Lyara wasn’t sure whether what she was doing made any sense, or if she was simply asking for a beating. All she knew was that she had to try, no matter how stupid it was.

  She adopted the combat stance she had learned during her time with Platea—a guard rooted in eastern martial arts. Aedran felt a chill run down his spine as he recognized it.

  Lyara knew that, in terms of strength, Aedran overwhelmingly surpassed her. The same was true for speed and experience. She should have been completely outmatched… except for one thing: she was the last one to step forward. Aedran tightened his grip on the wooden sword. This time, he had no intention of making mistakes or fighting with the carelessness he’d shown against Thaelen and Aoi.

  The young apprentice took a deep breath. Aedran snapped his fingers, signaling the start of the match.

  Lyara launched herself at him.

  Aedran was briefly surprised by her speed, but he regained his composure just in time to meet her first strike. Wood collided with a sharp, dry crack.

  “I forgot to mention… if this is a classic sparring match—”

  “I lose too if you hit a vital point,” Lyara cut in without slowing down. Aedran looked at her, confused for a moment. “Don’t think I’m an idiot.”

  She had watched Aedran fight—against other apprentices, against the materialization mage. Ever since the academy, she had always stood out among so-called prodigies with absurd physiques. Not because of strength, but because of her ability to learn simply by observing.

  Another strike. Aedran couldn’t tell what she was trying to do. He was curious about her strategy, but from his perspective, she seemed to be attacking without purpose.

  Another strike. The wooden blades screeched with every collision.

  I haven’t seen enough of him to understand his entire style… Lyara thought as she slid to his side and slashed again. But one thing is clear: Aedran is used to fighting with a nearly indestructible sword and flawless technique. He always blocks the same way.

  Aedran responded with a thrust that grazed Lyara’s hair. She twisted, slipped behind him, and jumped, bringing her sword down with all her strength.

  Good, Aedran thought as he raised his blade to protect his neck. I’ll block, and this ends. How naive… did she really think motivation alone would be enough to beat me?

  The thought cut off abruptly. A sharp crack echoed behind him. Before he could react, a solid blow struck his head. The impact made him stagger. Aedran spun around, disoriented.

  Lyara dropped to her knees, trembling, and looked up—just as stunned as he was. Aedran’s head was burning. He lifted his sword toward her… and then he saw it.

  He was only holding half of the blade. The other half lay on the ground, at Lyara’s feet.

  “The sword was already damaged,” Lyara explained, a hint of mockery in her voice. “I just kept hitting the exact same spot until the wood gave in.”

  The apprentices looked at one another.

  Is that level of precision really possible? they wondered.

  Aedran tried to respond, but all he could do was stare at the broken weapon again and again, wearing an expression that Lyara found frankly comical. Elryn looked up, bewildered. Marreck’s eyes gleamed. The apprentices who had already passed let out resigned sighs.

  “It was brilliant, actually,” Aoi added as she adjusted her jacket.

  Aedran clenched his teeth and threw what remained of the sword to the ground. Then he took a deep breath and glanced sideways at Lyara. His expression was one of tightly restrained anger.

  Is this for real? he thought. A perfectly ordinary girl defeated me… a Gramorguian?

  He clenched his fists and let his head fall forward. He wanted to demand a rematch, but deep down he knew he didn’t have a single valid argument to justify it.

  “I suppose you won…” he finally admitted, “…even if it wasn’t exactly fair.”

  “Fair or not, I won,” Lyara replied, stepping closer. “So I assume they’re staying.”

  “Yes…” Aedran agreed reluctantly.

  Lyara closed her eyes in excitement and gave a small hop.

  “I can’t wait to tell my entire class that I beat Aedran.”

  “You know you only won because it wasn’t a real sword, right?” he growled, trying to justify himself. “If I’d had blackstone—”

  “Wood or not,” Lyara interrupted, turning away with arrogance, “it’s your fault for not considering your weapon’s durability.”

