Professor Vellitt Boe teaches at the prestigious Ulthar Women’s College. When one of her most gifted students elopes with a dreamer from the waking world, Vellitt must retrieve her.
WIP - Opening to Chapter 2 of Scramble for Five! What do you guys think of it, so far?
The sun is still barely just up over the horizon as I set out for the first class of my day: Identification of Distinct Aerial Gases. A core part of advanced Aeromancy.
The Academy pathways are still sparsely populated at this time, filled mainly with students heading off to similarly advanced classes as mine. Only the Great Spirits know why the Academy shoves the most difficult classes right at the crack of sunrise… It's a peaceful, quiet time regardless. Clear droplets of morning dew glint on the flowering bushes lining the way, and the tall lindens provide a steady, cool shade from overhead.
As with most of the other main 'elements', Aeromancy gets its own dedicated section of the Academy. There's a wide-open practice yard as needed for certain outdoor classes, and a spacious set of buildings surrounding it filled with classrooms and arcanums, the latter replete with all sorts of arcane tools, supplies and facilities needed to practice Aeromancy. I haven't been inside those arcanums very often yet, but today will be an exception.
I knock at the door of Arcanum 0-3-2, and it promptly slides open as I step in. "Good morning!" I call out as is standard, and am received with a similar murmured reply by the master and the few students who have already arrived. I'm early here.
The master who teaches this class is called Bianca Streijer, a thin and bird-like woman who eerily matches what someone might imagine an Aeromancer to resemble. Rather than use her real name though, we've nicknamed her —with her full, enthusiastic encouragement— 'Mrs. Nitrogen'. For whatever reason, she loves to harp on and on about the gas that actually makes up most of our atmosphere, thus the nickname.
Deon explains the different grades of mana to a younger cousin - Under the Shade
"You see, Hans," Deon raises one finger. "This mana floating around here, the one we readily absorb and use? That's good mana, high quality. That's the pure, undistilled form of it. We are basically free to make use of it as we like, because the only side effects really are a slight, very slight heating-up of the body, which won't be an issue unless you have a terrible fever. But you really should not be casting with a fever, so moving on…" He raises a second finger. "Next grade is the mana stored in gems. Now, those aren't bad, exactly, but they are… a bit less efficient than their fresh counterparts emitted by all these trees. You'll notice that the mana from those gemstores feel more stagnant than what we naturally have. There's not much else to say about them, you'll have to find out yourself what exactly it feels like."
"What about reused mana?" Hans pipes up.
Deon coughs.
"Reused mana is… Well, you shouldn't reuse mana," he puts it carefully. "Reused mana feels very contaminated. Very stagnated. It's stuff that has already been put into a spell and bled out, the waste product that the mage simply couldn't keep in as they cast. You could reuse it, but you really shouldn't. Taking that mana feels absolutely horrid, and I say that as someone who has actually done it before. It feels disgusting to even touch. And it's terrible to work with too. Like trying to use wet mud in place of marble. It's like-"
Steyer's little 'chat' with Anton - Second draft of a possible opening chapter for Under the Shade.
Word Count: 2.5k
So, I removed the pointless, jarring fight scene from the first version and instead put in a more natural continuation of Steyer's conversation with Anton. Rather than pitting him in a fight against someone (When everyone knows and has seen how Anton fights), he simply talks and hints a bit about what Anton has to do. A much more interesting version this time around, imo!
Would really appreciate if someone read this 🙏🥺
My thoughts are interrupted soon enough when —quicker than usual— I am called inside. That door opens to reveal a well-built man in the immaculate blue uniform of an officer, who looks at me like he knows what I'm thinking and beckons. “Academ Anton. Come.”
I recognize him from my previous times here. Oberleutnant Breise. He has a spiralled pattern on his pauldron, indicating him as a Psyker. He does know what I'm thinking. Forcing down the inevitable surge of annoyance at having to do so, I carefully cut off unwanted, unrelated thoughts and follow him inside. The door closes of its own accord when I'm inside, and I'm once again inside my place of ‘friendly’ interrogation.
“Good afternoon, Anton.” The tone is polite, affable even, coming out of the blonde-haired man sitting at the head table in front. He looks up and leans back, revealing a clean-shaven face almost completely smooth, except for the scar tracing from his forehead down to his cheek. Could heal it easily any time, but it is an affectation he deliberately kept for aesthetics.
“Good afternoon, Hauptmann Steyer.” I salute him with the rigidity expected of a star pupil, then take a step forward and sit in the chair opposite from him. I don't need to be told to sit, my fifth time here.
Breise, Steyer’s adjutant stands somewhat off to the side, his piercing gaze constantly on me. He makes no effort to soften it, or to make it less blatantly obvious that he's there to check if I lie. I try to ignore him.
“A moment, please.” Steyer continues working on some bit of paperwork, forehead creased in intense focus. It's a communique, I think? I don't let my curiosity make me peek at what it is. Breise will know.
