The second run of my mock battle goes much more smoothly than the first. Unfortunately, I learn about most of it after the fact.


    Despite Sander’s objections, I don’t spend most of this battle waiting at base. Instead, Sofie takes that job, coordinating things from relative safety, while I accompany the assault team to the bridge. It’s a sound tactical decision on her part, since she still isn’t at a hundred percent after the injuries she sustained yesterday- but something tells me it’s also a bit of revenge on me, for being the person who caused her to sustain those injuries in the first place.


    Another difference is that this time, we aren’t going to entrench ourselves on one side of the bridge and get stuck in a lose-lose stalemate. Instead, Sofie authorizes a full charge, straight through the bridge and towards the enemy’s camp. Everything after that is relayed to me secondhand, because I’m the very first person to catch a bullet to the face. Nothing to complain about, though- hopefully that’ll satisfy some of the people who were more frustrated with my stunt yesterday.


    Upset though I may not be, I still hurry through the resurrection process, not bothering to make any significant changes to my body. I want to be there when the exercise is over, to congratulate everybody on learning the lesson they were meant to- that in battle, hesitation means death. That counts whether you’re fighting someone hand-to-hand, or whether you’re calling the shots from the commander’s chair. It’s better to trust your instincts and make a call, any call, than to sit around and wait for more information.


    That’s not to say having more information isn’t a good thing, but if your spies are competent, you’ll know everything you need to know before the battle even starts. That’s beside the point, though, and would only complicate the message I’m trying to convey.


    When I come out of the pod and reach out to Sander via the brainband for an update, it becomes apparent that the White Team didn’t win. That makes sense. Niko got the better picks, and in a fair fight, we probably couldn’t have beaten them. Sofie knew that, of course, and I’m sure she tried to even the odds, but it doesn’t reflect too poorly on her that she failed, given both her relative inexperience and the fact that she was recently injured.


    Once I’ve gotten myself together and left the medical center, I send a brainband message to the whole unit, congratulating the Black Team on their victory, and giving everybody the rest of the day off for a job well done. Some of the responses I receive are more enthusiastic than others. Yesterday’s stunt may have cost me points with some of them, but it accomplished what I wanted to, so I’m calling it a win nonetheless.


    This was still only the second time I’ve died, and I can’t say I’m particularly comfortable with it yet. So the first thing I do is go get something to eat, and fill my newly-empty stomach. Then I return to the Hyperion Building to reconvene with my copyclan. Most of the unit may be free until classes resume the day after tomorrow, but I’ve still got things to do this week. Specifically, the first meeting of my War Council, which I can’t honestly say I’m completely prepared for. Of course, that’s why I have a copyclan in the first place.


    While I’ve been busy testing the limits of my unit, my other selves have been preparing for the future. All of my plans for the future are predicated on performing well here at the Citadel, and the War Council’s purpose will be to ensure exactly that. Not by helping me with my grades, of course- that’s not a real concern. What matters is that my unit does well in comparison to the other three. It won’t be easy- we’re up against some formidable opposition. But it’s necessary, so it’ll get done. I can’t afford to think of it any other way.


    About an hour into the planning session, Sander arrives, fresh from the resurrection tanks. He’s as difficult to read as ever, but I get the sense he’s disappointed in himself, for allowing me to be killed. It’s not exactly his fault, but I don’t think telling him that would be of much use. The gray-skinned goliath doesn’t seem to have changed anything about himself, at least externally, during the resurrection process. Maybe he’s expecting to have more chances to reconsider his design choices in the future. That probably isn’t inaccurate.


    I wonder how familiar he is with the process. According to the personnel files available to me as unit leader, he doesn’t come from a place that would suggest frequent deaths. Quite the opposite, in fact. He hails from Palmaria, a heavily urbanized world that mostly functions as a tax haven for various multi-planetary corporations. Most of Sander’s parents work in Palmaria’s government, which is responsible for maintaining the highly permissive regulatory apparatus that attracts so many corporations to the planet. Reading a bit between the lines in his file, it seems that, when they decided to have a child, they were intending to create a vessel for their own frustrated political ambitions, someone who might reach a higher station than any of them ever did. For their child to be a Noble must have seemed a dream come true at first, until they realized Sander had no ambition whatsoever, save to be the very best bodyguard possible. Worse still, he ignored the cultural norms of the inner worlds by giving himself a visibly-modified body, prioritizing function over form, and doubtlessly embarrassing his family to their high-society friends.


