Cillian watched the clock hand shift one notch closer to the upright position. Soon after, a warning horn reverberated, signaling fifteen minutes until the departure.


    Excitement and dread – he felt both in equal measure.


    The clock was an enormous golden thing standing on top of the similarly golden arch stretching over a couple of rail tracks and looking like it would roll down left or right at the slightest breeze any moment – its contact point with the arch appeared so minuscule. Cillian liked the see-through design – he could glimpse the sky through the neat holes fashioned into the rim in a circle, forming the numbers. Although, the readability was questionable.


    Fifteen minutes.


    He cast about in search of something else to distract him.


    Contrary to the image of a train station Cillian had always had in his head, the platform wasn’t bursting with scampering people hurrying to board, buying snacks, looking for missing luggage, or simply pushing each other out of the way. The reality was an orderly affair – not too many folks, none of whom appeared in haste, and plenty of guards. Both O’Driscoll and Foerstner guards, with the former vastly outnumbering the latter, notably. They could be easily differentiated by their distinctive styles: O’Driscoll – almost military look, pine green and with lots of straight lines and wearing patrol hats; and Foerstner – more casual, predominantly darker shades of grey with burgundy neckerchiefs, all sporting fedoras.


    It’s quare that we have to hitch a ride on an O’Driscoll train.


    The academy had first been built somewhere to the Null-Rimwise, he knew, but, after it’d been overrun with beasts one time too many, it was relocated Heavenward of the Azure mountains, close to the majority of the farmlands. The farmlands belonging to O’Driscoll & Co., which were only reachable by the rail constructed and maintained by them as well. It probably chafed Foerstner Groups’s bigwigs – having to employ someone else’s transport to get to their own academy.


    “You should go, or they’ll leave without you,” father said quietly from behind him.


    Cillian swallowed. “Aye. I really should.” He tried to think of something to say to alleviate the mood, but nothing came to mind.


    It’s happening. No way back now.


    He’d already handed over his baggage, receiving a stern warning from a man collecting it that the bag would be searched and that nothing aether-powered was allowed. He knew that already; Mr. Byrne had told him as much.


    There was nothing left to do but say his farewells and board. Cillian found it hard to do either, so he eyed the glass ceiling instead.


    This was how the inside of a greenhouse had to look like, the boy imagined – a myriad of translucent panes allowed the warm skylight to shine through. Only in place of flowers and saplings, the said skylight illuminated the sea of brass. It seemed everything here was made of or decorated with it – the clock, the arch, the girders curving along the ceiling and supporting it, and even the train itself was garnished with golden lines.


    It was ostentatious and tasteless, yet Cillian scrutinized the surroundings so intently as if he expected a test on the contents of the station upon arrival to the academy. He did that as, if he looked at his father now, he wouldn’t be able to hold back tears.


    To null with it. Cillian jerked his shoulders angrily and turned around. What does it matter if I cry or not?


    To his surprise, father was misty-eyed too. The man wasn’t one to show his emotions openly, not counting a couple of exceptional occasions. Cillian supposed today counted as such an occasion since, in a few short minutes, they would separate for the next two years.


    Two years away from home, to begin with. And the second one would be in constant dimness.


    The past several weeks had flown by in a blur. By some unspoken agreement, the two of them had attempted to spend more time in each other’s company. When normally Cillian would have been either out and about climbing one structure or another or shut in his room reading or studying, and his father would have been at work or tinkering with various mechanical curios in his office, the days leading up to the departure they’d endeavored to enjoy together. It mostly meant lingering in the living room, quietly engaged in their own projects, and exchanging rare comments and observations, instead of immediately making for their respective corners. It was nice. Visiting his father’s workplace, like Cillian used to when he was younger, had also been nice. And father had even accompanied him to one of his favorite roofs yesterday, which was quite hilarious to witness. His oul fella was strong but not very flexible.


    However, with each passing day, the weight of the upcoming separation had been growing heavier. And now it pushed down on Cillian’s shoulders like an actual physical burden.


    Another horn sounded. Ten minutes.


    They embraced.


    A million different thoughts raced through Cillian’s mind. What should I say? Nothing will make it feel any better.


    He brooded over all the countless words he’d never gotten to say to his mother. He’d loved her so much but had been too “grown-up” and too “tough” to voice any of them. It was one of the rake-load of things he regretted.


    “I have something for you,” father pulled away and reached into the inner pocket of his coat. “Hope you like it. Here. Give me your hand.”


    Cillian did and shortly found a weighty thing sitting on top of it.


    “Whoa. Heavy.”


    It was a pair of goggles. As soon as he realized that, he grabbed them with both hands and began twisting this way and that to get a better look. Very pretty.


    “I know they look bronze, but it’s actually gold-painted steel all the way through. What do you think?”


    Cillian blinked, looked up, and bumped his father on the shoulder with a huge smile. “Pure whopper, dad. I mean it.”


    He removed his hat and eagerly put the pair on. The goggles were, indeed, deadly. They sported sizable orange-colored lenses, many decorative creases, and were covered with superfluous cogs and nuts all over. His smile turned even broader when he began rotating the gear sticking out to the side of the right lens and discovered they also featured an adjustable magnification.


    Cillian tapped on the lenses. “So that’s what you were doing the whole last week.”


    “That’s right. But I began much earlier than that; took me a while to get the design right. Not too gaudy, I hope?”


