Simur Academy of War, Amram — Ikhael 12, 1717 A.N. — Dawn

  The morning air hit sharp and cold, the kind that found the gaps in your collar and stayed there. Mordekhai marched onto the training field with the rest of them, his body still carrying the residual warmth of sleep, already being stripped of it.

  “Line up!”

  The supervisor’s voice cut through the murmur like something thrown.

  “Perimeter run. Maintain formation pace. Fall behind—” a pause, deliberate, “—and you’ll discover exactly how enthusiastic I can become about individual attention.”

  The exercises continued without pause, one flowing into the next. Push-ups, sprints, partner carries; the body followed orders, instructions arriving faster than recovery, leaving no room for hesitation. Mordekhai maintained his rhythm—steady, unexceptional, at the point he needed to be.

  By the end, cadets stood in groups across the field. Yonatan collapsed onto the grass.

  “Tell me this is over,” he groaned.

  Elisha stood over him, her breathing already steady. “Not even close.” She held out her hand, a sweet smile on her face.

  Across the field, the girl with violet eyes stood apart, maintaining perfect posture despite her exhaustion. Her gaze skimmed past him without recognition before she walked toward the dormitories, giving away nothing.

  The bell chimed. Dismissed.

  The inspection and shower passed in a blur—a clean uniform, proper presentation, and no infractions. Then it was time for classes.

  The hallway to the classrooms was already crowded when they arrived. Third year meant new class assignments. The academy reshuffled students annually, forcing cadets to adapt to new dynamics. He’d been fortunate the previous two years, never separated from Yonatan and Elisha, but that luck might not hold.

  Elisha stepped out of the crowd, her fitted navy coat and high collar framing her face. Her black skirt, falling to mid-thigh, moved with a sway the academy likely hadn’t intended. Mordekhai kept his expression neutral, looking away before she could catch his eye.

  Yonatan, however, lacked that restraint.

  “Well, well,” he said with a grin as she approached, “it seems these new uniforms are working miracles. Even our tomboy has been transformed into a proper lady.”

  Elisha’s green eyes flashed. Without breaking stride, she drove her fist into his stomach.

  “Oof!” Yonatan doubled over. “W-Why...?”

  “Call me a tomboy again,” Elisha said sweetly, adjusting the gold buttons on her coat, “and next time I’ll aim lower.”

  “What class did they assign you?” she asked Mordekhai.

  “Huma class,” he said, watching their faces.

  A flicker of worry crossed Yonatan’s before he recovered.

  “Not bad. Everyone says Huma gets the best instructors.” Yonatan’s gaze swept the hallway. “I just hope they don’t stick me in Tzuren. Full of arrogant nobles, always sniffing around like they own the place.”

  “A perfect fit for a noble such as yourself,” Mordekhai said mildly.

  Yonatan sputtered. “That’s — I’m not — it’s completely different! I’m the good kind of noble. The humble, self-aware kind.”

  “Right. Very humble.” Elisha pulled a folded slip from her coat pocket. Her eyes scanned it, and slowly, a faint smile touched her lips. Rare. Genuine. “Looks like we’re together again this year.”

  A knot in his chest loosened—his shoulders dropped, and his posture softened for a moment.

  “Yes! By the Flames!” Yonatan grabbed the paper.

  “Don’t get too excited,” Elisha said, though her tone held amusement. “I’ve heard the Huma’s instructors is known for surprise tests.”

  “Nonsense! Mordy will support me if such things happen.”

  Cadets poured through the double doors. Mordekhai followed his friends inside, his instincts taking stock of the surroundings.

  The classroom was an amphitheater with tiered seating, offering clear views of the front where a large chalkboard spanned the wall. The wooden floorboards groaned under the sound of shuffling boots. Mordekhai selected a seat in the third row, on the right side, near the window.

  “My stomach still hurts,” Yonatan exhaled, slumping into his chair. “Next time I compliment anyone’s appearance, remind me to stand farther away.”

  Elisha settled beside them, still carrying residual irritation. “Next time, try complimenting without the backhanded insults.”

  The room kept filling up. Mordekhai spotted familiar faces; some ignored him, while others gave him unfriendly stares. He unconsciously brought his hand to his jaw, rubbing it, a habit he’d picked up from his father. He made himself stop.

  The door remained closed. Waiting.

  Then footsteps. Sharp and precise, boot heels on timber.

  The figure that appeared was tall, silver-haired, a face marked by war but somehow still warm. Blue eyes swept the room, assessing each of them.