Once Steyer is done, he stamps his initials into the bottom, folds the letter carefully with slender, practiced hands, slips it inside an envelope, then seals it with blue wax. Waving it at another adjutant opposite from Breise, he remarks when he takes it: “Have this read by Headmaster Vollen tonight, please.”
The adjutant, whose name I don't know, briskly nods. After checking and likely Psychically locking the seal himself, he strides out of the room, envelope in hand.
Steyer catches my curious look as he turns back to me. “Ah, that's nothing to do with you.” He does a dismissive wave. “Just something with the Academy's guard patrols.”
I politely smile. Of course, being the nearest compound and barracks of the Army to the Academy, this is where most of the Royal Guardsmen rotate in from for the Academy's protection. Steyer is responsible for those as his chief responsibility. I'm just a special, extra duty he has on himself, considering who I am.
“What is the issue with the guard patrols, sire?” I chance the question. Perhaps it may be taken as prying a bit too much, but I study at the place. It's arguably my business, even if I'm not an Army officer.
“Oh, there is no issue per se.” He smiles. “I just need the patrols increased, what with the increasing violence in Allarholde and all. Always better safe than sorry, especially with our beloved Academs, hm?”
I nod in agreement, and not completely false agreement either, because it really feels like attacks and fights have been becoming far too common in the capital. Just yesterday night, I had glimpsed a literal gang war in an alleyway while out on an errand to fetch some arcano-ink supplies. It hadn't been particularly close to the Academy, thankfully, but still…
“Damn Liliers and Aracians, always starting race wars.” Steyer mutters. He seems to remember I'm here, and perks up. His blue eyes study me with interest “Ah yes, where were we? About to get into your progress, no? How do your studies go?”
“Well enough.” I say breezily. Taking out the second object I hold in my hands —a file containing my last Quirium’s scores, compared to my most current ones—, I slide it over to Steyer, who takes it. “The masters say I have issues with spell control and biomagic, but otherwise, I think I can outcompete the other top students at the Academy.”
Steyer’s eyes rove over the file’s pages quite quickly. “Very good.” He says approvingly. “Everything is exemplary for your time at the Academy so far, except…” He frowns. “As you mentioned, spell control and biomagic. But we will return to that later. Let’s start on something else; how have you been keeping up with your physical conditioning?”
I blink. Out of all the things to talk about with my academic progression, physical conditioning is arguably the least relevant of all. Along with my spellpower. Fortunately, or unfortunately —depending on how you see it— no one at the Academy, not even the senior students outmatch me on those. I have blown well past the records set by every single student and alumni, including the Valorians, and that is why the Army feels so confident that I will achieve Valorian.
“I haven’t…” I lick my lips. My eyes almost flick to Breise in his corner. Almost. “I haven’t been doing dedicated exercise much… But most days there’s practical classes, sir. Quite a lot of exertion, I’d say. Some days, I’m even winded when I’m done with it all.” I manage a smile at Steyer.
He nods. “You must be quite busy with classes to do much else. But,” He adds, when I have just begun to relax. “I need to know your daily schedule to make a more informed judgment.” He sees my bewildered expression, and clarifies. “We can make suggestions to help you fit in more… practice in your days. To use your time more efficiently.”
My mouth tastes sour. It’s been just about half an year since I entered the Academy, and I am already being driven to hell and back with their absurdly hectic schedule. It is not entirely their fault; most students stick to a mix of subjects that fit them perfectly fine for the specialization in life they are aiming for. Not me, though. I am being forced to master —not just familiarize— nearly every single element conceivable under arcane knowledge. And then I have to deal with the humanities on top of it; the history, law, economics, etc of Halmland and the world beyond.
In short, I’m expected to be an 18 yr old polymath, and the Army is entirely happy with that. At least, as long as I apparently keep doing their training in my near-nonexistent free time, too. Because after I’m done with being their young little polymath, I must then become their grandest, newest archmage, too.
Steyer sees my expression, and probably knows what I’m thinking from his likely mental connection to Breise. He puts on a conciliatory smile and spreads his hands. “I don’t mean hours of gruelling stress, my boy. Just a little piece of time set out every now and then, perhaps an hour or half each day, where you can forget all the stresses of the mind and maintain your body. It’ll be surprisingly refreshing, I promise. And as we know, the Academy becomes much more physically demanding starting from the second Quirium. Much more.”
His ability to reframe things is genuinely impressive, but he is not wrong about the second Quirium. Done at the end of each academic trimester, the Quiriums are the largest, and most public tests of arcane merit and ability the Academs can display. It is based on those, in full view of spectators from the royal government, army, industrialists, clergy, scholars, academics, etc, that our scores, and thus rankings are determined. And those rankings will sort us into Valorian and Savorian. 1st to 5th as Valorians, then 6th to 15th as Savorians. If even a regular, barely-passing student of the Academy has their life set out for them, the top-rankers get absurdly more power to determine their future. Valorians may ask favors of the King himself, and have those granted. Whatever their dream profession or road in life may be, there will be no more obstacles to block it.