  Aedran didn’t argue. He simply sighed, resigned, and turned away.

  It doesn’t matter… he thought. It was just a stupid practice match.

  “I suppose it’s valid. So congratulations—everyone here is now part of this stupidity. See you tomorrow,” he said as he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. “I’ll read you some book about Camellium or whatever nonsense the masters teach.”

  “The shift isn’t over yet,” Aoi said, confused.

  “It’s five in the afternoon.”

  “You arrived at two.”

  “And it’s my day off,” Aedran replied without looking back. “So screw you. Do paperwork or whatever. I’m going to enjoy myself.”

  Aedran left without another glance.

  The apprentices stood there, staring at one another, still trying to process what had just happened.

  “So, uh…” Lyara began with a friendly smile, trying to ease the awkwardness. “We’re a team now, I guess… what do you all do for fun?”

  Lyara opened her eyes slowly as the first rays of sunlight hit her square in the face. She jolted upright and glanced at the clock. Six in the morning. She still had plenty of time to sleep, so she couldn’t understand why the maid was already tidying the room as if it were midday.

  The woman had pale hair and wore a maid’s uniform that was far more fetishistic than practical, clearly designed to suit her father’s tastes.

  “Mirel, what the hell?!” Lyara exclaimed as she sat up in bed and adjusted her nightgown.

  The maid looked up calmly while arranging some papers on the desk.

  “Your father is traveling today. He wishes to have breakfast with his children before departing,” she replied in a gentle tone, measuring every word. She stepped closer and studied Lyara carefully. “You might want to make yourself presentable. Your mother will be there as well.”

  “Ugh… can’t they pretend they’re still married some other time?” Lyara groaned as she stood up.

  Mirel hurried to smooth the sheets with near-surgical precision.

  “No. As a proper wife, your mother must see him off just before his departure. I’m sorry, miss.”

  She stepped closer to Lyara, who glanced sideways as the maid dabbed at a bit of drool she’d left behind while sleeping, using a napkin.

  “What a shame you don’t have time for a bath.”

  “Please, leave.”

  The maid let out a restrained giggle and quickly exited the room. Lyara looked at the bed—perfectly made, even carrying a faint floral scent.

  “She’s like six times smaller than the bed. How does she do that so fast?” she muttered before heading into her private bathroom.

  She dressed quickly in her guard uniform. Her muscles felt tight from the sparring session the day before, though she was already used to it. She tried to tame her hair, which always woke up looking as if it had fought a hunter before going to sleep.

  She had never liked the female guard uniform. The pleated skirt made her feel more like a student than a soldier. She applied a bit of makeup to hide the dark circles she’d earned from staying up late playing cards with her older brother. She was tired of listening to him complain about how hard his life was—but family was still family.

  She grabbed a few papers from the desk and left the room.

  House Valbourg—a six-story building in the center of Veltraxis—was filled with all kinds of rooms: gaming halls, chambers devoted to pleasures more private than she cared to think about (often used by her siblings) and confusing corridors that connected different wings in thoroughly unintuitive ways.

  That morning, only she and her brother Julien were present. He was two years older and stepped out of his room without having made even the slightest effort to groom himself. He gave her a sideways glance.

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  “Heading off to play soldier already?” he asked with a yawn. “Your boss must be thrilled with that skirt.”

  “After breakfast,” Lyara replied. “And you? Finally going to meet your wife? I hope she’s not as repulsive as her letters and portraits, or you’ll end up being a trophy husband.”

  Julien let out a groan and was about to respond when they both heard the echo of approaching heels down the hallway.

  Their mother appeared, her presence imposing. Her brown hair fell elegantly, not a strand out of place. She glanced at Lyara and Julien; both immediately lowered their heads.

  “Lyara, your hair…” the woman remarked without stopping.

  “What about it?”

  “It’s a mess, as always. Didn’t Mirel style it for you?”