    Of course, the odds of having two Nobles in one family are astronomically low, so one would expect that they’d just try again. Unfortunately, living in a big city on government salaries meant they couldn’t exactly afford to keep pumping out kids until one happened to meet their specifications. So, for the time being, they’re stuck with Sander, and the slim hope that he might provide an avenue for them to elevate their own stations by ingratiating himself to some other, more powerful Noble. Something tells me that’s not going to be his first priority, though.


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    The next day is my first chance in a while to comfortably sleep in, and I seize the opportunity. It’s almost lunchtime before I allow my copyclan to finally rouse me, and during the process of getting out of bed, the full weight of the previous week begins to set in.


    My life on Demeter VII was anything but sedentary, but it was at least fairly calm. I had a set list of tasks each day, most of which didn’t ever change. Many were involved with the maintenance of our sector, ensuring the growth and harvest of the crops continued apace. The rest were tasks I set for myself, in order to prepare for my eventual arrival here, at the Citadel. And now here I am, feeling completely overwhelmed.


    Part of the problem is that I’ve been dealing with everything on my own so far- which is hopefully about to come to an end. Once we have the first War Council meeting, I’ll be able to delegate to my chosen officers, and focus on only the matters of most importance. Still, there are other things to do before then. I made certain commitments for today, without realizing exactly how exhausted I would be. And the rest of the unit is probably similarly tired, though I doubt any of them have had to deal with any assassination attempts like I have.


    To ensure that I’ve got complete control of my faculties, I wait until I’ve spent a few minutes in the shower before addressing the unit over the brainband.


    Morning, everybody. I hope you all slept well. I know I did. You deserve a long rest after yesterday- once again, an exemplary performance all around.


    Might be laying it on a bit thick there, but it can’t hurt, considering what I put them through.


    The day is yours to do with as you please, but I hope you all didn’t forget that we’ll be having dinner as a unit tonight. The Stygian, 1900 hours. Don’t be late.


    The responses I receive are mostly bland confirmation that yes, they’ll be there, mixed with a few indications of surprise that we’re eating at one of the nicest restaurants in the Citadel. Not only that, but I’ve reserved a private room for us in advance. That should serve as a well-timed reminder to them of the benefits that working for me can provide. Yes, I’ll push them to their limits, and past if possible, but when all’s said and done, I’ll reward them for hard work too.


    Right now, though, I’m not especially interested in pushing past my own limits, which means I won’t be going out for lunch. Instead, I send out a delivery order while I’m getting dressed, and plop down onto the couch to await its arrival.


    “After-action report for yesterday is done,” one of my copies informs me, but I wave her off. Perusing the report wouldn’t take more than a second, since all I’d have to do is merge with my copyclan for a moment, but I still don’t feel like it right now. It can wait until after dinner tonight, when I’ll be able to discuss the conclusions therein with Niko, and get his thoughts on how to improve the unit’s performance on the battlefield. Hopefully he’s already put some thought into it based on his own observations. It’s hard to imagine him slacking off, considering how invested he is in disproving his line’s reputation for unreliability.


    For now, I can’t muster enough focus to concern myself with such things. I’m content just to sink into the plush cushions of the couch and wait for my food to arrive.


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    About an hour later, with my stomach full and my thoughts all in order, I leave the Hyperion Building, Sander at my side. With my copyclan handling all the various tasks on my to-do list, including studying for my upcoming classes, my schedule is more or less clear for the day. Still, I don’t want to get into the habit of slacking off just because I can, which means I need to find something to do. And there’s one thing that my copyclan can’t do for me- combat practice.


    The walk from our dormitory building to the gymnasium is short and uneventful, but I make an effort to stay out of my own head for the duration, and instead observe the people who I pass in the street. There are a handful of couriers, transporting food, mail, or other items around the Citadel, most of whom pay me no mind in their haste to reach their destination on time. Other members of the Citadel staff who aren’t on-duty, easily recognizable by their white uniforms, also walk by, many chatting with each other, though they give Nobles a wide berth whenever one of us comes near.


