win this exercise, we have to wipe rows of them in groups… with Boeru.
Flicking the ring on my finger, I’m ready to draw blood.
If they make it to the foot of the bridge, they would spread out and overwhelm us in seconds. We have to stop them at all costs.
The warring dark cycles through me, making me wonder if we’re actually in danger. “Renesta, once they’re close enough, they’ll charge. Can you put up a wall of shadows to block them?”
She runs her thumb nail across her scarred index finger, drawing blood. “I will try.”
Chrt! Chrt! Chrt! Armored boots clomp forward, the soldiers growing taller and taller the closer they come. Gods-damn conjurer is trying to strike fear, and it’s working.
We reach the foot of the bridge, and just as we do, the soldiers charge as I expect them to.
“Rogo, Lay, get ready. Once they crash into the shadows, you’re up. Quick bash and retreat. Do not fall.”
Grunts of acknowledgement come from my sides as I keep my gaze locked on the enemy. Giant spears, enchanted claymores, fiery high-magic mages. I don’t know how to defend against all that.
“That’s the point, mortal,” Boeru speaks calmly. “The tutor is preparing you for the chaos of battle. Swim in it.”
Goosebumps line my arms as they approach. “Renesta, now!”
Her hands shake in place as our own shadows warp forward, rising up as bulkier versions of ourselves that stand firm.
Soldiers crash hard into them, sending ranks barreling back—some of which are shoved off the sides to their deaths.
Renesta falls to her knee as the shadows break into sandy dust.
“Rogo, Lay. Go!”
They rush forward without a hitch, sprinting to ram the immense ranks.
Crrrsh!
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Layla’s shield slams into the startled soldiers as Rogo’s axe lops off a head—armored helm spinning off the ledge.
Their strength has grown in the time spent in Elshard. It’s obvious now more than ever.
“Back. Back!” I call as other enemy soldiers scramble to take a stab at the brutes.
A sword cuts Lay’s oblique. “Rrh!” She backhands a soldier with her shield, dazing him only for another to lunge with spear in hand.
Krrcht!
Rogo’s axe swings down, severing the ornate spear in two—magical whirs shrieking out of the enchanted steel—before he hooks Layla’s arm to help her back.
With one hand on Layla’s shoulder, I pull her behind me and launch myself onto the bridge. It’s time. One slice from Scorius’ ring releases the warring dark in the form of my dragon’s spirit, and we stare death in the face.
Never let the enemy recover.
Swords raise, spears reel back, and my dragon roars.
His maw and wing manifest at my command, and as I swing, he swings.
Soldiers shift their weapons to Boeru’s mighty claw, but they’re too late.
Woosh!
Bodies fly far off the bridge, some even hitting the side of the canyon before tumbling to their endless deaths. The next row stabs and hurls magic, but I close my eyes—willing the warring dark to me for an instant—diluting Boeru’s form so the weaponry and magic stab nothing but mist—then let it rush back again in the form of his right claw swiping the next row off the bridge.
A feral fury burns hot in me. The dragon and I are one.
Blue fire manifests around Boeru’s mouth, but as he tests the limits, strain aches my heart.
Too much.
I pull Boeru back, his form fading to mist as the warring dark cycles my forearms and slows once more.
Enemy ranks are a mess from Boeru’s mighty swipes, but the rows behind are eager to impale us.
Woosh!
A spear flies by my head and thunks off of Layla’s shield.
Shit… that would’ve killed me.
Carlyle isn’t messing around.
People fucking die in these classes.
I’m sobered as Misty steps in front of me, dystone steel shortswords drawn and ready. I’m about to call her back, but my eyes widen when Jurso steps behind her—one hand to his chest glowing with a faint white outline.
He’s activating blissful light…
“C’mon, Misty. Like Tutor Akon taught us,” Jurso says through a cough.
She rushes in, three heads shorter than every manifested soldier, Rogo and Layla leaping at her back.
“Protect the dragonborn while he recovers!” Layla shouts.
Misty ducks a sword slash and responds with a quick stab into a soldier’s ribs, piercing the plate. She leaves the blade and rolls to the edge of the bridge to slice at another soldier’s ankle. Shnnk! His leg buckles, causing another row to stumble as she backflips high over Rogoshel, making way for his axe.
I’m in awe of her training. She’s all physical—like Lay—only faster.
“C’mon, Boeru. I need another claw.”
He huffs at me. “You must beg yourself for the strength! I… am ready!”
Ffff!
