Gessa braced herself for another stern guard or pitying matron. Instead, the woman waiting behind the curtain had laughing eyes and a pincushion strapped to her wrist. There was no suspicion in her gaze, only a sympathetic hiss as she took in the oversized tunic swallowing Gessa’s frame.
“Men,” Pria said, shaking her head as she deftly pinned the fabric at Gessa’s waist. “They design these things for tree trunks, not women. I’m Pria. Assistant Quartermaster and unofficial fixer of everything the instructors break.”
“Gessa.” The name came out breathless. The casual normalcy of the chatter felt dizzying after days of silence and barking orders.
“I know. The woman who walked out of the woods. The whole laundry pool is betting on how long you’ll last.” Pria’s eyes met hers in the mirror, warm and conspiratorial. “My moneyis on ‘long enough to make them uncomfortable.’ Don’t let me down.”
Pria stepped back to critique the hem, but her gaze snagged on Gessa’s head. She reached out, fingering a particularly jagged, uneven chunk of dark hair near Gessa’s ear.
“And this?” Pria asked, her brow arching. “Did you lose a fight with a pair of garden shears?”
“A paring knife,” Gessa admitted, her hand flying to the rough ends. “I needed to look different. Quickly.”
“Well, you succeeded. You look like you escaped an asylum.” Pria reached into her apron and produced a pair of gleaming fabric scissors. She kicked a stool over. “Sit. I can’t make it long again, but I can make it look like you did it on purpose. A recruit shouldn’t look like a victim.”
Gessa sat. The metal felt cold against her neck, but Pria’s hands were warm and sure. The snip of the scissors settled into a soothing rhythm, shearing away the ragged evidence of her desperation. Dark locks fell to the floor, leaving Gessa with a short, sleek crop that hugged her skull—severe, but clean. Practical.
“There,” Pria said, brushing the loose hair from Gessa’s shoulders. “Now you have a face again.”
She tucked a small, sealed jar into the pocket of the newly pinned tunic. “Arnica and mint. For the bruising. The standard issue smells like old cheese; this is my own blend. Hide it, or the boys will steal it.”
Gessa pressed her hand over the pocket. The knot in her chest didn’t vanish, but for the first time since entering the gates, it loosened enough to let her breathe.
Attendant Meara led her into a quiet infirmary. The beds were made up with inviting softness, and the room organized with a gentle, practiced efficiency. The woman who approached them had laugh lines crinkling the corners of her warm, hazeleyes and a calm demeanor that immediately eased a fraction of the tension in Gessa’s shoulders. A faint, golden light emanated from her palms, a tangible warmth that soothed the air around her.
“This is Mistress Brynn Salvehand, our Healer,” Meara said, with a nod of respect.
Brynn Salvehand offered Gessa a small, reassuring smile before gesturing to a low cot. “Let’s have a look at that ankle, child.”
Her touch, when she gently cradled Gessa’s swollen foot, was impossibly soft, her fingers probing the bruised flesh with a practiced gentleness that sought to cause as little pain as possible. Brynn’s brow furrowed in concentration as she felt the extent of the damage. “Ah,” she soothed, her voice as soft as her touch. “You’ve given this a sore trial. The ligaments are badly torn here, and here. Let’s see if we can’t encourage it to remember its proper form.”
Gessa watched, fascinated and apprehensive, as the Healer closed her eyes for a moment in concentration. A soft, golden light emanated from Brynn’s hands, enveloping Gessa’s ankle. Gessa felt a deep, penetrating warmth, then a series of strange, pulling and knitting sensations from within the ankle itself, not painful, but odd. The intense, throbbing ache began to subside, replaced by a feeling of energized wholeness. When Mistress Salvehand finally drew her hands away, the swelling was visibly reduced, the near constant angry bruising already fading to a pale yellow.
“There,” Brynn said, smiling gently. “That should serve you well. It will be tender for a day or two, a reminder of its ordeal, but the worst is mended. True healing, however, also requires rest when you can snatch it, which I hear is in short supply for new recruits.”
“It feels… new,” Gessa breathed, flexing her foot carefully. The relief was immense. “Thank you, Mistress Salvehand. Your talent is a wonder.”
The Healer’s smile was warm. “All talents are a gift, child, if used wisely. Repay the Academy by striving to do so. Now, Attendant Meara will see you to your billet.”
Attendant Meara then led her to the recruit barracks, a long, low stone building that seemed to hum with a restless, youthful energy. “Wyvern Cohort, you are,” Meara announced as she stopped before a narrow wooden door. “Rooms are assigned, not chosen. This one’s yours. Basic, but it’ll keep the snow off in winter.” She gestured to a symbol roughly painted on the door, a stylized, coiled creature with razor talons and leathery wings, perhaps the wyvern of its name.
“The Autumn Cohort forms at dawn. You scraped in by the skin of your teeth; had you arrived tomorrow, you’d be scrubbing pots for six months waiting for the next intake. No easing in for latecomers, especially not for one so… distinct.”
Gessa understood the implication. Her age, her gender, her very presence was distinct, an object of intense, if often covert, curiosity.
Her room was tiny, as expected, but the promise of a lockable door felt like a gift beyond measure. After Meara left, Gessa placed her survival bag in the small wooden chest. She retrieved the hematite, its familiar coolness a comfort, and slipped it into a deep inner pocket of the roughspun grey recruit tunic. Close to her skin, a hidden anchor.
Her first meal in the mess hall later that evening was an assault on the senses. The vast, raftered room, lit by smoky oil lampsand flickering torches, roared with the noise of a hundred young men.
High above, tattered banners hung in the gloom—the standards of the Twelve Original Riders who first carved the trade routes through the Kingdoms. They were faded now, but the dark stains on the hem of the central flag were said to be the blood of the First Spur, preserved by the dry mountain air.
The air was ripe with the collective warmth of the crowd and the savory steam rising from the platters. Long trestle tables were crammed with recruits, their voices loud as they joked, argued, and boasted, their good-natured rowdiness echoing the untamed energy of youth.
They were a motley collection, drawn from every corner of the known world. Gessa saw the pale, freckled skin of northerners sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with the rich, deep umber of men from the southern coast. Accents clashed and mingled—the clipped tones of the highlanders arguing playfully with the rolling, musical cadence of the river-folk.
Most were little more than boys, their faces fresh or just beginning to show the first hints of manhood. None, Gessa quickly noted, her heart sinking a little despite herself, looked a day over twenty.
Finding an empty space at the very end of a crowded bench, Gessa accepted a wooden bowl of thick, savory pottage and a hunk of dark bread from a harried server. She ate slowly, despite her hunger, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, painfully aware of the curious, assessing glances that slid her way.