  “I sent her away before she could suggest it.”

  Their mother nodded and continued on her way. The siblings exchanged tense looks and followed her into the dining room.

  Their father was already seated at the head of the long table, large enough to seat sixteen people. The dark wood gleamed under the light as the maids—dressed identically to Mirel—served freshly prepared food on tableware adorned with golden details, accompanied by bread and glasses of wine. Since Lyara was underage, she was served only half a portion.

  They took their seats. Lyara glanced around: most of the chairs were empty. Only she, her brother, and their parents were present. The rest of her siblings were away on business trips or attending bourgeois social engagements.

  Rarely were there more than five people at that table—except, of course, on the night of Hen Chemon.

  Her father was reading the newspaper. He lowered it slightly to look at his daughter, offering her a fond smile. His beard was streaked with gray, his hair neatly combed back. Then he returned to his reading.

  “Isn’t that dress a bit short?” he asked as a maid poured another glass of wine. “Can you really conduct operations dressed like that?”

  Lyara looked up as she sat down. She thought for a moment before answering.

  “They’re actually two different uniforms,” she explained. “One ceremonial—that would be this one—and another for fieldwork, which is what we wear during missions, Father.”

  He nodded, satisfied, and went back to his paper.

  Lyara had barely slept, so her head drooped now and then. She had spent the night wondering whether it had been right to insist that Elryn and Marreck stay with them. Even if the guard wanted to get rid of them should they fail to enter the division, would they really be safe there?

  If everything went according to the Lord’s plans, in less than a month they would have to capture a category-three mage.

  In truth, she hadn’t saved them completely. Just as Marreck had said, she had only postponed their end a little longer.

  “Dad…” she said at last, twirling her fork between her fingers. “If the guard doesn’t want someone to talk, what do they do?”

  Lord Valbourg didn’t even lift his gaze from his glass.

  “Well,” he replied in a practical tone, “if they can’t persuade the person to keep quiet, they’ll most likely dispose of them. The guard tends to be quite direct…” He finally looked up, studying her. “You haven’t gotten yourself into trouble, have you?”

  “No!” Lyara denied immediately, almost offended. “I was just curious.”

  “I’m glad,” he said, raising the wine to his lips. “I don’t want to add any more expenses to what the guard already charges us.”

  Mirel glanced sideways at Lyara, careful not to get too close to her mother, who was eating with apparent calm.

  In the end, it really was the right decision to insist they stay, Lyara thought—though it wasn’t exactly comforting to know the guard could execute them without so much as an explanation.

  Silence returned… until her brother, sitting with the rigid posture of someone trained from childhood to behave at the table, clicked his tongue.

  “I still don’t understand,” he said, staring at his barely touched plate, “why she doesn’t have to get married.”

  “Get over it,” their father replied, his tone unchanged.

  Lyara smirked.

  “We already know your wife isn’t very attractive,” she said lightly. “Could you stop complaining for at least one day?”

  Her brother looked at her in disbelief.

  “Easy for you to say when you can do whatever you want.”

  “Oh, please. Just give her three children,” Lyara replied with a shrug. “After that, you can do what Dad does and keep a harem of maids, if it bothers you that much.”

  Their father raised an eyebrow, amused.

  “That’s true.”

  Their mother, who had remained silent until then, set her napkin on the table with calculated calm.

  “Though perhaps you should be a bit more decent than your father,” she said without looking at anyone, “and keep your affairs outside the house, out of respect for your wife.”

  At that moment, Mirel took a step aside, carefully removing herself from Lady Valbourg’s line of sight.

  Their father let out a short nasal laugh.

  “Like you do with those bar idiots, I suppose.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Look at it this way,” he continued, turning to his son. “You can be a hypocrite like your mother or shameless like me. Son, those are your options.”

  Her brother stood up abruptly, shoving his chair back with a sharp scrape. He looked at Lyara with a mixture of disgust and something harder to name, then left the dining room without a word.