  Mordekhai’s breath stopped.

  Recognition rippled through the classroom. Cadets straightened.

  The figure’s gaze swept the room, his eyes landing on Mordekhai before flicking away, then returning. A moment of eye contact passed between them, revealing a warmth beneath the instructor’s mask.

  His eyes swept the room, briefly meeting Mordekhai’s before darting away, only to return. In that fleeting moment of eye contact, Mordekhai saw a warmth beneath the instructor’s stern facade.

  Mordekhai looked down at his desk. His brother. Here.

  “Good morning. I am Instructor Shemuel ven Aydin. I teach History and Strategy.” His voice carried command without coldness. “Welcome to the Huma Class—third year.”

  Mordekhai knew the symbol. The Huma, the bird that never lands, spending its entire life high above the world, its shadow said to bestow kingship on whoever it touched. Fortune. Royalty. Something that belonged entirely to the sky and never to the ground beneath it.

  “The Huma never stops.” Shemuel’s gaze moved across the room. “Neither do we.”

  Mordekhai kept his eyes on his hands. Aware that Shemuel was still watching. He didn’t look up.

  “You are now Sarimors—Cadets Second Class. This rank comes with responsibilities. I hope you’re ready for them.”

  “First row, stand and state your name and specialization. Begin.”

  Names moved through the rows. Mordekhai catalogued them without fully processing. Then—

  “Rinah Norahimel. Medic.”

  Norahimel. The suffix caught his attention—el. Religious nobility.

  Beside him, Yonatan went rigid. He jerked his head towards the row on their right.

  The girl with light brown hair stilled mid-motion, hands frozen against her uniform. She looked forward. Across the amphitheater, her eyes found Yonatan’s.

  A blush crept up her cheeks, but it wasn’t from shame. Her lips parted, not quite forming words, more like the ghost of them, the start of a name that had no place to land. She closed her mouth. Opened it again. Then her gaze fell to her desk, and her hands settled flat upon its surface, perfectly still, like one might hold down something that was trying to escape.

  Yonatan said nothing. That alone was enough to make Mordekhai look twice.

  Neither looked away until Rinah broke first.

  And then, more names followed.

  “Ezra ven Aydin. Skirmisher.”

  Mordekhai’s jaw clenched, a reaction he recognized too late to stop. The silver-haired boy stood as if accepting a standing ovation, his movements imbued with a confidence that seemed intentionally directed. Ezra’s gaze met Mordekhai’s for a fleeting moment, just long enough for a cold smirk to flash across his face.

  Several more introductions passed before a voice called everyone’s attention.

  “Abigayil vat Sark. Heavy Infantry.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  Those violet eyes. The girl from yesterday. The one Kedron’s boys had called cursed.

  She stood with a military bearing that looked drilled in since childhood. Heavy infantry. That fits.

  The procession finally reached their row, and Yonatan stood up.

  “Yonatan ven Ramiel. Skirmisher.”

  Elisha followed. “Elisha min Barzel. Spellcaster.”

  Then Mordekhai stood. All eyes turned to him.

  “Mordekhai...” He hesitated before claiming the name. “...ven Aydin. Scout.”

  Silence. Then whispers.

  He sat.

  “Remember these names,” Shemuel said into the silence. “These are the people you will train with, fight alongside, and depend upon. Success demands trust and cohesion.”

  “Now, let’s discuss your safir assignments.” He retrieved a sheet of paper. “For the remainder of your time here, your safirs—units of four cadets will be reorganized. Your new safir will be your team in every exercise, and assignment until graduation.”

  His shoulders pulled in slightly, an involuntary thing, gone before he fully registered it.

  The moment the paper was pinned to the board, chairs scraped. His eyes moved to locate his name.

  “There!” Yonatan’s voice. “Seventh Safir, look!”

  7th Safir: Mordekhai ven Aydin, Yonatan ven Ramiel, Elisha min Barzel, Abigayil vat Sark

  A knot loosened in his chest. Still together. That was good. But—

  His name was underlined. A single dark line.

  “Khai,” Elisha started. “Your name—”

  “I see it.”

  “Underlined names indicate your Safiraph,” Shemuel’s voice carried across the room. “Your unit leader. Congratulations to those selected.”

  Pride and apprehension settled in his chest, inseparable.

  Yonatan clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s about time.”

  “It’s well deserved,” Elisha added.

  “Do you think so?” The words came quieter than he’d intended.