If I want to live an ordinary life like so many other Halms, maybe experience a taste of the freedom and prosperity that people like me dedicate our lives to defending, then I must achieve Valorian. The Army thinks I will pick a high rank with them, in an elite unit like the 1st Royal Guards Division or the 8th Rifles, and they are not even wrong. Come the time for my service, I will ask to be put with the 4th Mountain Division from my home region, a precarious borderland. A perfectly respectable, historied unit and one where no one can say I will grow fat and lazy in the cities.
But I will not spend my life there, and I will make sure my discharge will be in line with that of most Halms; a few years, and then back into civilian life.
I keep all thoughts of discharge well away from my mind, though, and simply think of the 4th Mountaineers as I look at Steyer and nod. “You are right, sir. I will try my best to stay in good condition for the Quirium.”
Steyer shifts in his chair. “That’s good to hear, Anton. Whatever needed to bring honor to the Army; and yourself, of course.” He considers me. “I believe you are well and far ahead of most of your peers at the Academy, by this point. There are some holes, bottlenecks you need to plug, but as we all know… you are a fast learner, so I believe that won’t be an issue by the time the Quirium comes around. We can talk about your spell control later on, perhaps give you some exercises to practice it, but first, before that…”
I can see there’s something he wants to say, but is contemplating how to. I pre-empt him and ask: “What is it, sir?”
He clears his throat. Then leans in. "Now, as you and I are both aware… There is a reason for your being at the Academy, yes?" he taps the table methodically. "Your task to…"
"I am aware."
Steyer nods. "Good, good. So, if I might ask: How has your progress been with that?"
I take a deep breath. "It's just been half an year." It comes out a bit ruder than I intended. "I don't have the level of access to the Volispire's facilities to glean what the Army needs yet. When I become Valorian though…"
The Volispire is the Royal Academy's highest, most prestigious tower. Where they keep their most jealously guarded secrets, the kind of research that just not any student may be allowed to touch. Only the topmost ones —the trusted ones at that— will even occasionally be allowed in.
It's a good thing for my sake, that thoughts of the Volispire slip my head most of the time. Otherwise, I think the Academy's Psykers would have found out already by now, of the real reason the Army let me in here.
And if they do, I'm never going to fulfill what they expect me to do.
"When you become Valorian," he agrees. "But there are still things you can do beforehand. Build the foundation."
I nod. There are many different pathways and vocations one can learn at the Academy. Artifice, animal-rearing, potion-making, advanced spellscribing, archaeology… the possibilities are endless.
In my case, though, I chose the formermost. Artifice, the one that would need use of the facilities at the Volispire the most if- no, when I eventually move onto more advanced artefacts.
"Have you been told what exactly you are to find, Anton?" Steyer asks suddenly.
I frown and mull over the question. No, I hadn't really been told what exactly it is that they want discovered in the Volispire. Some hints here and there, a few implications of what it might be. Some sort of wickedly complex, yet capable artefact or a set of them, for sure. But for what purpose?
The only other things I'm fairly sure about, are that those things were acquired by the Academy mostly from their archaeological digs. Buried labyrinths, mazes, dungeons, caves from primordial times, containing hitherto unknown sorts of items. The Academy masters certainly would want to make great study of those, especially given the sheer prestige they'd earn from doing so. And in the academic world of Halmland, or pretty much anywhere round the continent, prestige is one of the most useful currencies.
What I'm not sure about is why the Army is so curious about them. The things I've heard imply they aren't weapons, exactly, but still… That just makes it even more confusing. Why butt into the business of academicians when your job is to deal with the enormous threats outside of Halmland?
For obvious reasons, I don't voice these thoughts out loud, or even think about them as I sit there with Breise's steady, watchful gaze on me. "No, sir. I was not really told what to find at the Volispire. Only that…" I hesitate. "I would know when I did."
Steyer sighs and nods. "That you will," he promises. "And we will tell you more about what we need later on. For now, though…" he smiles. "Just focus on your studies, hear?"
"Of course, sir." I wait for Steyer to say anything more. When he doesn't, I ask again. "So would that be all?"
To my surprise, Steyer affirms it. "Yes, that'll be all." I give him a confused look, unsure. Normally, our monthly check-ins have involved some detailed dives into my scores and each little and how I can improve them. Mind-numbing affairs, they are, but admittedly, they sometimes help, even if they are somewhat more regimented, military approaches to things than that of the Academy.
He sees my face and waves me off. "No need to go further into that, Anton. We have already gone over these things quite a lot and you must surely be tired of this. Your masters have briefed me on them, so I think I can safely say you are making excellent progress."
With a not-entirely-fake smile and a nod, I get up, snap him and Breise a salute, and make my way to the door, hiding the relief from my quick dismissal. Instead, my thoughts are a messy blend of all my different subjects and pending projects, the conversation we just had, and the Volispire.
When I am turning the door handle, Steyer calls out. "Just keep your thoughts on the Quirium ahead, boy. Keep your thoughts on it, and win."
I nod again to show I understand, and then I am out of that ominous office room. The windows of the waiting room show a still-setting sun, a sliver of sky still red and orange from where it's sinking into the horizon. My 'chat' with Steyer was far shorter than normal.