    “No!” He hugged his oul fella again. “Thanks, dad. They are perfect. And I’ll miss you. Blindin’ fiercely I will.”


    Father clapped him on the back. “I’ll miss you too, son. Don’t forget to write often, you hear?”


    “Aye-aye.”


    They let go of each other.


    The boy returned the hat back atop his head, hefted his small bag with essentials for the two-day journey from the ground, and swiftly climbed the steps leading into the carriage.


    Don’t leave things unsaid, eejit.


    He turned back and pulled the goggles down to his neck.


    “I love you, old man. Don’t throw big parties without me.”


    Father laughed with tears in his eyes. “I’ll try to wait for you, but no promises. You go and enjoy your adventure, kid.”


    “That I will.”


    See? He could learn.


    Then, with one final wave and a smile, Cillian glanced up at the sky, spun around, and disappeared inside.


    Until we meet again, dad.


    <hr>


    He quickly found his assigned compartment and entered. But before that, he’d taken off the goggles and hidden them in the bag, just in case the chaperones found a problem with him having them.


    A first glance revealed that the space was more generous than he’d thought it would be – four beds, more twin than single in size, with two on top and two underneath, and a table down the middle.


    A second glance revealed that it was already occupied.


    There were two boys on the right. The one above sat with his back to the window and a book in his lap. He didn’t seem to be reading though but rather fuming at something. Why is he pissed off already? His counterpart at the bottom was peering at the platform, trying to locate someone, while simultaneously unpacking. Both looked up as he came in.


    Make an effort, muppet. This was his chance to start over, with people who didn’t think of him as some sort of beast-blooded savage.


    “Hello. I’m Cillian.” He nodded to both and dropped the bag onto the only remaining free bed. The bunk on the upper left was being used as a storage for towels and pillows, for some reason.


    “Hi, I’m Eamon, but you can call me Eams if you want!” the boy below, Eamon, greeted him with a smile. He was blond and friendly-looking, cheerful.


    The other fella was eying him with an irate expression, or maybe it was his default one. Cillian silently waited for him to say something.


    Eventually, he did, “Teagan.” He sounded irate as well.


    Cillian nodded again.


    “So you are a first-year too?” Eamon asked, abandoning his previous activity and turning his entire attention on Cillian.


    “Umm, yes? Did you think I was here to check your tickets or something?” he joked with what he hoped was an affable smile, judging that starting with some humor was probably the right choice.


    Aether, would I have to think about every phrase now? It used to be so simple.


    Teagan snorted, nose in the book.


    Eamon didn’t take offense, only grinned. “Nah, figured you were here to mop the floors or some such.”


    Cillian took off his coat and hat, hanged them both on a hook, and sat down. “Mop the floors, aye. You might be more correct than you think if what I’ve heard about the academy turns out to be true.”


    “How do you mean?”


    He shrugged. “I’ve heard some people say the students do all the chores, you know, cleaning and cooking and stuff.”


    “That so? Doesn’t sound like the craic.”


    “Well, those people also told me the academy had long been infiltrated by the Hierarchy, all in the same breath, so don’t take it too seriously. Trustworthy information about the place is hard to come by. Unless you’re high in the chain, I suppose.”


    “Ha! I can’t imagine the Hierarchy infiltrating anyone. What people were those?”


    “Just some oul fellas from the 4th outer octant, claiming to be former Foerstner enforcers. Although, I’ve heard it from others, too.”


    “You’re from the outer ring then?”


    Cillian shook his head. “The middle. Hang around the outer a lot. Or used to, I suppose.”


    “Another tarhead. Figures,” Teagan muttered loudly enough for the rest to hear.


    Eamon and Cillian exchanged glances. After a short pause, the former shrugged and carried on as if he’d heard nothing, “I’m from the 3rd outer meself. Shame I’ve never met there any fellas telling stories like that. What else did you hear?” He leaned forward with interest; the boy’s eager eyes were a little disconcerting.


    “Umm, a lot. I’m sure most of it is pure tosh though, like the talk about the no-gun policy. Has to be niss-shit, right? Chevaliers all carry them.”


    Cillian began unpacking while he talked. Slippers first; everything else could wait.


    “Aye. I’d sooner believe in the infiltration theory rather than this. What about you, Teagan?” Eamon twisted to look up at the boy.


    “What?”


    “Know any thrilling stories about our destination?” No reply. “Teag?”


    The addressed boy grimaced and breathed out as if trying to steady himself. “My name is Teagan, Eams. And I don’t entertain nonsense like this. It’s for simpletons.”


    Eamon laughed. “Simpletons, you say? Clearly, you’re one of those ‘high in the chain’ as our mutual neighbor has just so aptly remarked, aren’t you? So what do they say about the academy in your esteemed circles, Teagy?”


    Teagan turned the page and without looking at either of them responded through clenched teeth, “Nothing. And it’s not me being high, but rather someone else being low, I should think.”


    Eamon stopped craning his neck and sat back, miming being hanged and winking at Cillian. “Apologies, your honor,” he proclaimed loudly. Then quieter, ”Ye hear, Cillian, cop on, we’re mere manky peasants here.”


    Cillian just watched in slight bafflement. Do they already know each other or not?


    His last meaningful interaction with peers had been ages ago, so he had no idea how to navigate the conversation. Eamon wasn’t suffering from any such ailment though. The boy kept talking.


    “As for meself, I’ve heard every single instructor there is of the August rank, can you believe it?”