  Shemuel gave them until the end of the class to meet their members. Mordekhai scanned the room until he found her—sitting alone on the middle right side, apart from the clusters of students already introducing themselves to new teammates.

  They crossed the room towards her. Not a single hair fled her severe military bun.

  As they approached, something shifted in her posture—a flicker across her face, quickly controlled.

  She looked at them. Her gaze violet. Deep and uncommon, almost luminous. The kind of eyes that should have been admired, and weren’t. Around them, discipline worn so long it had become posture. He’d seen that look before.

  He caught Elisha in his peripheral vision. Just a half-second—eyes dropping, then lifting again, settling back into attentiveness as if nothing had moved. A small adjustment, the kind when they caught themselves looking at something they’d been taught not to look at directly.

  Yonatan’s expression was harder to read. His posture was relaxed and confident, with no visible tells, which was almost the biggest tell of all. He was never still unless he was calculating.

  Abigayil’s eyes assessed each of them, lingering on him longer. Then something changed—tightening around her eyes, tension in her jaw.

  She stood abruptly, each word precisely measured. “Abigayil vat Sark. Heavy Infantry. It is good to make your acquaintance.”

  A pause.

  “I thought I recognized you,” she said quietly, gaze fixed on Mordekhai. “You were there yesterday.”

  “Yes,” he confirmed, his gaze unwavering.

  “You redirected that … situation.”

  Situation. The word choice was interesting—a euphemism for confrontation. Something in her tone wanted him to be grateful for it. “The walkway was blocked,” he said, his voice neutral, or at least an attempt at neutral; he wasn’t sure if he’d pulled it off. “And they were in the way.”

  A fleeting look passed over her face. Not gratitude—something more complicated.

  “Yes. Well. Thanks,” she said. “I don’t believe I caught your names.”

  Elisha spoke first. “I’m Elisha min Barzel. Nice to meet you.”

  Yonatan followed. “Yonatan ven Ramiel. Pleased to meet you.”

  Mordekhai inclined his head. “Mordekhai ven Aydin. I’m the 7th Safir’s Safiraph.”

  Then a silence. It was as she had not

  “I rather think there’s been a mistake.” Her gaze remained on Mordekhai. “I transferred here on the assurance that I would be leading the finest cadets Simur had to offer.” Her jaw tightened. “I did not transfer to be placed under—”

  She caught herself.

  Yonatan’s smile faltered. “I’m sorry?”

  “The command structure.” She stepped closer — close enough that Mordekhai had to tilt his head to maintain eye contact. “I was safiraph at Gilead from my first year.” Her jaw tightened. “This command should have gone to me.”

  “Impressive,” Elisha said. “Though last I checked, the academy decides leadership, not transferees.”

  Abigayil didn’t look at her.

  Other safirs nearby had finished their introductions, conversations tapering as they noticed the tension.

  “Which qualifications, exactly?” he asked.

  Abigayil straightened. For just a moment, he saw past the rigid control to something raw underneath.

  “Proven tactical knowledge. Command experience under pressure.” She paused. “And a record worth speaking of—one that proves responsibility was not simply handed to you.”

  “And you believe I lack them.”

  “I cannot speak to what you possess.” Her hands moved to her hips. “I can speak to what I have earned — years of training, years of sacrifice, measured against standards that have never once been adjusted in anyone’s favour.”

  A bitter edge crept into her voice. “I am equally aware that merit alone does not always dictate who leads. There are, of course, other considerations.”

  Other considerations. Was she implying his appointment was political? The irony would be laughable if it didn’t sting. If politics had any say, his birthplace alone would have disqualified him.

  “You know nothing.” Yonatan stepped forward, grin stripped of humor. “If politics had their way, he wouldn’t be here in the first place. Trust me—you’d be really impressed by how many are actively trying to get him expelled.”

  “Regardless,” she said, voice careful now. “I have the experience. And I know well enough that in training exercises, inadequate command does not simply cost points — it costs people.”

  She wasn’t entirely wrong to question him. He had seen cadets getting badly injured during drills in his first year.

  There was something else, though. Something she hadn’t said and wasn’t going to. She had entered this place with violet eyes and a title stripped away, and it seemed she’d spent her entire life on the offensive. He recognized that move. Strike first before anyone can make you the target. He’d done it differently—stillness instead of challenge—but the instinct was the same.

  Abigayil moved even closer, her proximity allowing him to see the faint scar on her left cheek. “The exercises will settle the matter.”

  He could argue. Point out exactly how politics had worked against him, not for him. That every step of his path had been harder because of where he was born. That her assumptions were not just incomplete but backward.