A fireball ripples into Rogo’s chest, making him stumble to the end of the bridge.
Layla dashes to grab his arm.
Misty twists back in to get her last licks.
Ssst! Ssst!
She spins without regard for the heights, dodging and slashing simultaneously… until—sllt!
A spear pierces her belly, making her whole body stiffen.
“No!” Jurso’s hand shivers with a white glow, his blissful powers on overdrive to counteract the mortal wound from fifteen feet away. The stream gyrates to reach her. “Misty!”
Renesta smoothly lifts her arms, summoning Misty’s shadow from the ground to dislodge the spear and tackle the incoming soldier.
“Back!” I yell, getting to my feet. “Back!” Releasing the warring dark from my pores summons Boeru in full. The manifestation is so powerful, his claws crush the masonry underfoot while his massive wing cradles Misty to safety. Blood splashes everywhere as she’s whipped closer to Jurso so he can work to heal her.
There’s so much potential in my marked. When under duress, they exude valor of mythos. This is my team. My fucking team.
I draw my chained dagger as Boeru swipes another row off the bridge. Whipping the warring dark back to me, I let my dagger fly right into the slit of a soldier’s helm. I yank him down with strength I didn’t know I possessed, then push Boeru back into full manifestation. Exhaustion fights adrenaline. And no matter how many soldiers we thwart, more come.
“Hale!” Jurso calls. “The gloveless ones making way to the front—”
I see them. They have long cloaks with white trim instead of gold.
Before I can react… before Jurso gets the words out, their bare hands lift, and blinding blissful light shoves the warring dark back at me. The entire weight of Boeru slams into my chest as I’m shoved tumbling past my entire team.
My chest caves with weakness. The sky and ground warble in my vision, and a mouthful of gravel stains my teeth.
Cheers of the enemy echo in my aching head.
Boots stomping forward strikes a chord of fear into my numb spine. As I get to my elbows, I see it through double vision—my team backpedaling with weapons drawn as hundreds rush to end us.
“Time!” Carlyle’s voice blares, and reality rips away like torn parchment. In a few blinks, we’re all back in the auditorium. “One hundred seventeen seconds. Better than any other first goers in the past five years.”
I can hardly process what’s happening with my heart struggling to stay in its cage. That hit hurt like hell. Not just physically, it’s as if my warring dark was poisoned. Wonder if Boeru is hurt—
“I’m fine, mortal. I’ve suffered more years of torment than you can fathom. Worry about yourself. And your marked.”
He’s right.
Trying to focus proves difficult.
Layla’s holding her side, but she’s okay. Good.
Jurso is somehow tethered to Misty, and has somewhat healed a pretty gnarly wound in her abdomen. Now he’s a coughing mess though.
Renesta’s trembling on her knees. To my surprise, Rogoshel has a protective arm on her shoulder while still holding his axe outward toward the tutors.
Tutor Delectibon lowers his red-glowing hands, telling us for sure the conjuring has ceased.
“Stand down,” Carlyle commands as he marches over to us.
“You tried to fucking kill us!” Rogo roars back. “You’re just a glorified Sept.” He spits on the floor.
Well, his tone certainly changed from sub-tier. Is he in danger of becoming a decent man?
“Save that anger for the war-tier, young brute.” Carlyle smirks.
As I struggle to my feet, applause slowly starts in the stunned cadet audience. They were able to see all that from the background?
Carlyle tries to speak, but the applause grows louder. He snaps his fingers for two robed assistants to come scrambling over.
One rushes straight to Layla, and the other to Misty. As two fingers light up to press against Lay’s oblique, she slaps them away.
I laugh at that, which turns into a painful cough. Can’t help myself. She’s actually listening to what my Prominent said about avoiding healing when possible. Is she trying to evoke the warring dark? It’s painful to watch, considering she’s barren. Her soft blue eyes connect with mine, sending a wave of guilt flooding in again.
She cares so much about only me. What would she think if she knew…
When the coast is clear, my gaze shifts to Renesta. I convinced her to join this madness today. Now she’s going into some kind of magical shock.
As the applause dies down and Carlyle is satisfied that our wounds are treated, he straightens. “Now you know what it’s like to stand side by side with your comrades against insurmountable odds.” He paces around us, scanning us as well as the class. “The pain. The fear. The adrenaline. I’ll bet in that moment, you felt you could crush a wyvern’s neck with your bare hands.”
Layla squares her shoulders at that comment. You did feel that, didn’t you, Lay?
Because I felt it too.