Scramble for Five - Under the Shade - Ch1: A Visit to the Attache
Invisible, non-existent barbs prick against my skin as I gaze up at the Sedernitz Holestein Barracks. A building so big it could only be described as an estate, windowed in the dozens and covered in brown marble facade that wouldn't look out of place in Allarholde’s city center. At this time of the late afternoon, the streets of this little gated-off Halmish Army compound are relatively empty, save for the scant few guards in bluish-gray making their rounds, rifle slung over shoulders and heads craning out to observe their surroundings ever-vigilantly.
This place is where I am made to come, each and every month, to report on my progress. The office of the Army's attache to the Academy makes their home in this building, and they have always shown a keen interest in me, particularly. The prodigal son, metaphorically, of the Halmish Army’s orphanage system. Greatest Lassant to have been born in decades, supposedly.
Right now, I don’t feel like that, at all.
I steel my nerves as I walk up to the oaken door and give it four sharp, evenly-spaced knocks —the way I had been taught to always do. A little moment passes, and the little slit in front slides open, revealing blue eyes turned almost purple in the reddish light of the waning sun. “Your business?”
I clear my throat and flash my access seal, a small steel tablet encrusted with gemstones in front of the man’s eyes. “Anton Strassel, reporting for his monthly check-in.” I say with some forced formality, almost too tired from today’s rigorous practice at the Academy to maintain the facade properly.
The moment the word ‘Anton’ comes out, the guard’s eyes immediately light up in recognition, and the door is already opening by the time I finish my sentence. A young face, though older than mine stands behind it and I’m beckoned inside with a measure of respect I find equal parts irritating and baffling. “Please wait upstairs.” He tells me, as if I need to know after four times already here. I give a smile and a nod, and climb the marble staircase.
The waiting room before the Attache’s office is exactly as I remember it; elegant, yet ominous in a positive sort of way. Lamps set into the walls spill a soft, warm glow into the room, and the couch is plush and well-proportioned enough to recline into with ease. There are enough intricate trimmings, paintings, pictograms and trophies and banners and insignias of the Halmish Army hung up on the walls and set on tables to fill my idle thoughts as I wait the few minutes for the man beyond the doorway to call me in.
The slight chill of late afternoon is gone inside, replaced by a pleasant warmth undoubtedly regulated by a heating spell flowing throughout the building. Utterly regular thing, I should think, but I had been shocked enough times upon visiting poorer tenements and slums of Lilier and Aracian refugees, by just how cold they were at sundown and winter. Even the Army orphanage in remote Miriel didn't suffer from such indignities.
My thoughts are interrupted soon enough when —quicker than usual— I am called inside. That door opens to reveal a well-built man in the immaculate blue uniform of an officer, who looks at me like he knows what I'm thinking and beckons. “Academ Anton. Come.”
I recognize him from my previous times here. Oberleutnant Breise. He has a spiralled pattern on his pauldron, indicating him as a Psyker. He does know what I'm thinking. Forcing down the inevitable surge of annoyance at having to do so, I carefully cut off unwanted, unrelated thoughts and follow him inside. The door closes of its own accord when I'm inside, and I'm once again inside my place of ‘friendly’ interrogation.
“Good afternoon, Anton.” The tone is polite, affable even, coming out of the blonde-haired man sitting at the head table in front. He looks up and leans back, revealing a clean-shaven face almost completely smooth, except for the scar tracing from his forehead down to his cheek. Could heal it easily any time, but it is an affectation he deliberately kept for aesthetics.
“Good afternoon, Hauptmann Steyer.” I salute him with the rigidity expected of a star pupil, then take a step forward and sit in the chair opposite from him. I don't need to be told to sit, my fifth time here.
Breise, Steyer’s adjutant stands somewhat off to the side, his piercing gaze constantly on me. He makes no effort to soften it, or to make it less blatantly obvious that he's there to check if I lie. I try to ignore him.
“A moment, please.” Steyer continues working on some bit of paperwork, forehead creased in intense focus. It's a communique, I think? I don't let my curiosity make me peek at what it is. Breise will know.
Once Steyer is done, he stamps his initials into the bottom, folds the letter carefully with slender, practiced hands, slips it inside an envelope, then seals it with blue wax. Waving it at another adjutant opposite from Breise, he remarks when he takes it: “Have this read by Headmaster Vollen tonight, please.”
The adjutant, whose name I don't know, briskly nods. After checking and likely Psychically locking the seal himself, he strides out of the room, envelope in hand.
Steyer catches my curious look as he turns back to me. “Ah, that's nothing to do with you.” He does a dismissive wave. “Just something with the Academy's guard patrols.”
I politely smile. Of course, being the nearest compound and barracks of the Army to the Academy, this is where most of the Royal Guardsmen rotate in from for the Academy's protection. Steyer is responsible for those as his chief responsibility. I'm just a special, extra duty he has on himself, considering who I am.
“What is the issue with the guard patrols, sire?” I chance the question. Perhaps it may be taken as prying a bit too much, but I study at the place. It's arguably my business, even if I'm not an Army officer.