  But would an argument accomplish anything? She’d made up her mind—or Gilead had made it up for her through whatever experience had carved conviction so deep. And now she’d been corrected, her certainty shaken, but she was doubling down on the one thing she could control: standards. Performance. Proof.

  “I suppose the exercises will tell,” he said quietly.

  She opened her mouth. Closed it. Something moved behind her eyes—not anger, not quite—before she reached for her materials with deliberate precision.

  “Yes,” the word came out smaller than she’d intended. She seemed to notice. “Yes,” she said again, firmer. “We’ll see how this arrangement functions soon enough.”

  She adjusted her bag strap. “I trust you understand, Sarimor ven Aydin, that I will be watching. Every decision. Every command. Every moment of leadership.”

  She paused at his shoulder, close enough that he could smell her perfume. Then she walked past—not around, but past—her shoulder intentionally brushing his arm.

  Mordekhai watched her spine remain rigid, steps measured.

  Finally, Yonatan let out a low whistle. “Well. That went about as smoothly as declaring war.”

  Elisha’s fists clenched. “Can you believe that? She walks in here, insults you and just storms off!”

  “She’s not wrong to question it.” The words came steadier than Mordekhai felt. “She led her own team at Gilead.”

  Yonatan’s expression shifted. “You think she got demoted?”

  The theory felt right. Made sense of her hostility, her terror about leadership failure.

  “That’s not our problem,” Elisha said firmly.

  The doubt surfaced automatically. Test scores and combat demonstrations—was that earning it, or just adequate performance that couldn’t be rejected without making the discrimination obvious?

  He made himself stop. Accept it. Move forward.

  “Either way, I won’t be short of an audience.”

  Not a complaint. Just a fact. He didn’t say the rest—that she wasn’t the only one, that the academy would spend the year waiting for him to fail, that Abigayil vat Sark was simply the newest member of that audience. Saying it would make it heavier, and it was already heavy enough.

  “This year’s going to be interesting,” Yonatan muttered.

  Around them, the classroom was emptying. Students gathered their materials and filed out in loose groups, the noise tapering as the room thinned. Shemuel remained at the front, organizing papers at the lectern.

  “Safiraph ven Aydin. A moment.”

  Mordekhai stopped. Through the doorway, he felt Yonatan and Elisha pause.

  “We’ll wait outside,” Elisha said quietly.

  Mordekhai approached the desk. Shemuel was organizing papers, not looking up.

  “Well done on the appointment.” Shemuel’s voice was warm. Genuine. “Safiraph carries real weight—don’t underestimate it.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The formal address created distance. Safe distance.

  A beat passed. Shemuel looked at him—waiting or inviting. Mordekhai kept his gaze on the middle distance, somewhere between his brother’s shoulder and the wall behind it.

  “The selection process,” he said finally. “For Safiraph. How does it work?”

  He hadn’t meant it to sound like a question about himself. It did anyway.

  Shemuel set down his papers. “The criteria are performance-based. Combat evaluations, tactical assessments, instructor reports.” A pause. “Your scores placed you first in your cohort. That is not something that can be arranged.”

  Mordekhai said nothing.

  “I know what you’re asking,” Shemuel said, quieter. “And the answer is no. Neither Father nor I had any part in this. You were chosen because you earned it.” He held his gaze. “I need you to believe that.”

  That was the problem. He almost did. And that “almost” was worse than not succeeding at all, because it meant the doubt wasn’t about the evidence itself—it was about him.

  “I appreciate that, sir.”

  Shemuel’s expression shifted. Not quite hurt. Something quieter.

  “Mordekhai.” Just his name, spoken with Shemuel’s unique inflection, stripped of title and formality. “Don’t shoulder this alone.”

  Something pressed behind his sternum—not pain, not quite. The specific weight of a door he didn’t want opened.

  “My friends are waiting.”

  He left before the silence could ask anything more of him.

  Outside, the morning sun was bright. Yonatan and Elisha waited by the entrance.

  “What did he want?” Elisha asked.

  “It’s nothing. Congratulations and all that.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Yonatan looked at him a half-second longer than necessary, then let it go. “So. Our first team meeting probably won’t be a rousing success.”

  “That’s optimistic thinking,” Elisha muttered. “At this rate, our first team meeting might end with someone in pieces.”

  Mordekhai said nothing. Just kept walking, the morning light flat and even against the stone. Shemuel’s voice still somewhere in his chest where he hadn’t managed to close the door on it yet.