Cillian woke up and rolled to the side with a quiet groan. The mattress pressing into him felt stiffer than usual, somehow. Much stiffer. The boy squirmed, trying to get more comfortable, and sluggishly noted that there was still no skylight coming from the window, which was all the permission he needed to allow himself to melt into the sheets once again. Smiling and already halfway back to happy slumber, a single hazy thought passed through his mind, Weird. Since when is there a window right above my head?


    His eyes flew open and he craned his neck to stare upside-down at the iron-barred opening. That and a small, dark silhouette sitting on the sill just outside and seemingly looking back at him curiously.


    Huh? Cillian blinked and sat up, comprehension making a drowsy comeback. Another blink – the shape was still there.


    Right, I’m in the academy now.


    He reached for the regulator of the aether-powered lamp, which jutted out from the wall next to the bed, and rotated it ever so gently, hoping not to spook the creature. Alas, at the first sign of light, the bird took off immediately, and the only thing he’d managed to glimpse before it disappeared was its blue and pink feathers. Pretty.


    A glance at the clock hanging opposite the window revealed it wasn’t even 6 yet; plenty of time before the day would begin in earnest. But, as he was wholly awake now, Cillian stretched, swung out of the bed, and went to the bathroom – every unit had its own, thankfully – to take a shower. He’d neglected to do it yesterday – and the day before that, come to think of it, stuck on the train as he’d been – and was now in dire need of one.


    In fact, the previous evening he had accomplished nothing more than shrug off his clothes and crash. Who would have thought that restlessly doing nothing for hours on end could be so exhausting?


    He turned on the water, made it just shy of scorching hot, and sighed contentedly.


    Cillian doubted that anyone else had engaged in any exciting activities either since, after they’d all been ticked off the list and handed their unit keys by the lone academy staffer welcoming them aboard, the entire cohort had been marched straight to the dormitory and told not to leave until morning. It was all very quare. He’d expected to at least receive some sort of inspirational yet intimidating speech by a stern-looking chevalier in charge, congratulating them for being admitted and warning not to be eejits all in the same breath or something of that sort.


    But there had been nothing. No light, no speech, no people.


    What was that bird? he wondered idly while washing away the sweat of the journey. Hororohoruru? Didn’t seem hostile.


    After the shower, Cillian checked out the room’s wardrobe and found it to be filled with an assortment of clothes. Most notably, it contained two full sets of uniform consisting of: straight-fit trousers, dark grey; a long-sleeved dress shirt, white; a basic five-button vest, of a slightly lighter grey color; and a silk neckerchief, of the customary Foerstner burgundy. As for the outerwear, a pair of identical corduroy jackets, featuring a standing collar, a couple of big breast pockets, and only four large buttons across the entire length, were hanging on top of the uniforms. Interesting choice of material, he mused, caressing the tough fabric. It looked as if it was made from countless black cords, very thin, laid parallel to each other. The poor man’s velvet, it was often called, to his knowledge. Cillian hadn’t thought Foerstner would ever use a material associated with the word “poor”.


    He started putting on the uniform while also peering closer at the rest of the contents.


    There was some sort of white turtleneck, only very light and airy, paired with loosely cut cotton trousers. Athletic wear, maybe? To the right swayed a thick leather apron, its purpose unknown. A neat row of boots ranging from elegant to menacing lined the bottom, while several differently-sized bags adorned the shelf at the top. No hats anywhere though, which he found surprising.


    Cillian nodded in satisfaction as the final piece of the attire – the jacket – slid its way on top of his body. He looked at himself in the framed mirror affixed next to the front door. That tiresome medical examination, which included taking lots of measurements, had been put to good use, it seemed. He felt comfortable. Or, at least, as comfortable as one could get when wearing unfamiliar clothes for the first time.


    Out of the room and into the hall he went, gently shutting the door behind and, to his surprise, finding the saffron light already coming from the communal area. Cillian strode toward it and saw another figure, clad in a blouse and a skirt, doing the same from the opposite wing, closer to the destination than him.


    The girl soon turned right and disappeared from his view, but her voice carried out to him.


    “What are these?”


    As he approached the space, he noticed that she was talking to a dark-haired, bespectacled fella who was sitting on one of the velvet sofas, leisurely flipping the pages of a leather-bound booklet, which had an outline of a golden shamrock depicted on the cover.


    “Our very own chronicles,” the boy replied, his words measured and carefully enunciated. He glanced at Cillian and gave a small nod.


    “Ooh, where’s mine?” She started rifling through the three stacks of folders arrayed on the polished wooden table in the center of the room, making a mess of them.


    “Shauna,” the lounging boy grimaced and admonished.


    “What?”


    “They are all signed and arranged in alphabetical order. Put them back in place.”


    She scoffed, finally found her own, and replied, “Do it yourself if it bothers you.”


