Chapter 2
Captain Raithmore paced slowly in front of the two hundred trainees of Gwynvir, his presence cutting through the formation long before his voice ever did. He moved like a blade drawn inch by inch, tall and solid. Every step is deliberate enough to make you track it whether you wanted to or not. There was nothing wasted in him. Not a motion, not a glance.
His face was carved from hard lines and colder eyes and his shaved head made him look even more fierce. He assessed, measured, and decided everything all in one look.
Even in silence, he held all of us rigid, like the air itself tightened when he passed.
Overhead, dark blue clouds stretched endlessly across the sky, swallowing what should have been early morning light and replacing it with something dim and uncertain. If you hadn’t lived here long enough, you wouldn’t even know what time it was.
Oddly enough, the weather usually stayed like this, hauntingly dewy and depressing, with only the occasional break in the constant sheet of cloud.
It was almost impressive how miserable it managed to be.
At least we were spared early morning training for this. I wasn’t exactly thrilled about swordplay today, but when James came storming into the barracks earlier, yelling about mandatory formation, I’d nearly thanked the moon goddess for the smallest scrap of mercy.
Now I was reconsidering that gratitude.
Behind Raithmore stood his two shadows, First Lieutenant Haile and Second Lieutenant Maxwell, both locked into perfect attention like statues carved for intimidation alone.
Haile looked exactly like the rumors promised. His light brown hair was shaved into a severe buzz cut that only sharpened the harshness already settled into his features. His green eyes were hard, unyielding. At six foot three, he didn’t just stand tall, he loomed.
Maxwell, on the other hand, was deceptive.
Softer features. Leaner frame. A calm, almost approachable expression that might have worked, if his eyes didn’t give him away. They moved too carefully, too deliberately as they scanned the ranks, missing nothing while pretending not to look at all. He stood motionless, only a few inches short of Haile. Women fawned and whispered about him when they thought no one was listening, but I knew a vulture when I saw one.
All forty squads stood in rigid lines, tension building slowly, thickening the air until even breathing felt deliberate.
I shifted slightly behind James, trying, and failing, to see past his shoulders. He stood directly in front of me, broad and immovable, his six-foot frame blocking nearly everything of interest, but I wanted a better look in case the situation got ugly.
With all that muscle packed onto him, I felt like an ant staring up at a tree.
Annoying.
My fingers pressed tighter against the seams of my training pants, grounding myself as Raithmore passed in front of us again, boots crunching steadily against the packed dirt.
“What do you think is up his ass?” I muttered under my breath, angling my voice just enough to carry forward.
Silence rippled instantly through our line.
The only sound left was the steady, measured crunch of Raithmore’s steps as he continued his patrol.
“Maybe he has a secret lover, and she left him,” I added. “Now he’s come to torture us for his shortcomings. Do you think he likes brunettes?”
A quiet snort came from somewhere behind me. Brynn, obviously, because who else.
The wind shifted, brushing lightly through James’s hair as he stood there, completely unmoving. He looked like a statue.
A very attractive statue.
A very attractive statue that ignored women.
I leaned a fraction closer, lowering my voice again.
“He might—”
James’ whole body hardened with tension.
“Shut up, Lyra,” he hissed under his breath. “Why in the moon goddess did they have to put us in the same squad. It’s embarrassing.”
I ignored the last part entirely as a slow, satisfied grin spread across my face at the tension in his shoulders.
This, this right here, was my favorite pastime.
Poking the bear until he shows his true nasty colors like a proper man.
Because underneath the easy smiles and practiced charm, there was something else there. Something sharper. Something real.
And I preferred that version of him. At least irritation was honest.
I was about to continue our cute little back-and-forth when Raithmore stopped pacing.
The shift was immediate.
I straightened, slipping back into place like the good little soldier I was.
“As all of you know,” Raithmore began, his voice cutting cleanly through the yard, “every Nithaerian citizen is required to enlist in training camps at the age of twenty and serve the Crown until their powers manifest around their twenty-fifth year.”