    Naturally, I see more than a few of my fellow students as well. Some of them I recognize from my own year, like Nandor Pal, a member of the Ox Unit with blue, nearly translucent skin that emanates a faint glow even under direct sunlight. We sat near to one another in Logistics, and though I don’t recall saying a word to him at the time, he gives me a friendly wave when he sees me walking past, which I hasten to return.


    Besides him, however, most of the Nobles I pass are ones I don’t recognize. Many of them are upperclassmen, wearing the sigils of one of the four units above ours- Crane, Locust, Orca, and Grizzly. They don’t seem to pay me any mind, absorbed in whatever discussions they’re having amongst themselves. Their internal dynamics aren’t of much concern to me, since we won’t be having much to do with them, but I do intend have my intelligence unit gather some information on the Crane unit when there’s a chance, seeing as the Heir is their current commander.


    That might sound like a mark of distinction, to be led by the future Emperor, but in reality it’s anything but. The unit with the worst performance in their first year is the one whose commander is replaced by the Heir in their second. In theory, the Emperor-to-be will whip them into shape, but that isn’t always how it works out. The current Heir has been here at the Citadel for some twenty years, and quickly lost interest in trying to reform the worst-performing unit, more or less abdicating his duties as commander to whoever used to be in charge. Strangely enough, that seems to have changed as of this year, as the Crane unit’s performance has been unexpectedly strong thus far.


    Whatever is going on there, it’s a mystery I won’t be solving today. Instead, I discard my questions and push open the glass double-doors to enter the gymnasium. It’s a rather utilitarian building, squat and wide, disinterested in mimicking the aesthetics of the Citadel at large. There’s something about that I can appreciate, when the rest of this place feels somewhat hollow, like a gigantic playground designed to pamper a pack of entitled Nobles- myself included, naturally. When I first arrived, the Citadel seemed majestic, especially compared to where I came from, but that’s worn off faster than expected. Now the cool air and practical composition of the gymnasium, which bears no pretentious title, feels refreshing on multiple levels.


    With a wave to the bored front desk attendant, who performs a quick check of my credentials over the brainband, I head through the lobby and towards the sparring room. Since there are no classes in session today, it’s open for anybody to use. With Sander at my side, I have a guaranteed training partner, but I’m secretly hoping someone else will be there who’s wanting for an opponent, since I suspect Sander would be hesitant to properly fight me.


    My wish is swiftly granted, as I hear signs of life before even entering the room. The room’s sole occupant is a man who appears to be a good bit older than me- though obviously looks can be deceiving in that regard -with flowing white hair and a bear that, put together, resembles a lion’s mane. He’s shirtless, broad chest covered in a patchwork of scars that indicate he’s held onto this body for a long time, or that he’s so attached to the memories of his past injuries that he carries them between physical vessels. Either way, I have to admit I’m a little intimidated- and the way he’s whaling on the training ‘bot in the ring with him isn’t helping.


    Each of the bearded man’s blows seems to land with the force of a torpedo, the impacts throwing the android off-balance and preventing it from even attempting a retaliatory strike. He’s also surprisingly loud, grunting with exertion every time he throws a punch, and not-infrequently shouting with triumph when one lands. It’s a fearsome display, enough to completely captivate my attention. Sander stares too, but with less fascination and more calculation- doubtless trying to spot any vulnerabilities the white-maned man might be exposing. After a moment, I realize why. His shirt, which is draped over the back of a nearby chair, has a Komodo pin attached to it. Despite his seeming age, this Noble is in our year, and a member of the unit I’d consider our most dangerous rival. If Lucia Hark has someone like this at her disposal, beating her is going to be even harder than I thought.


    Shaken by that revelation, I find a place to sit down, waiting for his bout to be over. He doesn’t seem to even register my presence until a few moments after he’s finished pounding the ‘bot into submission, wiped the sweat from his brow, and poured half a gallon of water down his throat. Then he looks in my direction, nods, and leans down on the ringside rope to address me.


    “What do you want?”


    Taken aback by his unexpected hostility, I draw myself up to my full height, tail tensing, and respond sharply.