    “That… doesn’t sound likely to me,” Cillian replied slowly. “Isn’t there supposed to be a rake-load of them? Would be pure waste for the company to have so many of their best herd a bunch of youths.”


    “Maybe. But if you want to raise the best they should be trained by the best, methinks. And who’s better than an augustman? Have you ever met one?”


    “Uhh–”


    “I have! Declan Kavanagh himself! He was at the graduation ceremony a couple of years back. The man’s a giant. Can you imagine an establishment full of Kavanaghs?”


    Cillian had heard of the man. The renowned treasure-hunting chevalier.


    “That would be grand. As long as none of them are the Hierarchy’s spies.”


    “A heap of rotten shite,” Teagan growled under his breath.


    “Something to add, yer nobleship?” Eamon asked with a grin.


    The fella finally put his book down and glared down at them. “There’s not going to be anyone of the 3rd rank, apart from headmaster Gorman, stop talking tosh! And infiltrated by the Hierarchy? What else? Rotfangs as personal servants? Aether only knows how culchies like you got admitted to such a prestigious institution, but you are here now, so you should refrain from–”


    “You got a problem with me being here, Teag?” Eamon stood up and glared at the boy, not allowing him to finish.


    Teagan only raised his bushy eyebrows, not appearing particularly intimidated. Cillian couldn’t blame him as the other boy looked like he''d get up on a gust of wind. “Figured it out on your own, did you? Guess you really do deserve your spot, genius that you are.”


    Why so much aggression from the get-go? Or had they already been at each other’s throats when I came in?


    It dawned on Cillian that he had no aetheric idea of how 18-year-old boys normally interacted with each other.


    “That’s right, I do deserve to be here, I’ve earned it,” Eamon seethed. “What about you, big guy? Let me guess, your parents had to buy a place for you? Or did they simply lick someone’s arse?”


    Teagan snapped the book shut and made to get up, but, before he could do so, the door to their compartment slid open without knocking, and a Foerstner guard came in.


    The man looked disinterestedly at the pair, at Cillian, at the pair again, then glanced down at his pad and asked, “Teagan Baessler present?”


    “I’m here.” Teagan swallowed his anger with visible difficulty. “Do you need something?” But he was ignored.


    “Eamon O’Leary?”


    “That’s me,” Eamon replied.


    “And you are Cillian Shea?”


    “I am.”


    The man marked something on the pad. “We’re departing now.” He eyed the two boys’ aggrieved expressions sternly. “Don’t make troub– actually, I don’t care if you make trouble so long as you keep it quiet and none of the escorts feel a need to intervene, understand? We are guests here.”


    Eamon smiled widely and raised his hands, palms out. “Sure thing, chief, you’ll hear nothing from us.”


    “Make sure that I don’t.” And he withdrew, leaving the angry duo to their staring contest.


    It didn’t last long as Teagan switched his gaze to the door and then back to Eamon, undoubtedly still contemplating violence, but evidently thought better of it and stiffly leaned back. “Lucky you.”


    Wind down, Eamon, Cillian implored silently. The last thing he wanted was having to share the compartment with two warring boys until the next evening.


    “Well.” Eamon smiled sheepishly. “Not the best start, innit?” He dropped down on his bunk.


    The “big guy” picked up the book again – Cillian spotted the title, “From Null to Heaven” – opened it seemingly at random and resumed reading.


    Thank you.


    Soon, a loud air trumpet announced the departure, the doors closed, and they promptly took off. There was no ceremony or grand speech, only a rhythmic tadgak of the wheels and the waving families.


    As the train began rumbling along the platform, Cillian looked for his father but couldn’t find him, so he mimicked Teagan’s half-lying position and tried to suppress his suddenly rebelling nerves. It hadn’t occurred to him until now – he’d been fretting over the academy itself for most of the past few weeks – but they had to actually reach the place first. The path could potentially be fraught with danger, regardless if it was a well-trotted one or not.


    And he was leaving the city for the very first time. It wasn’t quite traveling the world, per se, more akin to simply traversing the line from point A to point B, still severely confined, but Cillian would gladly take what he was given.


    Excitement and dread. I should probably get used to experiencing both.


    The silence didn’t last long since Eamon, evidently, couldn’t be put off for more than a couple of minutes. They chatted for a spell. Well, his neighbor chatted, talking about everyone and everything, with Cillian making polite noises and Teagan – impolite ones. Eamon ignored the rude boy and kept loudly describing his “culchies” parents, his friends and what they were up to after school, and even his cat, which he, lamentably, hadn’t been allowed to bring to the academy.


    Cillian could only sit and nod.


    It felt like the boy was in a hurry to unload his entire life story, and they hadn’t even left the city yet. To be fair, Lua was big. The train headed almost directly Heavenward, making the skywalkers’ light gradually grow fainter and fainter. Such was the peril of those living in this and Nullside directions; not all octants outside of the inring had been made equal.


    The illumination kept diminishing, yet Eamon’s eagerness to talk – didn’t.


    Cillian was being fed a rake-load of facts, and he made a genuine effort to retain at least some of them, instead of letting the words flow past him.


    Eamon had no siblings, only cousins, and his family were all Foerstner too – no surprises there – with his father doing “metallurgy science”, whatever that meant, and his mother working in a small administrative role in the same department. He would be the first member of the O’Leary clan to rise higher in the corporation and was very proud of the fact.


    Cillian discreetly checked his pocket watch.