He resumed his pacing, slower this time.
Measured.
Controlled.
“All powers must be demonstrated and documented in front of your Lieutenants and Captain. At that time, you will either be dismissed due to a lack of substantial ability… or transferred to elite facilities to further develop your skills.”
He paused.
As if any of this was new information.
I resisted the urge to sigh.
We were raised on this. Conditioned for it. This wasn’t an announcement.
Did he think we were stupid?
His gaze flicked in my direction, sharp enough to make something in my chest tighten.
Is he reading my mind right now?
“To acknowledge how close some of you are to manifestation,” he continued, “we have decided to hold a tournament between the fifth years.”
The word tournament rippled through the formation like a dropped stone, quiet murmurs spreading outward before anyone could stop them.
My skin prickled.
Gwynvir didn’t do tournaments.
No war camp did.
Not ever.
What is happening right now?
“We intend to push your abilities to the surface,” Raithmore said, clasping his hands behind his back. “Perhaps some of you will begin to see early signs of your power.”
A pause.
“The tournament will consist of three trials regarding war simulations and combat. Since most abilities manifest through physical extensions such as swords, daggers, and whips, you will adapt accordingly to the circumstances you are given.”
His gaze swept across us again, slower this time.
Sharper.
“There is no reward for winning.” The air seemed to drop ten degrees. “Only the privilege of keeping your life.”
Something cold settled in my stomach.
This wasn’t normal. Even for Gwynvir.
“If you wish to complete your training and leave this camp,” he finished calmly, “you will compete.”
A drawn out pause followed.
“Or you will die.”
Silence.
Complete. Heavy. Suffocating.
So those were the options. Fight and maybe die… or refuse and definitely die. Charming.
“You will compete as a squad,” he added. “The tournament begins tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? Of course it does.
He turned and walked away like he hadn’t just stabbed a blade through our stomachs, his minions falling into step behind him without a word.
So much for a friendly competition. Not.
For a moment, no one moved. Then, at once, every squad broke into hushed, urgent discussion. Whispers. Questions. Panic, barely contained beneath controlled voices.
James turned to us and spoke first.
“Everything will be fine,” he said, his tone steady, grounding. “We just need to stay calm until we know more.”
He sounded certain, like he believed it.
I stared at him. Apparently, we processed imminent death very differently.
“The tournament is tomorrow,” I cut in, my voice sharper than I intended. “We don’t have time to ‘stay calm.’ Raithmore just threatened to kill us if we don’t participate, so we actually have no choice.”
Brynn’s brows pulled together as she looked at me.
“Were you thinking of not participating?”
I blinked at her.
Was that a serious question?
“It doesn’t matter,” I said, dragging a hand down my face, exhaustion already settling in. “It’s either death… or something close enough to it.”
She went quiet after that.
Good.
I looked away, my thoughts already spiraling somewhere I didn’t want to follow.
Beside me, Posey’s hands moved in a repetitive rhythm—three strokes, switch, three strokes, switch—over and over, like she could smooth the situation into something manageable if she just kept going.
“This isn’t exactly… ideal,” she said carefully. “It seems unfair to put us through something this dangerous when we haven’t even manifested yet.”
Finally,
Someone with sense.
Elijah let out a low grunt beside her, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression unreadable as always, but the tension in his posture said enough.
“Well,” James said after a moment, like he’d already decided something for all of us, “there’s nothing we can change. Whatever they throw at us, we’ll handle it.”
He glanced at me.
“And we’re all participating. That’s final.”
Before I could respond, before I could tell him exactly what I thought about that, he turned and walked off.
Just like that.
Decision made.
I stared after him, irritation flaring hot and immediate.
Then, frantically, I lifted both hands and raised my middle fingers at his retreating back.
He didn’t even look.
Of course he didn’t.
I let my arms drop heavily to my sides, exhaling sharply as the weight of everything settled in.
“Yeah,” I muttered under my breath, eyes still fixed on where he’d been.
“This is going to go great.”