Raven stares at me for a long moment, her sapphire eyes intense and searching. She tilts her head from side to side like she’s trying to see something, and instinctively, I mimic her movement. I realize what she’s looking for—a mate mark on my neck. The realization makes my silver scales tingle with awareness and longing.
She moves to a simulator in the front of the room, her black wings creating graceful arcs as she walks. Every eye in the room follows her movement—some with admiration, others with fear, and more than a few with barely concealed resentment. She’s pitted against Boz, one of the blink hounds whose blonde hair gleams under the artificial lights.
“Nice to see you again.” He bends to look at her around the simulator, his smile too friendly for my liking. I feel my blood boiling, heat rising from deep in my chest where my dragon simmers with jealousy. The casual familiarity in his tone suggests they’ve interacted before, and I don’t like the implications.
“You might not be saying that in about ten minutes,” Raven fires back, flexing her wings in a display that makes my mouth go dry. The black membranes catch the light like polished obsidian, and the threat in her voice is unmistakable.
Around the room, other students are settling in at their assigned simulators. The nervous energy is building to a crescendo—handschecking weapons one last time, deep breathing exercises to calm pre-battle nerves, whispered prayers to various deities. Everyone knows careers will be made or broken in the next hour.
Balor walks around the room, starting at the back and sliding cards with parameters into slots to load the simulations. The soft electronic beeps fill the air as each machine comes online, accompanied by the subtle hum of processors spinning up to full capacity. He walks past his son and ruffles up his hair with paternal affection before sliding the card into the slot. The gesture is tender, but I catch the slight tension in his shoulders—even he’s worried about how his children will perform.
The simulators themselves are marvels of technology, each one worth more than most people see in a lifetime. They’re designed to replicate real combat scenarios with devastating accuracy. The military doesn’t believe in coddling its future officers.
When he reaches Raven’s machine, he has three cards left, their blank sides revealing nothing about the hell that awaits within. “Which one do you want?”
“Does it matter?” Raven asks without looking up. She’s using one of the knives I gave her to clean under her nails, the blade catching the light as it moves with practiced precision. The casual dismissal of what could be a life-changing decision is pure Raven—either supremely confident or utterly fatalistic, depending on your perspective.
“Maybe?” Balor smirks at how Raven has zero fucks to give about anything. But I catch the slight worry in his eyes. He’s seen what some of these simulation cards contain, and not all of them are designed to be survivable.
She glances up at the cards, then her gaze finds mine across the room. “Pick one, Mr. Mourningstar.” The formal address hits like a slap, and I inwardly wince at being reduced to my proper teacher name. The distance it creates between us is both necessary and agonizing.
“Right.”
Balor nods and takes the card on the right, sliding it into the simulator with a soft click that seems to echo in the sudden silence.
The room holds its collective breath as the loading screens flicker to life. These few moments before the simulations begin are always the worst—when imagination runs wild and every nightmare scenario plays out in vivid detail. I’ve seen students vomit from the anticipation alone.
Raven sits up, watching the information scroll across her screen. The blue glow reflects off her tanned skin, making her look ethereal and otherworldly. I watch the claws at the apex of her obsidian wings flex and tap against the metal surface—a nervous habit I’ve noticed she has when concentrating.
Thauglor and Klauth walk in and take seats at the front of the classroom, their heavy footsteps echoing in the suddenly quiet room. Their presence adds another layer of pressure to an already tense situation. Having the academy’s most powerful figures watching your performance is what can either inspire greatness or cause complete paralysis.
She doesn’t even look up from what she’s reading, completely absorbed in the data streaming before her. I’m close enough to see the reflection of tactical information in her eyes—terrain maps, enemy positions, resource allocations. Before she starts her simulation, she brings her wings forward and uses them like a privacy screen, blocking us from watching her preparation. The black membrane creates an intimate cocoon around her workspace.
I look back at her father, and he shrugs, clearly not knowing why she’s being secretive. Klauth shakes his head as well, equally puzzled. It’s unusual behavior even for Raven, who’s never been one to seek attention or glory.
Several moments pass in tense silence before I hear the sounds of covers slamming down and locking over keyboards throughout the room. The mechanical clicks sound like prison doors closing, sealing the students into their digital battlefields. Raven pulls her wings back when she’s finished, the motion fluid and graceful, and drops her key into the basket beside the simulator with a soft clink.
The anticipation in the room reaches fever pitch as students make their final preparations. Some are praying, others are stretching, and a few are staring at their screens with the hollow-eyed look of people who’ve already accepted their doom. The simulators hum with barely contained electronic violence, waiting to unleash digital hell on command.
One by one, Balor starts the simulators. The room fills with the sounds of electronic warfare—explosions, gunfire, and tactical communications bleeding through speakers that can’t quite contain the audio. The cacophony is intentional, designed to add another layer of distraction and stress to an already overwhelming experience.
I write the scores next to students’ names as they appear on my tablet, the screen’s glow adding to the ambient light. Each number represents more than just performance—it’s a quantified measure of a young person’s entire future. The difference between a 94 and a 95 could mean the difference between a posting at an elite fortress and a death sentence at some forgotten border outpost.
This is the second class of the day—the third and fourth years went earlier this morning, and their scores are already creating ripples of excitement and despair throughout the academy. Belle placed nineteenth in the top twenty among the older students, an impressive feat for her first time that has tongues wagging about the strength of her bloodline. Azalea ranks twenty-eighth, not bad for a beginner but not spectacular either.
Balor’s son scores fifteenth, and I can see him trying to hide how proud he is, his chest puffed out slightly with paternal satisfaction. It’sa solid showing that virtually guarantees him a decent posting, though nothing that will make the history books.
The rankings aren’t just academic exercises—they’re life and death determinations that will echo through generations. The top performers get their choice of assignments, opportunities to serve under legendary commanders who can teach them to become legends themselves. The middle tier gets respectable postings with reasonable survival rates. The bottom tier gets sent to places where the mortality rate is measured in months rather than years.
There are a dozen simulators before Raven’s turn, and she’s back to cleaning under her nails with methodical precision. The casual grooming behavior is at odds with the tension radiating from every other student in the room. Boz keeps trying to get Raven to talk to him, leaning over to whisper comments that make her jaw tighten with barely contained irritation.
She keeps glancing at the board as I move names around, her competitive nature clearly engaged despite her casual demeanor. I can see the calculations running behind her eyes—not just tracking her potential ranking, but analyzing the performance patterns of her classmates and identifying weaknesses she might exploit.
The waiting is torture for everyone involved. Students shift restlessly in their seats, weapons check and recheck their gear, and more than a few are visibly sweating despite the cool temperature. The simulators themselves seem to mock their anxiety with their patient electronic humming, like predators waiting to pounce.
Almost thirty minutes later, Balor steps up to the simulator Raven is stationed at. The entire room seems to hold its breath—this is the moment everyone has been waiting for. He hits the start button, and suddenly the room fills with the sounds of simulated explosions and warfare emanating from her station.
Raven slips the blade back into its sheath with a practiced motion and sits up straight, watching her screen with the intensity of a predatortracking prey. The claws at the apex of her wings have gone deadly still—a sign I’ve learned means she’s completely focused. Around the room, other students crane their necks to catch glimpses of her screen, desperate to see how the princess of Shadowcarve handles herself under pressure.
