“I’ve met with Rey’s daughter. Why wasn’t she delivered yesterday?” His voice is cold, sharp as a silver blade. That look in his eyes? Disappointment.
An old friend of mine.
But I keep my eyes locked forward. “We were ambushed by norous. She was injured. We had to stop for the night, sir.”
“An order is an order. I thought you’d learned that by now. Do I have to remind you what happened the last time you failed to accomplish your mission?”
There it is.
That punch to the gut he calls discipline. My jaw tightens, feeling that old wound throb.
“No need, sir. I won’t forget anytime soon.” Shame claws its way in, same as always, cold and unrelenting. I could explain that the mission was technically a win. Rey’s daughter is here; she’s safe.
But that?
That would just be me wasting breath. I learned that the hard way. When it comes to Randall Brackwell, there's only one path, and it's his. Caring only about results. And right now, I'm the one under scrutiny, and when was I not?
“She’s joining the program, and I want you to watch her. Closely. Report anything off.”
He doesn’t even look up, just keeps scribbling, pen scratching across the page. But his words land heavily; the program isn’t some playground, it’s a training forge. A three-year crucible designed to break you down and rebuild you from the ashes. It used to be selective, because if you made it through, you didn’t walk out the same; you came out Legion, a soldier of the Great Northern Army.
A weapon.
Except the Bloodmoon War changed everything. The casualties were too high, and the Institute had to adapt. That’s why I started my training so late, busy rebuilding what we’ve lost. And now, I have only one year left before I’m thrown into the ranks of my next jailor.
Now they accept students as young as ten. Their curriculum is lighter, and they are forbidden from participating in any active deployments until they turn eighteen. That’s when they enroll in the Institute’s real program. But those who think the courses aren’t as hard would be mistaken. Families who send their children here are offered compensation—blood money, really.
The whispers never stopped, rumours of spies working with Netherworld, and talk of rot spreading from within. Some even say the war was sparked by a traitor. And the valkyries vanishing without a trace?
That only added fuel to the fire.
Too many questions and no real answers.
Meanwhile, the Elgarians scramble. Some climb over the chaos for power, others cling to the old myths that Kvirr chose them. That valkyries were meant to shield us from Netherworld… from Vordak’s endless hunger.
Today, everyone’s just waiting, watching, like it’s some kind of game. But in the end, there are only two kinds of people: the ones who fight, and the ones who fall. And my father made sure I knew exactly where I stood in that equation, a while ago.
“Why?” I ask, curious to see if he’s wary of her, his attention back on me.
“She’s a mundane who took down a norous all on her own, and she’d never even heard of our world. Doesn’t that strike you as…off?” His voice drips with irritation.
“It never crossed my mind,” sarcasm thick in my voice.
My head jerks to the side.
“Watch your tone, boy.”
I spit the red fluid onto the floor and push my hair back. Keeping my back straight, I lower my gaze to meet his. I’m not surprised; it’s his favourite way of communicating ever since Mom and Sammy left us. I am lucky this time it’s only his jewelled hand.
“She’s more than a mundane. Probably a witch who hasn’t awakened yet,” I spat what he wanted to hear.
The General’s jaw finally relaxes. “Good. Good. Glad to see you’re taking your training seriously. Soon enough, you’ll be a Sergeant. Fighting beside me, owning your name.” His hand clamps down on my shoulder, an iron grip of dominance he always needs to show.
Because deep down, we both know who the winner will be if I decide to challenge his authority, but we also know I won’t. Not because I am scared, but because of Sammy.
“Is that all, sir?” I ask, his piercing eyes, the same ones that stare back at me every time I look in the mirror, look back at me, empty of any warmth.
“You’re in charge of patrol tonight. I’m heading to Saltmere tomorrow and won’t be back for a week. I expect a full report when I return,” he says, already turning back to his massive desk. “You’re dismissed.” Randall Brackwell doesn’t spare me a second glance. His words are final, like a slammed door.