    “Hello,” Cillian interjected.


    The cailin only glanced at him and said nothing while the boy raised his eyebrows and asked, nodding at the jacket, “Going somewhere?”


    “Just planning to look around.”


    “We’ve been told to remain here, remember?”


    “Until the morning.” He glanced through the set of lofty windows and saw the brightening world outside. “I’m Cillian, by the way.”


    “Oscar.” The newly introduced fella slowly looked Cillian up and down as if trying to commit every hairsbreadth to memory. It was kind of unsettling. “This one’s Shauna,” he added with a lazy wave.


    “So I’ve heard,“ Cillian remarked, gladly stepping out of Oscar’s direct line of sight and shuffling to the table himself.


    “This is steamin’ rubbish!” Shauna exclaimed and tossed her now empty folder to the floor while holding open an identical booklet and several bound sheets of paper, with the first one sporting the words “Rules of conduct” at the top in a large font.


    “What is?” Oscar glanced at her.


    “What’s a ring?” Cillian asked at the same time, looking over the girl’s shoulder.


    She whirled around and glared at him. “And what are you looking at?!”


    “Whoa.” He took a step back and raised a calming hand. “Only curious, what’s the big deal?”


    “The big deal? The big deal?!” she almost screeched, threw up her hands, then turned to Oscar and complained, only marginally quieter, “I’m the second ring, Oscar! Me!”


    The boy blinked and pivoted to fully face her, nestling one leg on the sofa’s seat and one arm on its weaving backrest. Very unhurriedly. Everything he did appeared slow and deliberate.


    “You don’t say.” His expression was solemn, apart from a wee upward tug at one corner of his mouth.


    “I do say! This is intolerable!”


    While she was letting out her frustration, Cillian pinpointed his own folder and was now reading the opening page of the “chronicle”, as Oscar had called it. Three distinct sections stared at him. The top one simply read:


    “Cillian Faolán Shea.”


    “Date of Birth: 17/G/440AF”


    The one below:


    “Foerstner Chevalier Preparatory Academy”


    “Date of Admission: 49/B/458AF”


    “Ring: 2”


    “Date of Companion Elanroot Acquisition: ”


    “Year 1 Ranking: ”


    “Year 2 Assignment: ”


    “Date of Graduation: ”


    “Honored Chevalier Assignment: ”


    And the final section contained a single line:


    “Companion Species: ”


    The rest of the pages were all blank. Judging by the name, the book was presumably meant to be filled with heroic deeds and exploits he would accomplish over the course of his long and illustrious career. Hopefully.


    Cillian mused about the entries. Most of them were self-explanatory – also empty – but what exactly being of the second ring meant, he didn’t know. Nothing good if Shauna’s reaction was any indication. There was also a curving golden line painted on the inside of the cover – a single stroke, nothing else – which, at first, he’d taken for a bizarre decoration but, after closing and opening the booklet a couple of times, realized that the line exactly mirrored the shamrock’s stalk on the outside.


    So they’ll add the leaves in here as well as to my mask. Nice.


    The storm in the background was still going strong.


    “How dare they humiliate me so?! I swear, when I get my hands on whoever made the decision–!”


    “Maybe it’s an honest mistake?” Oscar asked with a proper smile now.


    “Is being of the second ring somehow bad?” Cillian chimed in. “I’m also one.”


    Shauna whirled to face him, again, doing it so fast her long wavy hair loudly smacked the top of another sofa at her back.


    She glowered, “Of course you are, you– you steamin’ tarhead! I’m surprised you aren’t the first ring! But me?” The mad cailin began pacing back and forth while muttering curses to herself, then abruptly stopped and asserted to Oscar, “You’re right, it must be a mistake.”


    “And maybe,” the boy gestured at the line of windows, which, thanks to the arching wall, were giving them a panoramic view of the academy grounds, “It’s not too late to fix it? The day’s fresh; there is time.”


    Shauna perked up. “Yes. Yes! I’ll do just that. And will make them bleedin’ apologize to me!” She gathered the folder from the floor, forced the papers and the booklet inside, and stomped toward the staircase. It was a wonder she wasn’t furiously waggling her fists at the sky.


    Once her footsteps faded, Oscar returned to a lounging position. “Shauna, Shauna, never change.” He chuckled, glanced at confused Cillian, and explained, “There’s no one here yet. Sure, some security and service personnel, but the instructors and the headmaster are all away. She’s going to complain to the empty hallways.” He suppressed another chuckle, shaking his head in amusement.


    Cillian furrowed his eyebrows. “What do you mean there’s no one here? Where is everyone then?”


    The fella gave him a self-satisfied smile. “You’ll find out soon enough.”


    When nothing else was forthcoming, Cillian shrugged and gazed around the communal area to distract himself. To tell the truth, the whole spectacle had made him uncomfortable and at a loss what to do or say, the same as during the confrontation between Eamon and Teagan on the train. He wondered if it was just him, or both situations had been really quare.


