Page 5 of Veiled

After unloading the two duffel bags Matt and I were allowed to pack from home, our two pissy corrections officers give us a quick once-over and gruffly instruct us to start walking down the paved path cutting through the trees to the east of the castle. Silently, they take up their spots at our fronts and backs, still under the illusion that we’ll try to run, no idea where to when we’re literally penned in here, but whatever.

The preppy recruits on the path around us give us a wide berth, stopping to stare and speculate…loudly. Not that it comes as a shock, most of these people have probably grown up surrounded by servants waiting on them hand and foot with the kind of money their families have.

While the King pays his military decently, the doors that open for the recruits who pass through Scion are incomparable. Not only is the King’s favor earned for them and their families, but many will be gifted land, bonuses, and, if the rumors are to be believed, honored love matches from the King himself for the best of his soldiers. Of course, only recruits from exceptionally affluent families who contribute to the King and his various needs are permitted to come here, though.

But, once again, Matt and I are the exception.

While our dads control most of South Hollow, neither of them has the kind of pull to land us here. But, when our job placement test results came back telling us where we could best serve the King on the frontline, everyone was shocked to see that instead of a position, we were designated to come to Scion.

Following the crowd, we all follow the path left when we reach the end of the moss-covered stone building we’ve been walking behind. A series of buildings labeled Barracks E, D, and C, respectively, box us in as we make our way into a massive courtyard.

The weaving line of the Charlie Company recruits checking in today moves slowly toward a series of long, wooden tables set beneath another stone building’s massive overhang. A large but simple wood-burned sign hangs above the building’s doors, indicating it’s the infirmary, as if the chemically sterile scent permeating the air could be coming from anywhere else.

Behind each table, officers in black uniforms sit like stuffy scribes, each with a thick roster book and a ballpoint pen, seeming to move with sharp, impatient ticks as they mark each recruit when they check in.

Glancing around our new, albeit forced, home, I spot the beginning of an obstacle course, which has me instantly bouncing on my toes with excitement.

When I was seven…before my mom walked out on us and my dad became the piece of shit he is now…I was obsessed with the show Ninja Warriors and was determined to compete as soon as I was old enough to be cast. That spring, my dad spent two full weeks building an obstacle course for me in the woods behind our house.

Matt, not only my best friend but also my neighbor, tracked my time running the course and then raced to beat it nearly every day. Despite his height and wingspan giving him an advantage, I’m still only five-foot-three as an adult after all, I’ve always been fast and was able to bounce around the platforms easier, so it was always an insanely close match.

What started as my “training” for the show turned into our favorite way to dodge chores: dishes, folding laundry, or whatever other task our parents threw at us that could be pushed off onto the loser. Victory meant freedom; defeat meant chores. We ran like our lives depended on it.

I grin at the memory and elbow Matt to show him. Balance beams, a rope climb, and what looks like…flame throwers? This is definitely not our broken and splintered course from home.

The smell of sulfur and smoke penetrates my nose as somewhere in the distance, something lets out a bone-shaking roar.

My heart skips a beat.

A dragon.

A real mother fucking dragon!

I’ve heard tales of them all my life, seen one or two fly over South Hollow each year, but I completely forgot they pair with riders at this academy.

“Name?” a woman with slicked-back hair pulled into a tight bun asks the girl in front of me, cutting through my reverence as she grabs her orders.

“Emily Tarlow,” she says, her tone is clipped and confident.

She’s taller than me by at least five inches, with a braid down her back, and shoulders looking like they were sculpted out of granite. The woman scans Emily’s paperwork, then stamps the file with a thud and passes her a large manila folder.

“Bravo Squad. Barracks A. Room 206. Class schedule is in the folder. Uniforms and course materials—two tables down. Dining’s on your own time. First class bell tolls at 0730. Tomorrow you will report to the Parade Grounds at 0600 for your first formation. After tomorrow, daily accountability formation is at 0645.”

She doesn’t even glance up.

“Next.”

Emily turns to leave but pauses as her eyes catch on me. She scans me over—slow and calculating like she’s trying to size up the competition, until her gaze finally meets mine.

Hard brown eyes, with a familiar judgmental glint I’ve seen a hundred times before, stare back at me.

The corner of her mouth quirks slightly, like she’s already filing me under not a threat, and I do my best not to let the immediate dismissal make me smile.

“Next,” the officer repeats with a clear air of annoyance. Emily moves, and I step forward, passing my orders to the woman behind the desk before she has to ask for them. My Corrections Transportation Officer stands silently, half a step behind me.

“Name?”

“Annalise Corvin,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray my sudden nerves.