    “I’m Izanami, eight-eighth in the line of--”


    “I know who you are,” he interjects, unimpressed. “I asked what it is you want.”


    The attempted introduction had more been an effort to observe social norms, and an invitation for him to tell me exactly who he is. Rather than letting him ruffle my feathers, though, I give him the only answer that might earn me some respect.


    “I want to spar. You’ve got to be sick of fighting machines, and I need the practice.”


    For a moment he’s silent, looking me up and down with a critical eye- which I’m only now noticing is a striking golden color. Finally, he makes an approving sort of ‘hmph’ sound, and reaches out a hand to help me into the ring. Behind me, I can feel Sander tensing slightly, no doubt extrapolating in his head what the damage to my body might be if I got hit by one of his blows. Of course, I don’t plan to get hit at all, and the damage would be transitory even if I was, but it’s reassuring to know he’d step in if things went too far.


    “You’ve got guts,” the scarred behemoth says, watching me duck under the ropes and stretch out my arms. “I’m Hector. Komodo Unit’s combat officer. Forty-first in the line of Hiraku Fukui, the Master of Arms.”


    Hector doesn’t deliver the words with the pride I’ve come to expect from Nobles informing me of their line’s pedigree. He’s gruff and matter-of-fact about it, even though his line has had half as many Nobles as mine has. That makes me suspect the scars on his body aren’t artificial, but genuine indicators of having held onto this body for a long time. For all I know, it could even be his ‘birth body,’ which plenty of people go their entire life without ever changing, although in most cases it’s because they never do anything dangerous. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    “A pleasure. Shall we?”


    He doesn’t say a word, just nods and heads to one corner of the ring. As I’m doing the same, I run the activation sequence for my Midnight implant, making no effort to disguise it. I’m going to need every advantage possible to hold my own against this guy. Almost immediately, I feel the cold clarity surge through my veins, any potential distractions becoming a distant blur as my focus narrows to a single point. Though there shouldn’t be any visible signs, Hector can clearly tell something in me has changed, and he gives an expectant nod, expression serious.


    “Come on, then.”


    As soon as the final syllable has left his lips, I’m in motion. Any nervousness I might have felt before stepping into the ring is gone, replaced with a dispassionate drive to win. Not out of pride or vanity, but simply because it’s the goal I’ve set for myself.


    With speed and strength belied by my slender frame, I propel myself across the ring towards Hector, like an arrow eager to be loosed from the quiver. Before he can react, I connect two body blows, then a third, bare knuckles connecting with the taut flesh of his abdomen. The grizzled lion barely reacts, until I go for a fourth strike. Then his meaty fist snaps out, faster than I thought him capable of moving, and grabs my wrist.


    Feet remaining planted firmly in place, Hector tosses me to the side, where I slam into the ropes and bounce back, just barely managing to remain upright. He doesn’t laugh, or even crack a smile, just stares me down, evaluating me coldly. This is a man whose respect has to be earned, and right now I’m nowhere close.


    This won’t be so simple as outspeeding my opponent. His size and strength doesn’t mean he’s slow- I was foolish to assume that it would. And I can’t wait for him to come after me. To all appearances, it looks like he isn’t planning on moving from where he’s standing right now. In fact, even getting him to move at all might be the best I could hope for here.


    Darting in again, I feint, doing my best to make him think I’m trying to land more body blows. At the last moment, however, I surge upwards with explosive force, driving my elbow into his throat. Hector gurgles, gasping for air, and knocks me away with a backhand swing. When consciousness returns a moment later, I feel blood gushing from my nose, and momentarily lament the fact that I couldn’t even manage to go two days with this body before breaking something.


    Pain is nothing but a dull afterthought while I still have the Midnight in me, meaning I can get back on my feet quickly, and take advantage of Hector’s momentary incapacitation, as he struggles for breath through his constricted windpipe. A single blow won’t slow him down for long, but long enough to injure him further. At least, that’s the idea.


    Keeping my center of mass low to the ground, I surge towards Hector for the third time. Instead of striking with my arms, I touch three fingers to the ground, and use them as a fulcrum to swing my legs around, so my boot can strike him in the gut. The Komodo unit’s combat officer rocks backwards, unsteady, and I twist upwards to deliver the coup de grace, an uppercut I intend to knock him on his back with.