  Lyara sighed and speared an olive, thoughtful.

  She wondered what arguments were like in normal families. Maybe there were more shouting, more tears… but at least they wouldn’t be so cold and distant. For her, however, this was nothing out of the ordinary. Her parents remained married solely to avoid trouble with the other bourgeois Valbourg. She had never seen them sleep in the same room, nor even say “I love you” to each other. As far as she knew, their intimacy had ended the day she was conceived on a whim. The eighth child of House Valbourg—that was Lyara.

  They were supposed to provide seven children to maintain the house and negotiate trades deals, but they wanted at least one who wasn’t born out of obligation. Or so her brother claimed.

  Lyara was still thinking about it when they left the residence. Her mother stepped forward as her husband climbed into the carriage.

  “Have a pleasant journey, my love,” she said with flawless sweetness, while nearby bourgeois onlookers glanced over from every angle.

  Then came the ceremonial kiss.

  Lyara said goodbye with a simple wave. The carriage rolled away down the road leading out of the city. Her mother gave her a sideways glance before ascending the carved steps of the residence once more.

  Lyara sighed, mildly irritated, and set off toward the guard headquarters.

  She walked through the streets of Veltraxis, greeting the vendors as she passed. One of them tossed her an apple while wishing her good luck. Lyara answered with a smile and took a hearty bite of the fruit. She enjoyed these walks before reaching the guard headquarters—they were relaxing and helped her wake up fully. Even if her father disliked her wandering the streets alone.

  The only concesión she made was allowing her a ride from the base of the mountain where the guard’s headquarters stood. Walking was pleasant, but climbing all the way up there alone would take a madwoman. She waited a few minutes at her usual spot until, on the horizon, a man appeared, snapping the reins of an albino horse pulling a cart loaded with clothing and daily supplies for the guard.

  “Sweet Valbourg, how are you?” the man asked with a broad smile.

  Lyara greeted him warmly.

  “Very well, sir. I see you’re as punctual as ever,” she replied as she climbed onto the cart, careful not to drop anything or disturb the supplies.

  The man laughed loudly.

  “Well, the more punctual I am, the better I can make use of the little time I have left.”

  His laughter was booming, but it didn’t bother Lyara.

  “You’re not that old,” she scolded him playfully, biting into the apple.

  “I’ve heard you’re working with Guard Aedran, is that right?”

  “You and the whole city, apparently,” Lyara complained, narrowing her eyes. “At this rate, I’ll be known more as his apprentice than by my last name.”

  “Are the rumors about his personality true?”

  “It’s worse!”

  “Oof… my condolences.”

  They both laughed and continued joking until they reached the guard headquarters. Lyara got down at the entrance; the man continued on his way, as he had to circle the building to reach the storage area and unload the supplies.

  Lyara yawned as she crossed the threshold. She spotted a few recruits playing with a mindcat she immediately recognized as Kesari. Apparently, Lady Platea was still in the city. She wondered whether the negotiations were going well.

  She took a moment to greet several of her former academy classmates. All of them were three or four years older than she was; after all, she had graduated at an absurdly young age. Some asked her about the new division being formed, others went straight to asking about Aedran.

  “Is it true there’s a Drynari?” Kael asked.

  He was a black-haired boy with glasses—her best friend. Pale-skinned and unkempt, he was talented but rather clumsy. Somehow, he reminded her of Elryn.

  “Yes.”

  “Seriously?” Kael muttered. “The guard must be desperate if they’re letting one join a division like that.”

  One of Lyara’s friends sighed, annoyed.

  “So what?” another asked, clearly interested. “Are they really as handsome as in the portraits? He’s blond, right?”

  Lyara thought for a moment.

  “I didn’t pay that much attention to his face,” she admitted.

  Her friends stared at her expectantly.

  “But yes,” she added, “he’s definitely very attractive. I suppose the blond hair helps.”