“Oh, there is no issue per se.” He smiles. “I just need the patrols increased, what with the increasing violence in Allarholde and all. Always better safe than sorry, especially with our beloved Academs, hm?”
I nod in agreement, and not completely false agreement either, because it really feels like attacks and fights have been becoming far too common in the capital. Just yesterday night, I had glimpsed a literal gang war in an alleyway while out on an errand to fetch some arcano-ink supplies. It hadn't been particularly close to the Academy, thankfully, but still…
“Damn Liliers and Aracians, always starting race wars.” Steyer mutters. He seems to remember I'm here, and perks up. His blue eyes study me with interest “Ah yes, where were we? About to get into your progress, no? How do your studies go?”
“Well enough.” I say breezily. Taking out the second object I hold in my hands —a file containing my last Quirium’s scores, compared to my most current ones—, I slide it over to Steyer, who takes it. “The masters say I have issues with spell control and biomagic, but otherwise, I think I can outcompete the other top students at the Academy.”
Steyer’s eyes rove over the file’s pages quite quickly. “Very good.” He says approvingly. “Everything is exemplary for your time at the Academy so far, except…” He frowns. “As you mentioned, spell control and biomagic. But we will return to that later. Let’s start on something else; how have you been keeping up with your physical conditioning?”
I blink. Out of all the things to talk about with my academic progression, physical conditioning is arguably the least relevant of all. Along with my spellpower. Fortunately, or unfortunately —depending on how you see it— no one at the Academy, not even the senior students outmatch me on those. I have blown well past the records set by every single student and alumni, including the Valorians, and that is why the Army feels so confident that I will achieve Valorian.
“I haven’t…” I lick my lips. My eyes almost flick to Breise in his corner. Almost. “I haven’t been doing dedicated exercise much… But most days there’s practical classes, sir. Quite a lot of exertion, I’d say. Some days, I’m even winded when I’m done with it all.” I manage a smile at Steyer.
He nods. “You must be quite busy with classes to do much else. But,” He adds, when I have just begun to relax. “I need to know your daily schedule to make a more informed judgment.” He sees my bewildered expression, and clarifies. “We can make suggestions to help you fit in more… practice in your days. To use your time more efficiently.”
My mouth tastes sour. It’s been just about half an year since I entered the Academy, and I am already being driven to hell and back with their absurdly hectic schedule. It is not entirely their fault; most students stick to a mix of subjects that fit them perfectly fine for the specialization in life they are aiming for. Not me, though. I am being forced to master —not just familiarize— nearly every single element conceivable under arcane knowledge. And then I have to deal with the humanities on top of it; the history, law, economics, etc of Halmland and the world beyond.
In short, I’m expected to be an 18 yr old polymath, and the Army is entirely happy with that. At least, as long as I apparently keep doing their training in my near-nonexistent free time, too. Because after I’m done with being their young little polymath, I must then become their grandest, newest archmage, too.
Steyer sees my expression, and probably knows what I’m thinking from his likely mental connection to Breise. He puts on a conciliatory smile and spreads his hands. “I don’t mean hours of gruelling stress, my boy. Just a little piece of time set out every now and then, perhaps an hour or half each day, where you can forget all the stresses of the mind and maintain your body. It’ll be surprisingly refreshing, I promise. And as we know, the Academy becomes much more physically demanding starting from the second Quirium. Much more.”
His ability to reframe things is genuinely impressive, but he is not wrong about the second Quirium. Done at the end of each academic trimester, the Quiriums are the largest, and most public tests of arcane merit and ability the Academs can display. It is based on those, in full view of spectators from the royal government, army, industrialists, clergy, scholars, academics, etc, that our scores, and thus rankings are determined. And those rankings will sort us into Valorian and Savorian. 1st to 5th as Valorians, then 6th to 15th as Savorians. If even a regular, barely-passing student of the Academy has their life set out for them, the top-rankers get absurdly more power to determine their future. Valorians may ask favors of the King himself, and have those granted. Whatever their dream profession or road in life may be, there will be no more obstacles to block it.
If I want to live an ordinary life like so many other Halms, maybe experience a taste of the freedom and prosperity that people like me dedicate our lives to defending, then I must achieve Valorian. The Army thinks I will pick a high rank with them, in an elite unit like the 1st Royal Guards Division or the 8th Rifles, and they are not even wrong. Come the time for my service, I will ask to be put with the 4th Mountain Division from my home region, a precarious borderland. A perfectly respectable, historied unit and one where no one can say I will grow fat and lazy in the cities.
But I will not spend my life there, and I will make sure my discharge will be in line with that of most Halms; a few years, and then back into civilian life.
I keep all thoughts of discharge well away from my mind, though, and simply think of the 4th Mountaineers as I look at Steyer and nod. “You are right, sir. I will try my best to stay in good condition for the Quirium.”
