I had woken in the garden again, drawn by the lure of the stars. The other Guardians never noticed my sleepwalking, or if they did, they did not comment. I supposed they had once. Other Guardians, reaching out to me in concern or camaraderie. I turned each of them away without hesitation, for I had not come to Ordelés to make friends or to replace the family that no longer loved me. It was clear to me that these bonds were fickle, easily broken through death, or worse, betrayal.
The Guardians had provided me with a place to sleep and a full belly. They had given me the chance to make things right. I needed nothing more, or so I continued to remind myself.
I shouldered past the Guardians to the smooth stone sink beyond. I scrubbed my face with crisp, cool water, letting the sound of its calming trickle fill my ears and drown out the chatter around me. I moved my hands away from the steady stream, but I swore itfollowed me, the trickling water clinging to my fingertips like honey. I switched off the faucet, sure it was a trick of the light.
As I dabbed my face dry with a cloth, I caught my reflection in the old mirror beside me. Morning sun streamed in through a large, round window, and my eyes caught on my hair, damp with dew and sweat, the deep purple semi-circles painted beneath my mismatched eyes—one deep brown, the other stormy gray.
I glanced away quickly, a frown tilting my bowed lips.
Guardian Barta swept into the latrine, laughing loudly, as was her default. A handful of Guardians followed at her heels, eager to befriend the woman who was as talented with her kind words as she was with her weapons.
“Good morning, Seren.” Lili smiled broadly, dimples appearing and loose blonde hair falling against her cheekbone. She made no indication that she still held on to the words they had exchanged in the woods. It was for the better to forget them.
“Guardian Barta.” I inclined my head in greeting.
“Will we ever graduate to a first name basis? You know, youcancall me Lili.” She hopped up onto the sink, blocking my view as I combed my fingers through my chin length hair and fastened it in two short braids.
“It would be unprofessional to greet you by your first name,” I insisted. I spared only the briefest glance at Lili’s green eyes. The sadness and resolve I saw there was enough to knock the wind out of me.
I spared myself one last glance in the mirror before exiting into the dormitory. I didn’t look back at Guardian Barta, but I felt her eyes on my back all the same.
My hands made quick work of fastening my armor—fluid with muscle memory. I pulled each strap taut and buckled them in place along my sides. I secured the breast and backplates and attached my vambraces and tassets, the only other pieces of armor I had earned.
Guardians of the First Order, the youngest and newest soldiers, trained and fought only in standard issue leather armor. Throughout their time as Guardians of the Second Order, soldiers had the opportunity to earn their steel through victory in battle.
I had just finished strapping the last piece of my armor into place as one of the instructors, a Guardian of the Third Order, barreled down the hallway shouting at the lower ranking soldiers who were late for their sparring lessons and jolting me from my thoughts.
I pushed into the hallway and past the other stragglers in my cohort, intending to make my escape before the bumbling First Order soldiers blocked my path.
It took some careful maneuvering, but I arrived at the training grounds with time to spare. I took up my position toward the front of our triangular formation. The point was occupied by the Third Order Guardian in charge of each cohort, followed by the delegated leaders of the Second Order. From there, the Guardians were organized based on skill, and the armor they had earned.
Steel led the charge, always.
Guardian Horvat of the Third Order looked upon me with disdain as he led our formation through the typical warm up exercises. While my body was present and performing—acid burning in my trembling thighs—my mind wandered to the last proper skirmish against the Rázuri.
It had been nearly two months since the attack on the Ordelés warehouse district. Dozens of humans had died under the forceof the Rázuri’s mágik, and countless resources had been destroyed. Food and water stores, clothing, and medicine all wasted with the wave of a hand.
Anger flooded me, hot and red-visioned.
The formation pivoted and began the next round of exercises. I lunged and stretched, muscles tightening and relaxing as we moved in perfect time, but my eyes saw the devastated faces of the victims' family members gazing upon the wreckage. They were helpless against the Rázuri and their terrible power. Only the Guardians came close to matching the Rázuri’s strength, and even we could not best them every time. Even we could not predict the erratic attacks that often slipped under the Guardians' noses.
Only the King of Ordelés remained truly protected by his supremely trained King’s Guard, the nearly unattainable Guardians of the Fifth Order. The king never left the palace of late, sequestered in his war rooms, planning the Guardians defensive strategies and humanitarian efforts in the aftermath of the attacks.
When we drew our blades, I sloughed off the remaining thoughts that snared my mind. I went blissfully numb with my sword in hand, gripped between my calloused fingers, and my limbs flexed with practiced movements.
It had taken me a few months, in the beginning, to become used to the weapon. My hands were too smooth, my muscles weak from a soft childhood. I didn’t know the importance of balance and a steady stance, and each day, I had been left unpleasantly boneless, every inch of my body screaming with its aches.
As the months had passed, winter turned to the soft light of spring, and finally, under the warm haze of summer, I found I could hold my own among the First Order.
The formation split and pairs began their sparring rounds. I heard the mocking voices of Guardians preparing to fight.
“I hope you like the taste of your own blood,” one Guardian quipped. “Prepare to lose all of your adoring fans when you yield to me.”
“Please,” the other scoffed. “You’re as unlikable as Corso. At least she has skill to stand behind. Where’s your armor again? What’s your cohort ranking, forty out of forty?”
The group laughed while I bristled.
I turned and my blade met my competitor’s with a fierce and decisive clang. We were closely matched, my opponent and I. He was unremarkable to look at but skilled with his blade.