  The girls let out exaggerated squeals. Kael sighed in irritation.

  Lyara moved away from the group and crossed the elevated corridors toward the meeting area. She observed the different divisions at work: smuggling, minor terrorists, thieves, patrol units… all filled with enthusiastic recruits eager to “serve society,” guided by instructors who gave clear orders and—at least on the surface—seemed invested in keeping their apprentices alive another day.

  Then she reached her division.

  It was barely marked, identified only by a roughly nailed plank of wood. Lyara sighed in resignation and entered the room. Just as she expected, Aedran hadn’t arrived yet: his seat as division leader stood empty.

  She turned her head just in time to see Thaelen and Aoi in the middle of a scuffle. Smoke wolves chased the Drynari around the room as he fired arrows from a druidic wooden bow. There didn’t seem to be any real risk of someone getting hurt.

  Off to one side was Lysette, wearing her goggles and holding a blowtorch. Lyara had no idea how she had managed to bring a gas tank into the room without the guards stopping her. She was welding something while humming carefree to herself.

  Lyara approached her.

  “Why are those two fighting?” she asked.

  Lysette looked up, confused, not quite understanding what she meant. Then she turned her head just as an arrow whistled past her and lodged itself in the floor.

  “Huh. So Drynari aim really wasn’t an exaggeration…” Lysette said without looking up much. “Uh… I’m not sure. I think Thaelen said something stereotypical about Aoi’s culture. She called him a nazi, and after a couple of insults… well. Here we are.”

  She explained it with complete disinterest, immediately returning to her own world and her work.

  Lyara sighed and looked toward the desks. Marreck was seated, watching the fight intently, ready to react if an arrow strayed in his direction. Elryn was nowhere to be seen.

  Lyara walked over to Aedran’s desk and sat down without a second thought, stretching out shamelessly in the chair.

  An hour passed easily. When she finally looked up, it was already ten in the morning. Aoi and Thaelen were sitting on the floor, breathing heavily, completely exhausted.

  Then, at last, the door opened.

  Aedran entered sluggishly, dark circles dominating his face. His hangover could be felt from miles away. He dragged his feet; at least this time he was wearing his guard uniform, though it wasn’t even properly buttoned. He looked at Lyara and grimaced.

  “You know that’s my seat, right?” he said as he took off his ceremonial jacket.

  “It’s the squad leader’s seat,” Lyara replied. “The same leader who should’ve been here an hour before everyone else… and sober.”

  Aedran snorted and tossed a book onto the desk. From below, a muffled yelp echoed.

  Both of them leaned forward curiously. Elryn was under the desk, curled up, staring into nothingness.

  “She really is like a frightened animal,” Aedran remarked sarcastically. “Do you think she’d have a heart attack if she got startled badly enough?”

  Lyara narrowed her eyes and shoved him aside.

  “What are you doing down there, Elryn?”

  “They were fighting…” she murmured, barely audible. “And arrows wouldn’t reach me here.”

  Lyara sighed in relief. Aedran leaned against the wall, pressing his fingers to his forehead.

  “Are you going to do anything to prepare us when a mission comes up?” Lyara asked.

  “Yeah, yeah…” he replied. “Just give me a minute for the pain to go away, and I’ll tell you what to do.”

  “How much did you drink?”

  “The usual. More than I can handle.”

  Lyara stared at him, exasperated, scratching the back of her neck. At this rate, Aedran was going to make sure she never had her hair neatly in place again.

  Finally, the door opened once more. Kaeldric stepped in, took in the scene, and sighed when he realized no one was doing anything. He walked up to Aedran and dropped a file on him.

  “What’s this?” the Gramorguian asked, flipping through the papers.

  “Your first mission,” Kaeldric replied. Everyone immediately turned toward him, curious and finally sparked with excitement at the prospect of doing something useful. “A magical attack was reported. Several members of the cavalry were killed.”

  End of Chapter 7