    The blow connects, but Hector doesn’t move. All of a sudden, he’s as immovable as a slab of granite. My fist stings, but before I have the chance to process that, he slams his fist into my chest, hard enough that I can feel a rib or two crack. After that, everything goes dark.


    A few moments later, awareness returns, and I see Hector standing over me, impassive. When he realizes I’m awake, he reaches down to help me up. Prideful though I may sometimes be, I’m not so vain as to refuse the gesture, and I grasp his arm, allowing the man-mountain to pull me to my feet.


    “Reinforced bones,” he says, almost apologetically. “Let’s get you patched up.”


    It takes a few moments for me to put together what he means, mainly because my head is still swimming. When it does click, however, I realize why my attacks barely seemed to phase him before. Whatever he’s got built into his skeleton, be it plastic, titanium, or carbon fiber, was absorbing most of the force of my strikes. That was why only going for weak spots, like his throat or stomach, had any real effect. If I’d hit another vulnerable point, instead of his jaw, I might have actually been able to lay him out.


    As Hector leads me out of the training room, I catch Sander’s eye and shoot him a nod, letting him know I’m alright. He doesn’t follow us immediately, but rather waits a few moments, to shadow me from a few yards back. Hector is no doubt aware of his presence, but it’s more to avoid intruding on our conversation than anything else.


    “That was an impressive display,” the scarred man says, pulling a shirt over his bare chest. He removes his hand from my back for a moment to do so, and I nearly stumble and fall, reaching out to the wall to steady myself. “Most people your size wouldn’t have lasted half that time. Ultimately, though, you just don’t have the right kind of build to go up against me. Not in a fair fight, at least.”


    He might be overselling himself slightly, considering I did come decently close to putting him on his back. Still, he’s mostly right, even if I don’t think I’d classify this as a ‘fair fight’ in the strictest sense. If this was any sort of regulated competition, my Midnight implant and his reinforced bones would both be disqualifying factors. But I’m not going to press the issue.


    “Yeah, I know. Trust me, if I was going to seriously go after you, it would be in a way you wouldn’t see until it was too late.”


    Tough talk for someone who didn’t manage to draw a single drop of blood, but I’ve got to save face somehow. Hector laughs, unperturbed by the implied threat.


    “I’ve no doubt of that.”


    Keeping a firm grip on my shoulder, Hector guides me into the infirmary, which is located quite conveniently down the hall from the sparring room. The attendant on duty looks up at us expectantly, but he waves them away and sits me down near an autodoc machine. Already feeling vaguely numb, I place my hand onto the scanner and wait for it to assess the damage. I only took a few hits, but it’s still worth making sure there’s no internal bleeding that might necessitate another trip through the resurrection queue.


    Fortunately, the prognosis seems positive, and the machine merely spits out a handful of pills, which I down in a single gulp, while Sander watches from the other side of the room. Human bodies are built to be fairly hardy, for the most part, so I’ll likely be fully healed within a matter of days. The only exceptions occur with bodies specifically designed to be disposable, such as those used for competitive deathmatches.


    Once I can feel the painkillers begin to take effect, I gesture for Hector to proceed with the treatment indicated by the machine. He bends down, placing one hand on the back of my neck to hold my head in place, and with a single sharp movement, sets my broken nose. Even through the dull haze, a jolt of pain shoots up my spine, and I dig my nails into my palm to keep from showing weakness in front of the enemy. I doubt he’d try to humiliate me if I cried out or shed a tear, but remaining as stoic as possible is still good practice.


    Hector looks me up and down, assessing my condition, then nods once, satisfied.


    “I need something to eat. You’re welcome to join me.”


    That, I suspect, is my reward for lasting as long against him as I did. An opportunity to talk outside the context of violence. Despite the pain, I’m not about to pass that up. Pushing myself out of the chair, I follow Hector out of the infirmary, ignoring the concerned expression on the attendant’s face. Sander remains as impassive as ever, this time following close behind me.


    Rather than leave the building for food, we head to a small cafe within the gymnasium itself. Hector, Sander and myself all order silently within moments of entering the room, and head to a table near the wall window looking out onto the sports pitch outside.