    “What about your family?” the boy asked, seemingly satisfied with the waterfall he’d unleashed. For now.


    “Foerstner as well. Motorwagen division,” he answered succinctly, not wishing to delve deeper into the topic of his parents.


    “That’s grand! Do you own one? Can you drive?”


    “Umm, no and sort of? Father has one, not me. And I can drive, but no papers yet.”


    “Must be sweet! I’ve only ever ridden as a passenger a few times – very convenient. If the trend holds it shouldn’t be too long before they become affordable to the wider public; I can’t wait.”


    There was a blissful pause. Eamon seemed lost in thought for a moment.


    “What trend?” Cillian inquired.


    “Hm? Oh, I mean the general trend of all new tech first being introduced for the soldierly and industrial uses only, then scale down and wide until it suits the commodity market. We are at a point where motorwagens are already a commodity, just an expensive one for now.”


    “I suppose. Father owns a T3, but he received a company discount. T4 is cheaper as far as I know, not by much though. But given the rate of development, it’d be much faster for us to graduate and rise to the August and be able to afford anything rather than wait for the prices to come down enough, I reckon.”


    “That might be. And you, Teagan? Can you drive?” Eamon extended an olive branch to the larger boy, shifting to take a seat at the foot of Cillian’s bunk without asking for permission.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Teagan didn’t deign to reply.


    Eamon opened his mouth to say something else, but a deafening “Attention!” interrupted him, sounding as if a man with a speaking trumpet was bellowing from right outside their compartment.


    “Attention all onboard! We will begin the procedure of crossing the Wall in five minutes. Be advised that outside the boundaries of protected habitats all usage of aether-powered devices is strictly prohibited. This is for your own safety. Anyone caught violating the rule will be summarily punished in accordance with the O’Driscoll & Co. regulations. Oil lamp illumination will be provided from 7 am to 9 pm in all communal areas. All passenger compartments are equipped with their own moderator lamps as well. Read the provided instructions on their operation before attempting to light them. Attention! We will be crossing the wall in four minutes...”


    Cillian realized there really had been a man outside their door when he moved further down the carriage, repeating the words.


    I wonder how those living outside denote time when there aren’t any skywalkers?


    He glanced at the rapidly approaching Wall. He’d seen it up close many times before so wasn’t that interested currently, but soon he’d be able to observe it from a completely different angle.


    “Scary, innit?” Eamon asked quietly.


    “Huh? What is?”


    “That we need structures such as this to keep us safe.”


    “’Scary’ is not the word I would use. I think it’s inspiring.”


    Eamon glanced at him curiously. “A big lump of stone with guns is inspiring?”


    Cillian shrugged. “It’s an inhospitable plane, but we get by. The Wall, the railroads, the skywalkers – constructs like these are a testament to human adaptability, our will.”


    “Or they are a testament to our isolation.”


    “Can’t it be both? We’d been forcefully isolated, but we adapted.”


    “I don’t think that’s how it went, but who knows. Just a shame having to be clustered in a train seemingly geared up for war every time you want to go outside. And you can’t even do that without permission from everyone and their grandma. And other city-states? They might as well be on different planes altogether.”


    The boy looked at Cillian expectantly, waiting for an agreement or aether knows what else, so he shrugged and uttered very artfully, “It is what it is.”


    “Like we need anyone else,” Teagan chimed in with contempt from above, no longer pretending to read. “You want to rub shoulders with savages out there? Or maybe with the rotfangs?” He glowered at them. “Although, you two would be right at home.”


    Cillian sighed. What was the fella’s problem?


    Eamon opened his eyes wide theatrically, leaned toward Cillian, put a hand to his mouth like he was about to share a secret, and ‘whispered’, “Right, that one’s here too. For a moment I forgot where I was and thought it was me cat up there. She also likes to climb places and make beastly noises.”


    Cillian puffed out a laugh.


    Null. I don’t want to pick sides.


    “What did you just say?”


    Eamon pointed at his ear. “You deaf? You’d fit with the so-called savages well enough yerself, methinks, given yer attitude.”


    Teagan abruptly swung down, landing with a thud, and Cillian for the first time appreciated how tall and brawny he really was. The boy loomed over them.


    “Say it again, Eams.”


    Eamon, to his credit, also didn’t seem threatened much. He stood up, and the two found themselves nose to chin.


    “Say what again? That you’ve been acting like a rotten prick the whole time since I came in? What’s gotten up your arse, Teagy-boyo?”


    Cillian cracked an involuntary smile. Maybe his 14-year-old self would’ve fit here well enough after all.


    At Eamon’s words, Teagan’s face turned contrite for an instant. Unfortunately, he then noticed Cillian’s expression and didn’t like it one bit.


    Shit. I should probably try to diffuse the situation. Aye. But how does one do that exactly?


    He spoke in his best diplomatic tone, “We’re about to go through the Wall, guys; better to start igniting the lamps.”


    “I will, aye, right after I cave your faces in,” the brute hissed.


    “Mine?”


    “I’m waiting,” Eamon sneered.


    What are you doing, tool?!


    “O’Driscoll would take objection to that; they are paid to deliver the goods. Undamaged.”


    “O’Driscoll can kiss my arse. Steamin’ farmers.”


    Just then the train came to a halt, and Teagan rocked back slightly.


    Eamon jumped him.


    The hell?! Cillian jerked in surprise.