“Let me back in there.” Misty limps to her sword in the middle of the auditorium—the one she left in a manifested soldier—and punches her own chest. “Ready for round two.”
The crowd loves her, as do I.
“You are in the wrong house, I’m afraid.” Carlyle laughs. “Rhylock was foolish to ever let you go.”
I limp over to Renesta to make sure she’s stable. Layla doesn’t like that I moved to her first… but it is what it is. Everyone else is standing and seems fine.
Moving to Lay, I ensure she’s fine. Onto Jurs next, I put a hand on his back. “You pulled the bliss.”
“I know. Felt good, Hale. Really good.” His eyes remain dilated. “Might need an aura to recover though.”
My eyes narrow. Something seems off about him, but I let it go for now as Lay joins us.
“Good work on the bridge.” I slap her shoulder.
“Me? You summoned a fucking dragon.”
“And you protected me without one,” I retort. “If we could all have your courage.”
“That one sure does.” She nods at Misty.
Carlyle clears his throat, and we all shut up. “Now, it’s time for your grading. Time duration withstood… high mark! Battle rank formation… medium mark. Battle rank shift… high mark! Units incapacitated… fifty-three. One merit awarded! Assistant Marlo, let this advancement be etched into their glass-rank enchantment.”
We’re all fist-bumping one another as the mage works to memorialize the merits into our enchantments—bringing them to momentary life on our arms. As the sharp glass symbol glows iridescent, a tally is painlessly tattooed directly under it. We’ve been told each tutor only has a limited number of merits to dispatch each semester, so this feels earned in the best way.
“There are disadvantages to going first. You have no idea what’s coming and little way to prepare. But there is a rawness to it that this group of marked exuded. For the rest of you, there are no excuses now. Let the fear of anticipation flow through your veins… for you’re all soon next. Now fall in line.”
As we lick our wounds, we get to experience what it’s like to witness conjuring alt-magic in a controlled environment. A new veil pulls over our eyes—a high mountain peak and a summit of smoking beacons all around the next group. We’re able to see our fellow non-participating cadets lined up at our sides on a floating ring of stone outside of battle range, while the group fighting scrambles to deal with the summoned threat.
The might of a gryphon fleet pulled straight out of old mythos makes my chest go weak as they descend with lightning-infused hammers on unsuspecting glass ranks. At least, I think they’re unsuspecting. Turns out Carlyle knows what he’s doing—testing each group by evoking their talents.
I notice a sheet of parchment in his hand that he’s studying while dictating scenarios to Tutor Delectibon.
“Huddle rank!” Mishcen, the high-magic user who told me about Scorius, forms an aquatic bubble over his group that absorbs bolts of lightning. Ripples poke endlessly around the barrier as the gryphon force whooshes by, pulling up for a second round.
“Break!” Mishcen calls, then disbands his shield into smaller handheld spheres of electrified water that he tosses to float in his friend Jacob’s hand.
Damn. For a jokester, he’s capable as hell.
“He is talented with high magic. Perhaps he can prove a useful ally in the war to come.” Boeru is getting into it too.
We watch carefully as the gryphons round from the west, preparing to descend again. All of us root for Mishcen’s ten-person squad as Jacob uses wind magic to hurl the water spheres in a flashy show.
Two gryphon riders are torn from the sky, pulsing electricity writhing through their bodies as they fall into the clouds.
“Woo!” Misty cheers, as do others in the audience.
“Hull rank!” Mishcen calls nervously. “Hull rank!”
The group drops to their bellies once Mishcen realizes the gryphon riders aren’t summoning enchanted lightning from their hammers again. Instead, they literally throw the hammers in perfect lines once level with the group.
As one woman drops to the floor, her face catching the flat of a rider’s hammer, and she is hurled off the mountaintop.
It happens so fast, no one reacts.
Blood drains from my face like I was stabbed all over again in the Sept. I stand on my tiptoes to see her body tumbling down in the air and suddenly fear the heights as real.
“Holy shit!” Jurso grabs his hair.
The conjuring snaps away suddenly, and two assistants rush toward the woman screaming in terrible pain. Her body flails and spins on the floor. She’s seeing something we aren’t. And before the assistants can get to her… her heart stops.
The entire classroom falls silent.
Not a sound, except for one assistant pumping down on the woman’s chest while the other ushers in blissful light. Her face is frozen in shock—eyes and mouth wide open. It’s a horrible sight.
And it’s in that moment we’re soberly reminded—this sanctum deals in death.