Steyer shifts in his chair. “That’s good to hear, Anton. Whatever needed to bring honor to the Army; and yourself, of course.” He considers me. “I believe you are well and far ahead of most of your peers at the Academy, by this point. There are some holes, bottlenecks you need to plug, but as we all know… you are a fast learner, so I believe that won’t be an issue by the time the Quirium comes around. We can talk about your spell control later on, perhaps give you some exercises to practice it, but first, before that…”
I can see there’s something he wants to say, but is contemplating how to. I pre-empt him and ask: “What is it, sir?”
He clears his throat. “There is a little… test we would like you to go through. Something to check how you compare up against proper soldiers, at your young age.” And without further ado, he rises from his chair, looming up over me. “Come with me.”
I hesitate for just a brief moment, but get up and follow when Steyer walks over to the door. Breise trails behind me, and my confusion and curiosity only increase as Steyer goes down the stairs, through the hallways past soldiers who give crisp salutes that he reciprocates, and then we are out into a different direction from the one we came from. A less familiar part of the building, through the back of it.
Just where exactly is Steyer taking me, to get up from his office and leave it like that?
Eventually, we emerge through a back door out into the open, into the fading light of evening. Only a faint smattering of red and orange persists off to the west now, and the sun is barely visible. But visible enough for me to make out the open practice yard in front of me; the same one that can often be seen out the window from Steyer’s office. Soldiers can be seen doing their daily runs, exercise and occasionally, practice here, most of the time. But it’s empty right now, save for a few people.
There is a motley group of immaculately uniformed men standing at attention at the near edge of the practice yard as well. Almost all those in the neat, decorated attire of officers or higher grunts. They all salute Steyer the moment they see him, but it's the redheaded man standing separately who catches my attention.
He’s clad in grayer blue than typical for the Royal Guard, with pauldrons indicating him as a Leutnant with the 8th Infantry Division. Not a Royal Guardsman. But what’s interesting about him is how young he looks for his rank. With a smooth, clean-shaven face and bright blue eyes, he stands taller than most of the men here, reaching up to about my height. The spearhead symbol on his chest, marking him as part of the division’s Shock Company confirms my hypothesis that he is a Lassant just like me.
“Anton!” Steyer booms, gesturing me towards the man. “There’s someone I’d like you to see here. Please, meet Leutnant Lorentz, aspiring officer with the 8th’s Shock Company!” After shaking Lorentz’ hand himself, Steyer turns back to me, eyes gleaming. “He graduated as a Valorian two years ago from the Academy. Fourth place, almost missed Third. And Lorentz, please meet Anton here! He’s your junior at the Academy, and he aims to be Valorian just like you, hah!”
Recognition floods me as I shake Lorentz’ hand, and he does so in kind, his demeanor rigid and upright. “Good to meet you, Anton.” His tone is perfectly affable, though not entirely relaxed per se. I had heard of him before. When he had graduated from the Royal Academy that couple of years ago, a fellow orphan growing up in the Halmish Army’s system, I had heard no shortage of encouragement and lectures on how I ought to be like him. An Army orphan ranking high at the notoriously civilian-focused Academy, and as a Valorian at that, is nothing short of an earthshaking event. Lorentz was heaped with endless praise, gifts, rewards, even made a junior officer aspirant —a Fahnenjunker— right off the bat. I hadn’t kept up with news about him much afterwards, but clearly, he has made good progress since, advancing all the way up into being a Leutnant. And all in just two years. He was made Valorian for a good reason, clearly.
“Good to meet you too, sir Leutnant.” I nod with the respect that a senior like Lorentz is afforded. He may be… what? Five, six years older than me? But I’m still just an Academy pupil, an orphan, while he is an Army officer in a prestigious division.
But why have I been brought to meet him? What is this test that Steyer was talking about?
My gaze roves across the medley of uniformed men and women gathered around here, and it is when I see someone with the pauldrons of a Sergeant and the red cross insignia on his chest, that I realize what exactly this ‘test’ is about.
“I'm to spar with Leutnant Lorenz here?” I ask of Steyer.
“You are.” He confirms.
I give a look at the redheaded man standing across from me. He returns it, coolly. No visible hard feelings, but not much sympathy either.
I try holding back a grimace as I size him up, and he sizes me up. Lorentz is about my height, as aforementioned. Older, wiser, more experienced… And as a former Valorian, he is certainly not stupid. What could I possibly have above him? Power? That is fortunately likely, as I have been tested with a mana reserve and bottleneck far in excess of any other Lassant of my age in the entire kingdom. But power isn’t always an answer to good skills and technique. Just an advantage.
“In which format will the spar be, sir?” I direct the question at Steyer. I need to know how exactly I’m to fight this man. A simple hand-to-hand fight with no mana use at all? A bout with full use of mana to reinforce our bodies allowed? Or even a full-on battle of elemental magic and physicality combined? If the latter, I feel uncomfortably disadvantaged. Lorentz must know a thousand ways to fight and take down a man, including other Lassants, with what the Army has undoubtedly trained into him. He’ll still be better at a fistfight, but I feel that my strength advantage will be more of a compensating factor there.
“Simple fistfight. Body reinforcement allowed.” Steyer clarifies. “To both of your respective maximums. Oh, and take off your uniforms beforehand, please.”