    The smaller boy shoved the bigger one at the top bunk. The movable body and the immovable frame collided with a thump – it wasn’t a strong hit but enough to make Teagan lose his balance and crash down on top of the bed with a curse. Eamon didn’t give him even a moment of reprieve and followed up with a knee to the stomach, all but dropping on top, but Teagan recovered quickly and redirected the flying knee with his own. He then grabbed the falling fella by the shoulders and shoved him down into the corner between the bunk and the wall. Eamon hit his head and let out a strained “Fuck!”, before rolling out of the way of the next punch. Which never came. Instead, Teagan wrapped his opponent’s neck from behind into a chokehold.


    He started squeezing and spitting the words into Eamon’s ear, “You steamin’ rot! Jumping at me like that, what kind of coward are you?!”


    The smaller boy struggled futilely.


    Cillian sat, bewildered, not quite comprehending the sudden escalation. Why had Eamon struck first? There was no time to ponder the events further though. He got up and grabbed Teagan’s right shoulder.


    “Let him go already. He’s turning purple.”


    The fuming fella seethed at Cillian, “I’m not going to kill him, but he has to learn the lesson. Same as you.” He attempted to shrug off Cillian’s hand by thrusting his shoulder up, relaxing the grip around Eamon’s neck just a wee, and Cillian used the movement to quickly hook his own right arm under the boy’s armpit and behind the neck, grabbing for the chest with the other. He heaved.


    Unfortunately, trying to pry Teagan’s arm away felt like pulling on a supposedly slidable ladder that had been rusted stuck long ago – very little give. But at least it allowed Eamon to breathe.


    “Let go!” Teagan fumed.


    “What in the aether is going on, fellas?! Do I have to press the emergency button? We’d all be in trouble then.” Cillian wasn’t sure if such a thing existed. Unlikely, given the prohibition on aether usage. “Come on, mucker, release him!”


    Teagan did so abruptly, and Cillian staggered back, pulling his arms away to untangle from the pile. But the large boy wasn’t finished – now rounded on him.


    “Now see here, mucker, don’t ever tou–”


    The world plunged into darkness.


    “-ch me again!”


    Apparently, at some point they’d resumed moving, albeit slowly, and were now inside the Wall.


    Tagdak.


    The train chugged along.


    The two boys on their feet were breathing heavily while the one below wheezed and coughed.


    Tagdak.


    Cillian couldn’t resist a smile at the situation. Teagan clearly wanted to glower at him but couldn’t see anything. Neither could he.


    Awkward.


    Tagdak.


    And so they stood. All through the brief ride, followed by another stop – waiting for the heavy outer gate to be raised and the bridge across the ditch to slide into place, no doubt – and until some semblance of visibility returned once their carriage cleared the tunnel.


    The whole sequence had taken at least two minutes.


    When the light came back, Cillian saw that Teagan’s mood hadn’t improved much. But there was no time for this distraction anymore.


    He swiftly skirted past the still-seething brute, who raised his fists at the sudden movement, expecting an attack, but Cillian was no longer interested in any prick-measuring. No, he had much more important business to attend to. He dropped at the head of Eamon’s bed and peered at the Wall, catching Teagan’s look of confusion out of the corner of his eye. Eamon kept gasping.


    Whatever. He’s not dead; good enough. The pair of them can wait.


    Teagan snorted. “Steamin’ tarheads. Remember your place; there was a rake-load of better deserving than you two.” When no reply was forthcoming, he tsked, muttered another curse, and climbed back to his bunk.


    “That’s exactly how I imagined my chevalier career to begin!” rasped Eamon with a laugh.


    Just shut up already, you twatwaffle.


    The Wall on the outside looked very different – gone was the mostly homogeneous stone, and, instead, from about halfway up, the surface was littered with rectangular pockets playing host to mighty turrets. And the two lowest levels featured rows of slits currently being barred with solid metal shutters. They only had scraps from the skywalkers combined with aether streaks far above for illumination, but even in the dimness Cillian could still see the myriad of pockmarks, long scars, and entire chunks missing, particularly closer to the ground. It seemed the Wall was due for some extensive repairs.


    From this close, they couldn’t yet see the curvature, but he knew it was there. The imposing structure went all the way around the city.


    Isolated? Aye. But also awe-inspiring. Our only barrier between civilization and wilderness.


    Off they went into the said wilderness, gradually leaving both the city and his old life behind.


    So long, Lua.


    Once he could no longer discern any details, he moved back to his own bed.


    For a while, they rode in blissful silence. Teagan lit his lamp and was reading again, and Cillian did the same. The title of his book read “The Cradle of Learning”. A story about a fictional library – although many claimed it had existed in truth yonks ago – supposedly containing all the knowledge in the world, including the origin of humanity. He didn’t believe it for a second, but the tale was still interesting.


    Unfortunately, Eamon proved incapable of staying quiet and soon started talking again. First, making small comments about everything they could see from the window – not a lot, mostly dead trees, and even they were rare – then moved on to animatedly speculating about what awaited them during the first days in the academy. Cillian didn’t find it likely that they’d be subject to an immediate “trial by fire”, whatever the boy had meant by that.


    Even a brief interaction with his fellow trainees had left him drained. He hoped the introduction wouldn’t be indicative of his future relations with the others.


    Just when Cillian was about ready to admit defeat and close his eyes, feigning sleep, to see if that would deter Eamon from trying to engage him in any further conversation, there was a knock on their door, which was promptly opened before any of them could say anything.