    “So. I have to ask.” Hector raises an eyebrow at me expectantly, waiting to see what I have to say. “If your Founder was called the Master of Arms, why are you training barehanded?”


    The question provokes another laugh, his gruff voice making it come out more like a bark.


    “The body is a weapon too, you know. My Founder mastered every weapon known to man, and I inherited those skills- but skills don’t matter if you lack the strength to make use of them.”


    “Mm,” I reply, shooting a glance at Sander. He’d understand that principle better than most, I’d think, given how thoroughly he’s transformed his body into an instrument of violence. “Makes sense.”


    Almost without deliberately intending it, I curl my tail over my shoulder and use it to brush a strand of hair out of my eyes, deliberately emphasizing its barbed tip. Hector nods, seeing I’ve already taken steps of my own to make my body a lethal weapon. If I’d been looking to kill him earlier, I wouldn’t have bothered with my fists at all, just jammed the tip of my tail into his throat and torn the artery open.


    Weaving through the mostly-empty tables to where we’re seated, a cafe server places three plastic trays down. One contains a corned beef sandwich, which Hector slides over to his position. The second is mine, a burger dripping with ketchup, mayo, and cheese, plus pickles, and accompanied by mozzarella sticks. Hector raises an eyebrow at my order, but says nothing. Last comes Sander’s meal, a steaming bowl of clam chowder. His portion is smaller than either of ours, presumably because he hasn’t worked up the same appetite.


    Hector digs in right away, the juices gushing from the sandwich almost immediately staining his beard, something I assume is a frequent issue for someone with facial hair as prodigious as his. Meanwhile, Sander stirs his chowder impassively, eyes never leaving Hector for an instant. Passing a hand over the surface of my burger experimentally, I deem it too hot, and let it cool for a moment, indulging in my side dish instead. The soft mozzarella surrounded by the crunchy, fried exterior, all dipped in cool marinara sauce, makes for an enticing combination, and before I know it I’ve gone through half of them without stopping to breathe.


    After a few minutes of eating in not-quite-companionable silence, I speak up again, once more drawing the Komodo officer’s gaze.


    “What’s Hark like, if you don’t mind me asking? Has to be strange, taking orders from someone so much younger than you.”


    I did, of course, verify that the Grim Dragon was actually a child, not just an adult choosing to wear a child’s body for some depraved reason. According to every official document my copyclan dug up, she is the exact age she appears to be. Still not a reason to underestimate her, but it’s probably not what any of the members of her unit expected before coming to the Citadel.


    “She’s competent. Most of us stopped thinking of her as a child rather quickly. Judging by appearances is rarely wise, especially here.”


    “Of course. But still, isn’t it ever frustrating to have waited so long to get here, only to end up as the subordinate of someone who got fast-tracked simply thanks to the pedigree of her line?”


    Disappointingly, Hector’s face doesn’t show a flicker of frustration, or even annoyance that I’m badmouthing his boss.


    “Initially, yes. But she’s earned my respect. And shown me the respect I’m owed, as well. She’s got no ego to speak of. It’s quite refreshing.”


    Feeling slightly chastened by that, I look down and return to my food. Hector chuckles at me, dabbing at his beard with a napkin. Then, unexpectedly, he turns his gaze from me to Sander. If he’s bothered by the way my bodyguard has been staring at him, he doesn’t show any sign of it. Instead, he just raises one bushy eyebrow.


    “What about you? How have you found working under Izanami here? Agreeable?”


    Sander seems surprised to have been addressed at all, much less asked his opinion on something. He’s silent for a moment, taking a sip of his chowder and wiping a bit of the residue off his upper lip with a napkin. All the while, he doesn’t look at me once, and for a moment I worry that he’s been harboring some hidden resentments that I’ve failed to identify.


    “I have no complaints.”


    As soon as the words are out of his mouth, I feel foolish. Even if he does have any complaints, he’s not going to voice them here, to a member of an enemy unit. He’s a consummate professional before all else. Still, the fact that I had doubts at all is cause to check in every once in a while, and make sure he really doesn’t have any cause to complain.


    “I see. And her line’s reputation is of no concern to you? Guarding the life of a Noble whose predecessors are almost exclusively traitors, madmen, or failures?”