We do, handing them off to a nearby soldier, and move to the yard, facing each other ten meters away. We wear undershirts below, of course. It’s a shame our fight will likely tear up those and our trousers, because we really are going to be fighting at superhuman strengths here. I will have to remember to demand replacements first thing tomorrow.
Lorentz has his arms crossed, studying me in intense silence while I raise my fists up as has been taught to me. The man appears to be in no hurry to fight right now. I’m not sure what I should be inferring from that.
After a few seconds of waiting, which feel like minutes each, Steyer finally whistles.
I’m rushing forward within an instant, fist flying out straight towards Lorentz’ unmoving face. I’m within a foot of him before a second has passed, legs kicking up a gigantic plume of dust behind me.
With a resounding bang, I feel the wind knocked out of my lungs, and my fist flies through empty air. There’s been a blow into my stomach. I nearly vomit right there and focus on what just happened. Lorentz has just veered to the side —just enough, and he has a fist retracting from where my guts were. My forward momentum persists regardless and I stumble before spinning around and facing him. I’m too late to stop the kick that impacts me right in the knee, and from the way it feels like my legs almost just bent backwards, I know only my higher maximum saved my kneecap from cracking.
Lorentz dances back and dodges the quick swat I send at his face. Creating some distance between us again, he circles around me, eyes now warily considering. The man is fully tensed up now, blue eyes faintly glowing and muscles taut. I circle him back, keeping some care on my injured knee and making sure I don’t put too much weight on it.
He’s the one who moves in this time. When he’s just in distance, he sends an experimental jab out, lightning quick. I dodge back just barely, but am pursued further by him, advancing steadily. My right knee still throbs and wavers and I grit my teeth to contain the renewed nausea in my gut again. I had eaten a full, good meal just half an hour ago and I don’t want to throw it back up.
I make the critical mistake —or so it seems— of moving in carelessly again, and make as if to aim a right hook at the young officer. He sees it and unhesitantly moves to block it, not even considering it could be a feint. And then I shift my weight to my left fist and send it crashing sideways into his face. A loud BANG sounds, reverberating across the entire lamplit field and bouncing off of the spellformed brick around us, and he’s thrown back multiple feet onto the ground. I could have sworn some teeth went flying out as I struck him.
“Enough!” Steyer’s voice is mildly displeased. He walks onto the field as Lorentz rises up, blinking rapidly. “Spar’s over. We’ve seen enough.”
Even through his seeming dazedness, Lorentz throws him a crisp salute and then, standing up, gives me a slight bow of the head, not seeming to hold any sort of grudge or anger towards me at all, though I think there’s a hint of bewilderment and reconsideration on his bruised face. I bow my head back to him deeper than he does, and just like that, the fight is over.
The right knee of my trouser is torn, and that of my leg is aching badly. I still feel the urge to vomit out the stew from half an hour ago. All in all though, this was a far faster, and less strenuous fight than everything before.
Steyer is taking me by the shoulder and walking me back to the gathered officers, conversing lightly amongst themselves, when he mutters: “That was…. Not the best performance, boy.”
I struggle to avoid scowling. “I defeated him.”
“You did,” he agrees. “But just through sheer power. If you didn’t have such a big lead on him, with your maximum… you’d have lost.”
I take a deep breath. “He’s older than me,” I say. “An officer, and a Valorian at that.”
We have now reached the group of officers, and the medic Unteroffizier beckons at my knee. I roll it up for him and he puts a light hand against the purplish bruise staining my skin. He casts, and with a slightly unpleasant prickling along the skin, I feel the wound mend and resolve back into healthy skin. I roll up my shirt, and he does the same for my abdomen, checking in addition if any of my inner guts or intestines were damaged a bit too much. They weren’t, fortunately. “You are good to go.” He tells me, before handing me back my uniform.
I nod and salute the man, and follow Steyer and Breise back to the office again. I glance back just briefly to the other party, and glimpse Lorentz looking on at me with an unreadable expression.
When we are out of earshot of the officers, Steyer continues tetchily. “He may have been a Valorian, and now an officer at that, but you are also going to be Valorian in a month.” He says it with no hesitation, as if it's a fate preordained in stone already. “You were trained and taught how to fight throughout your years, I believe. In fact, I heard you were quite good at it, even without using your maximum. What happened?”
The urge to protest wells up within me, but Breise is nearby. I suspect that what the two men are really fishing for is an admittance that I’ve gotten soft in the five months since admission to the Academy. But I personally think that’s ridiculous; skills can’t erode that fast, surely. So instead, I acquiesce. “I will do better next time.” I promise. “I just got overconfident, that’s all.”
Steyer nods. “We all do, sometimes.”
I receive a fresh set of clothing —Academy clothing— to take back with me to my dorm. How kind of Steyer to foresee the destruction of my apparel in a fight. He must have planned this in advance.
When we are at the staircase leading up to Steyer’s office, Breise turns and looks at me. “You may go now.” It’s said in a blank tone, his face betraying no particular expression. I blink. No further conversation about my other Academy scores?