    A tall, blonde girl about their age stood there. She quickly glanced around from one person to another.


    “Hello everyone.” Her eyes found the boy on the upper shelf. “Teag. I’m looking for Sorcha; have you seen her?”


    “Do you see her here?” Teagan asked irritably in lieu of giving an answer. It appeared he was generally snapping at everyone. Good to know.


    The cailin raised her eyebrows. “I see you are even more cheerful than usual on this fine day.”


    She grabbed the handle and made to leave but, with the door already halfway shut, changed her mind, turned back, and spoke in a soft voice, “Liam, Fia, and others are in compartment six playing cards.” The girl glanced at Cillian and Eamon and seemed to hesitate a bit. “Moira is not there, so you can come out into the light.” She frowned and bent forward to peer at the dim exterior through the window. “As much as there is, anyway.”


    And with that, she was gone, gently sliding the wooden door all the way.


    Cillian didn’t expect the burly boy to follow, but, after a brief hesitation, Teagan swung down again, glared at them one more time for good measure, and departed as well.


    “Man, did you see that cailin?” came out of Eamon’s mouth immediately following the click. “Why is it always the big stupid ones who get all the girls?”


    Cillian looked at him. “I grant you big but stupid? How do you know if he’s stupid? And the blonde didn’t seem like his mot to me.”


    Eamon rolled his eyes. “Because he’s clearly not too bright. And I ain’t talking about this girl, although she sure seemed overly concerned for him too. I’m talking about that Moira one.”


    “I don’t think stupid ones get to ride on this train in the first place, and for all you know Moira is his sister or something.”


    His one remaining neighbor eyed him with exasperation. “I see now how the gears in your head spin. But you’ll cop on that I’m right. He is probably just some bigwig’s nephew. I can’t see him passing the test otherwise.”


    “The test?”


    “You know, the admission test,” the boy clarified.


    “The admission test?”


    Eamon looked at him strangely. “The test we had to pass to get accepted into the academy? That admission test?”


    “You mean the finals?”


    “No, I don’t mean the finals! I mean the admission test – 90 questions about everyone and everything!” Now Eamon looked indignant again as if Cillian was screwing with him.


    “I didn’t have to take any additional tests. I had the finals at school then a rake-load of interviews and evaluations. Medical, psychological, and stuff but no tests,” Cillian spelled out slowly, not sure who was being an eejit.


    “You kidding me?! I had to pass the test before I was even allowed to take part in the interviews!”


    “That so? Hmm, what school did you say you’d attended?”


    Eamon calmed down rapidly. “Public one, in my home octant.” The fella oscillated a lot, it seemed.


    “I’m Foerstner-schooled.”


    “Ahh, you think it’s because you are a privileged one? At least, a more privileged one than me?”


    Cillian shrugged. “Sure looks it.”


    “That’s just blindin’ unfair. The prick probably didn’t have to do anything at all then! Even the interviews!” Eamon circled back to the initial topic of his ire.


    “Who cares? It’s how it works, and you’re here, right? The end result is the same.”


    Eamon muttered something uncharitable under his breath then slumped and went quiet. Finally.


    Cillian returned to his book.


    So what’s that whole fuss about the cradle?


    <hr>


    The food in the dining carriage turned out to be the usual fare – potatoes, an assortment of de-aethered meats, a scant selection of vegetables, but plenty of greens.


    They’d been proceeding to the place together – Cillian and Eamon – but along the way his friendlier neighbor had disappeared inside another compartment. Just to meet and greet, apparently. Cillian had opted not to wait. Now here he was, alone again, standing with a cup of tea – he wasn’t hungry yet – and looking for a place to perch.


    There was a plethora of available seats, but, as part of his ongoing quest to engage with others more, he approached a girl with dark hair in a neat braid, sitting with her back to him before an assembled chess board. On the other side lounged a boy in elegant round glasses. Cillian watched the game, standing next to the table and not saying anything, just sipping tea.


    They both glanced at him but didn’t speak either.


    He wasn’t a proficient player himself, but it quickly became evident that the girl’s opponent was being completely outclassed. And after the fella departed, appearing disgusted with his performance, Cillian took the freed place.


    “You don’t mind?”


    She arched an eyebrow. “Mind what?”


    “Playing a few rounds with me, I mean.”


    “That’s what I’m doing here. Play.”


    “Aye, but– never mind.”


    “As long as you don’t spill your tea on the set or the clock.”


    “You got it. Rules?”


    “Whatever you prefer.” Her voice carried a note of amusement as if it didn’t matter what he chose. To be fair, it likely didn’t.


    “Then let’s do 30 seconds per move. The less time I have to think, the better I do.”


    “That a chess assessment or a general one?”


    Cillian smiled.


    They assembled the pieces and began playing.


    “What’s the knight’s movement again?”


    When she gave him a very unimpressed look, he raised his hands. “Sorry, only joking.”


    And, of course, barely ten moves later, he got crushed.


    “I’m out of practice,” Cillian grumbled.


    The cailin just eyed him mercilessly and started arranging the board again. A rematch.


    Alright, mucker, stop embarrassing yourself.


    He got crushed in twelve moves this time.


    Umm, progress? The boy hid his face in his hands.


    “You aren’t very good at this, are you?”


    Cillian rubbed his forehead and shrugged. “Let’s give a lash to 2 minutes per move, shall we? I’d been mistaken; I’m a much more thoughtful guy these days.” He nodded sagely. “Aye, that was my error, I see it now.”