    “No.”


    Chuckling to himself, Hector finishes the last of his sandwich, brushes some breadcrumbs out of his beard, and stands.


    “In that case, we seem to be on the same page regarding our respective commanding officers. I’ll take my leave of you all now. There’s much to prepare for in the coming week, and beyond.”


    Summoning as much poise as I can muster with a hamburger in my hands, slowly dripping ketchup onto the plate beneath, I respond with a respectful nod of my head.


    “On that much, we can agree.”


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    The rest of our meal passes in relative silence, and though the healing stimulants I took are helping hasten my healing, I’m not in any state to keep training. So Sander and I leave the gymnasium without any particular destination in mind. We wander the streets of the Citadel for a short while, before happening on a secluded spot down a back street that seems to be infrequently traveled.


    The Citadel’s population shrinks and grows based on the size of the current classes of Nobles, and not all of the miniature city sees active use at the same time. The inactive areas are generally still accessible, just lacking in signs of life, waiting for their inhabitants to return from wherever they’re dismissed to when their services aren’t required. This area seems to be one such spot. I take a seat on a bench hewn from the same white stone as the rest of the Citadel, with the overhang of a nearby building providing some refreshing shade.


    Sander sits beside me, with a gap between us that’s too wide for us to look like friends, but too close to just be a pair of strangers on the same bench. His arms sit awkwardly at his sides, and he doesn’t quite seem relaxed- on guard for an assassination attempt that could come at any time, I’m sure.


    “Can I ask you a question?”


    There’s a moment of silence, as if Sander is wondering who I might be talking to, before he realizes it’s him. Then he nods, turning to face me with a characteristically neutral expression.


    “Of course.”


    Now I fall quiet for a few seconds, trying to think of the best way to phrase my inquiry so it won’t sound bizarre. Finally, I settle on something I hope is wholly inoffensive.


    “Do you have any hobbies?”


    He frowns slightly, as though I’ve impugned his honor in some way.


    “Protecting you will always be my first priority, I assure you.”


    I’m torn between wanting to laugh and sigh at what a characteristically serious response that is, and how much he missed the point.


    “No, I was asking out of personal curiosity, not to… I dunno, make you change your priorities or anything.”


    “I… see,” he replies cautiously, now unsure why I might have any curiosity about his personal life. I don’t blame him- I’ve been taking his presence for granted since the day we met, treating him like a piece of furniture or a particularly useful machine, rather than like a person. An oversight on my part, both from a strategic and moral perspective.


    “You don’t have to tell me. I just thought it prudent to learn more about you, considering we’ll be spending a rather significant amount of time together.”


    Framing it in pragmatic terms seems to clear it up a bit for him. That’s the language he speaks. Whatever hobbies he might have, I’d feel confident in guessing they would have some kind of practical application beyond just occupying his idle time.


    “When I was younger, I maintained a small rooftop garden in the building where my parents and I lived. Besides that, I’ve mainly concerned myself with my studies, exercise, and upkeep on my equipment.”


    Reading between the lines, I can infer that giving up gardening probably wasn’t his choice. More likely, his parents discouraged it as being unbefitting of his Noble status, or some such. Their opinions are none of my concern, though, and now none of Sander’s either.


    “Gardening, huh? My family has a garden back home. We’d grow fresh fruit and vegetables, and Father Jonas would cook for us every week.”


    Sander nods along, and makes a vaguely interested sound, which I’ll take as some improvement over his usual stoic silence.


    “Maybe I could find somewhere to start a garden here,” I continue, “and you could help me out with it. I don’t really know much about getting stuff to grow, just keeping it alive after it’s already there.”


    Suggesting he start a garden would probably not have gone anywhere. Or he’d have taken it as an order, which is precisely what I’m looking to avoid. It’s possible he’ll still do that even if it’s ‘my’ garden, but I can work on changing his attitude, if he agrees to help in the first place.


    “I would have no issue with that,” he replies, showing neither excitement nor disinterest outwardly.


    “Great! In fact, since we’ve got a while before dinner, maybe we can spend some time looking for a good spot.”


    I hop to my feet, not giving him a chance to respond.


    “C’mon, let’s go!”