Steyer chuckles midway through the stairs. “I was already briefed by some of your masters on them. We have talked about those before at length, so I will just say this; please do work harder, Anton. We know you have potential to be far greater.” And with that, he and Breise go off.
I shake my head, looking off after them. The way Steyer can read my mind by proxy through Breise is quite uncanny at times. Not a new concept to me; I have even done it myself sometimes when I linked with Deon’s mind. But I only really received vague impressions and emotions through Deon, not quite as detailed as Breise must be capable of reading.
Speaking of Deon, I have made a commitment to meeting him tonight after Steyer’s office. Clatres Coffee House, near the Academy. It’s popular with the students, though not solely inhabited by them. My best friend very often loves to meet new people and debate them there, lively young fellow he is.
I change in an empty room pointed out to me by a guard here, and set off out through the door into the now-dark, lamppost-lit street of the compound. The warm light continues out all throughout the streets and avenues of Allarholde as I am admitted out of the gate, and then I am back into the city proper.
Though the fight was an unexpected interruption, Steyer’s skipping of the typical conversation around my scores more than compensated for the time lost. I’m early this time, so I take my time and simply breathe in the fresh breeze that wafts in from the great Lake Tolis bordering the capital to the west. It’s just pleasantly cold enough this evening, and as I walk through this relatively upbeat, prosperous area of Allarholde, I let my eyes rove through all the different shops lining the streets. Taverns, coffee houses, bookstores, stationery sellers, artefact traders, jewelers and more. One day, I might even be able to afford to rove through them buying whatever I wanted.
The wide avenue that Clatres House, and also the main gate of the Academy is on, is far from sparse right now. The whole of Vastings Avenue is abuzz with the quiet chatter of dozens of people going about their evening, whether their business is here or somewhere else. Quite a lot are still in their blue-and-gray uniforms as well; Royal Academy students, my own peers. Somehow, a few of them even recognize me. I don’t recognize them, but I return the nods and greetings they give me anyways. So strange to be famous, but I suppose that being touted as the strongest Lassant born in decades in Halmland, and then actually demonstrating that at the Academy can create quite a memorable person.
Bright orange light spills out of all the buildings here, but one gives off a particularly welcoming glow; Clatres House. Several people stand or sit outside, chattering about this or that over a smoke or a mug of coffee, and the faint feel of activity emanates from inside the building. The scent of brewed coffee and freshly-baked pastry wafts over as well, drawing me further and further inside.
I reach the decorated door, turn the carved handle, and enter the place.
Fight scene of my Chapter One. I'm wondering how well this flows.... So I shall post this on its lonesome, just to see what it looks like absent of all context...
Lorentz has his arms crossed, studying me in intense silence while I raise my fists up as has been taught to me. The man appears to be in no hurry to fight right now. I’m not sure what I should be inferring from that.
After a few seconds of waiting, which feel like minutes each, Steyer finally whistles.
I’m rushing forward within an instant, fist flying out straight towards Lorentz’ unmoving face. I’m within a foot of him before a second has passed, legs kicking up a gigantic plume of dust behind me.
With a resounding bang, I feel the wind knocked out of my lungs, and my fist flies through empty air. There’s been a blow into my stomach. I nearly vomit right there and focus on what just happened. Lorentz has just veered to the side —just enough, and he has a fist retracting from where my guts were. My forward momentum persists regardless and I stumble before spinning around and facing him. I’m too late to stop the kick that impacts me right in the knee, and from the way it feels like my legs almost just bent backwards, I know only my higher maximum saved my kneecap from cracking.
Lorentz dances back and dodges the quick swat I send at his face. Creating some distance between us again, he circles around me, eyes now warily considering. The man is fully tensed up now, blue eyes faintly glowing and muscles taut. I circle him back, keeping some care on my injured knee and making sure I don’t put too much weight on it.
He’s the one who moves in this time. When he’s just in distance, he sends an experimental jab out, lightning quick. I dodge back just barely, but am pursued further by him, advancing steadily. My right knee still throbs and wavers and I grit my teeth to contain the renewed nausea in my gut again. I had eaten a full, good meal just half an hour ago and I don’t want to throw it back up.
I make the critical mistake —or so it seems— of moving in carelessly again, and make as if to aim a right hook at the young officer. He sees it and unhesitantly moves to block it, not even considering it could be a feint. And then I shift my weight to my left fist and send it crashing sideways into his face. A loud BANG sounds, reverberating across the entire lamplit field and bouncing off of the spellformed brick around us, and he’s thrown back multiple feet onto the ground. I could have sworn some teeth went flying out as I struck him.
“Enough!” Steyer’s voice is mildly displeased. He walks onto the field as Lorentz rises up, blinking rapidly. “Spar’s over. We’ve seen enough.”
Even through his seeming dazedness, Lorentz throws him a crisp salute and then, standing up, gives me a slight bow of the head, not seeming to hold any sort of grudge or anger towards me at all, though I think there’s a hint of bewilderment and reconsideration on his bruised face. I bow my head back to him deeper than he does, and just like that, the fight is over.