    Let’s start with e4 this time.


    Needless to say, it helped none.


    “You seem to know some openings but don’t follow through. How come?”


    “I do know a few,” he confirmed. “But I simply memorized them without really understanding their objectives. Seems disingenuous to just copy from a book, so I often end up making a prescribed first move or two and then wing it.”


    “That’s the most witless thing I’ve heard all day,” she deadpanned.


    “It’s not even midday yet, give it time. In the meanwhile, care for another?”


    Before they could begin a new round, a displeased shout from the end of the carriage interfered.


    “Sorcha! Stop playing chess and come help me scour the town off the rotfang infestation!”


    What?


    Cillian’s opponent didn’t look up at the intruder. “I am busy, Aoife, go away,” she said loudly but without any heat in her voice.


    “You’ve been playing since the skywalkers ignited!” The voice was coming closer. “Actually, you’ve been playing since the skywalkers stopped lighting the way.”


    “I’ll be back once I win this game.” Then quieter, “And a few more.”


    Cillian turned around and saw that it was that blonde girl from earlier. She had a pretty name.


    Aoife reached their table and tapped on it. “You’ve said it before, you know.”


    “Yes, I remember. ‘A few more,’ I said. But how many is ‘few’?” Sorcha shrugged. “Who can say for certain.”


    “You’re hilarious.”


    “With the rate she’s demolishing me,” Cillian chimed in, putting his white queen into place, “’a few’ could mean a hundred, and she’d still be done in no time.”


    Aoife glanced at him. “And you are– oh, one of Teagan’s neighbors, aren’t you?”


    “That I am. He’s still there with you?” At her nod, he continued, “Is he being complimentary about me and Eamon, perchance?”


    The girl chuckled softly. “Not quite.”


    “It’s your move,” Sorcha said impatiently. “I’ll see you soon, Aoife.”


    Her friend sighed. “30 minutes. And then I’m dragging you by the ear. You can’t spend the whole trip playing chess.”


    When she turned around and left, Sorcha muttered, “Watch me.”


    “Name’s Cillian by the way.”


    “A pleasure, Cillian. Now make a move.”


    He smiled. For some reason, the cailin had made him feel comfortable from the beginning. Probably because she seemed so utterly disinterested in having a conversation and simply wanted to play chess. For the first time since he’d boarded the train, he could stop fretting over what to do or say. Just make moves.


    Come on, I need to take this seriously.


    Cillian could even see himself growing to like the game more. Once he stopped being so fiercely hopeless in it, that was.


    <hr>


    The next 40-odd hours had gone by more or less the same.


    They’d first neared the Azure mountains after climbing steadily for a good while, whisked right through the pass, and, finally, left the belt far behind. And all throughout the journey, Teagan had continued to be mostly absent. Or reading. Or staying quiet. In a word, continued to be a perfect bunkmate, their rough initial interaction notwithstanding.


    Eamon was different. His talkative neighbor had never given Cillian more than two consecutive hours of peace, but, truthfully, he found not minding it too much. In fact, the boy reminded him of a certain kid who could also never shut up for long.


    A couple of times the compartment had been visited by their Foerstner chaperones to check up on them, but Cillian didn’t think the treatment was in any way special; the same likely happened to everyone else on the train.


    He’d also made an acquaintance with several others. When Sorcha had failed to materialize in compartment six fast enough for Aoife’s liking, the latter brought the game and the playing party to the dining carriage, instead. That was when Cillian met Moira, but he didn’t care to find out if she was Teagan’s mot, sister, or whatever. Her making an appearance caused the sulking boy to vanish posthaste, taking his disdainful glances with him, which was good enough.


    Even just playing a couple of rounds in the company of seven others had made his head spin from all the talk and banter. It appeared they were all well familiar with one another. Cillian had excused himself soon after, justifying the retreat with a thought that he managed enough progress for one day.


    Overall, he’d been feeling restless the whole time. It wasn’t nervousness because of what awaited him ahead or fear because of the imminent risk of being attacked by beasts but rather something else. He thought the confinement itself was the likeliest culprit. He simply wasn’t accustomed to being so sequestered from the world for such a long time.


    Constant dimness and noise messing with his sleeping routine hadn’t helped either.


    So the hours dragged on.


    When, an eternity later, an announcement proclaiming they would arrive in 20 minutes finally came, Cillian felt like cheering. He carried both excitement and exhaustion, despite not engaging in anything remotely straining for close to two days.


    “Finally,” he couldn’t help but blurt out loud.


    “Tsk, I’m disappointed,” Eamon declared, reclining on the bed with both hands behind his head.


    Cillian glanced at him, then back through the window. “The settlement’s not even visible yet; how can you be disappointed already?”


    “Not that. I’d been hoping we’d get attacked at least once.”


    “What? Why would you hope for something like this?”


    Eamon shrugged. “The outside is supposed to be teeming with beasts, innit? Where are they then?” He sat up and leaned close to the glass as if hoping a monster would emerge then and there.


    “Trains use steam and not aether for a reason. And beasts around these parts likely learned to stay away the hard way. I was given to understand that O’Driscoll runs the route regularly.”


    “Nah, beasts don’t really learn. And, anyhow, it’d be nice to see one getting obliterated with our mounted guns from safety.”


    “Don’t speak blindin’ nonsense, Eamon!” The words came out harsher than Cillian had intended. “A beast attack is always a serious matter, and there’s no such thing as complete safety.”


    “Whoa!” Eamon raised his hands up. “Where did that come from? I didn’t mean nothing by it. Just– just never seen a beast up close, that’s all.”


    “Lucky you,” Cillian muttered before taking hold of himself and hastily changing the subject, “Anyway, I want to get out as soon as possible; sick of being cooped up in here. Hopefully, there won’t be any lengthy security checks on arrival.”


    There weren’t.


    The train station turned out to be a teeny concrete box, resembling an entrance to a bunker more than anything. Just a single structure, nothing else. Not even personnel.


    Why does it look so drab, and what’s the point of it being here in the first place if we don’t even use it?


    Cillian voiced his confusion to no one in particular when he finally emerged to the open air once again, and, to his surprise, Teagan decided to answer.


    “There was a better one some time ago, fully manned and equipped, but beasts overran it thrice. So they decided to just make this,” he nodded at the squat building, “and don’t use any aether burning whatsoever. And the crew only comes in from the settlement when necessary. This way there’s nothing to destroy and no need to rebuild over and over.”


    Cillian looked at him, wondering when the fella had begun considering him worthy of polite attention.


    “What?” Teagan noticed his expression and asked heatedly.


    That’s better.


    “Nothing. Thanks for the info.”


    The boy eyed him for a moment and scoffed, “Whatever. Do try to correct your ignorance, tarhead.”


    Their welcoming committee consisted of six trucks – modified AA models, Cillian recognized, which had their open cargo beds extended until they were hanging a full meter behind the rear axles – and four smaller and older T2 models, with their black leather roofs folded back like accordions and the lone passenger seats replaced with big guns on swivel bases. The students were counted, divided between the trucks, and they were off.


    Getting freight treatment wasn’t the most pleasant experience – everyone had to sit on the floor and hold on to the side walls for dear life. The bed didn’t even feature a tailgate, for aether’s sake. And swallowing dust from the trucks in front coupled with jumping up and down on countless bumps made examining the surroundings a difficult exercise. The single local skywalker was already powered down for the day, too.


    Regardless, the hopping headlights provided sufficient illumination for Cillian to soon spot the settlement’s walls. Not nearly as impressive as even the midring wall in Lua, they still stretched a good 20 or so meters in height and sported battlements all along. The procession didn’t make for the main gate though, which was easily identifiable by two guard towers flanking it, but rather rode past it, reached the corner, and turned right, heading toward the opposite wall.


    Cillian saw the Everstorm far in the distance – not a trace of blue anywhere now, just dull white in the center and even duller white at the edges – and, thanks to it, could now orient himself for the first time since disembarking. It seemed the settlement was more or less aligned with the cardinal directions.


    They reached the Heaven wall, which stood less than a hundred paces away from a forest, and the transports spread out into a single line to ride alongside it. A break in the stone barrier soon revealed itself – not another gate but a hangar, sticking out slightly as if it had crashed into the wall from the inside and decided it was a good place to stay. As they got closer, the warm light spilling out of the open gateway gave Cillian a view of the ramp smoothly creeping out in between a pair of guide rails already extended across the ditch.


    One by one the motorwagens disappeared inside, with the escort transports entering last.


    Out of the hangar through the other side and into the open space they went, on foot, leaving the torturous vehicles behind and each carrying their own baggage. As they were being marched to another walled enclosure inside the walled enclosure, Cillian saw the buildings’ windows and lanterns gleam down the slope, inviting him to explore, but very shortly his field of vision became dominated by the looming stone once again. The walls surrounding the academy grounds appeared even taller than their outer counterparts.


    It felt to him like they were sneaking in as if thieves in the night since even here they’d entered through what clearly was just a side gate. To add to the impression, no one greeted them on the inside, and the place itself was dark and hushed. No lights were visible, apart from a small glowing island surrounding a lone lamp post further ahead. No sounds indicating any activity reached them either.


    However, it wasn’t entirely silent as there was constant monotonous chirping coming from all directions.


    “An auspicious start,” Eamon whispered from Cillian’s right.


    Is everyone asleep? I’d like to join them right about now.


    “Welcome to the Foerstner Chevalier Preparatory Academy, neophytes!” one of the chaperones, who Cillian recognized from the train, proclaimed after stopping and turning around to face them.


    “Welcomed, are we?” Eamon asked loudly, standing in the middle of the throng and making a show of looking around with exaggerated slowness. “Doesn’t feel like it.”


    “That’s just how it goes, lad. You’ll meet your nanni– ahem, instructors soon enough. For now, on behalf of the Security division, allow me to wish you all a pleasant stay. I dearly hope you find your time in this place cozy, restful, and not at all traumatic!”


    The guards all around chuckled, and the man himself was still laughing even as he resumed leading the column deeper inside.


    An auspicious beginning, indeed, Cillian thought while excited chatter reverberated around him.


    For better or worse, it would be his home for the next seven surges.


    He eyed the sky, noticing the skywalker’s dark silhouette hanging dormant, with layers of constantly shifting aether smears of all colors – most of them blue – serving as its backdrop.


    A hand pushed Cillian from behind to keep him moving, and he looked back at the seemingly lifeless buildings.


    As far as first impressions went, this one didn’t inspire confidence.


    And what in the aether is this damn noise?


    He caught up with Eamon.


    Just grand.


    Sure hope I’ve made the right choice.