    A painting of a tall man in gleaming armor, pinning some kind of ursine monstrosity to the ground with a spear, adorned the wall to the left of the windows. That’s a… what did she call it? Steamin’ rubbish, he thought. Surely, chevaliers don’t wear full-body armor like this? On the opposite side was a similarly unrealistic depiction of a typical Lua street at night with dozens of elegantly dressed residents strolling one way or another while being illuminated by the soft light from the many windows and torches. It was unrealistic because the Everstorm was hanging right above the street, big and dull orange everywhere but at the very core, yet it somehow didn’t contribute much illumination to the scene.


    And who uses torches anyway?


    Cillian had to admit that both pictures looked striking in their gilded frames amidst the deep crimson of the walls.


    He noticed something else on one of the tables next to the windows and came closer. A clatter of copper coins with a hole in the middle of each were arranged in tidy stacks of twos and threes, held together by strings. He picked up one such stack and wondered out loud, “And these are…?”


    Oscar obliged, not looking around, “Tokens, I presume. Rather drab looking, no? I have four.”


    “Four?” He examined the table but couldn’t see any sets of more than three. First come, first serve, I guess? “And what are they for?”


    The boy sighed theatrically enough for Cillian to hear. “Do I look like an instructor to you? All will be answered, I’m sure.”


    Yet you already have the answers, don’t you? Clearly, not everyone had suffered difficulties in obtaining information about the academy.


    He slipped the string in his pocket and turned around, intent on venturing outside and exploring the place while he had a chance, but stopped as a somewhat peculiar thought crossed his mind – consideration for a fellow classmate. Peculiar, because it’d been a while. Didn’t Eamon complain that they’d have to wake up “bleedin’ early”, and he hated doing that? Cillian felt sure the boy had. Admittedly, he’d talked an awful lot about a rake-load of things.


    Should I make a good friendly gesture? He’s on the same floor as me, so one of the sets has to be meant for him.


    After a brief mulling over, he did just that – located the folder with golden strokes artfully tracing “Eamon O’Leary” on the dark leather surface and dropped another trio of tokens inside. All under the watchful eyes of Oscar, who appeared a touch disapproving.


    Cillian wasn’t even sure if he liked Eamon, but, at the very least, the boy was an easy company, and it cost him nothing to help. He also hoped that in the future gestures like this would start coming naturally, without him having to think long and hard every time.


    Alright, mission accomplished.


    Before leaving, Cillian carefully inspected the surroundings one last time, confirming he hadn’t missed anything else. When nothing stood out, he nodded his thanks to the sitting fella, buttoned up his jacket, and headed toward the stairs.


    <hr>


    Halfway down the flight leading to the ground level, Cillian halted, looked back at the unlit communal area on the second floor, shrugged, and went to check out the table there.


    A single four-token string still sat untouched. He exchanged it for his old one. That’s better.


    The boy smiled and resumed the descent.


    <hr>


    Crisp air enveloped Cillian once he stepped outside. The skywalker was hovering almost directly overhead, which left him disoriented for an instant, as the object’s position and brightness, or lack thereof, didn’t belong together. Something’s wrong, his mind tried to tell him, but the boy closed his eyes and shut it up swiftly.


    Nothing’s wrong, eejit. It’s not Lua, is all.


    Indeed. He hadn’t paid much attention last night, but it appeared the walker in this place simply didn’t move. Which made sense, now that he thought of it. Why would it? The area was small enough for the spotlights to reach everywhere all at once. Not that Cillian could see the effect on the settlement proper since the walls stood in the way.


    Speaking of the walls. Same as their colleagues surrounding the town, they featured a tower at every corner, likely manned around the clock, but no battlements. Potentially interesting, though he wouldn’t risk climbing anything on the first day. His eyes swept back to the structures inside the perimeter.


    The building he’d just exited was a simple limestone box with a semicircular bulge in the middle where the communal areas were. Barred windows spread down the wings on either side of it, and a mansard roof completed the boring ensemble. Disappointing. The structure across was even more uninspired – nothing but a large hangar with lots of condenser fans and exhaust pipes sticking out from all surfaces.


    To his left stretched the main building of the entire establishment. The entire settlement, even. It stood perpendicular to both the dormitory and the hangar, protecting the Heaven side of the rectangular yard.


    Aren’t corpos supposed to be obsessed with appearances above everything else?


    The architects of this place hadn’t gotten the memo, apparently, since even the heart of the academy presented a bland sight. As Cillian neared the double doors leading inside, he recalled that the majority of the facilities were supposed to be situated underground. And Foerstner likely didn’t feel the need to show off as everyone in the entire town worked for the company and lived here to support the manufactu– err, the education of chevaliers in the first place. Aye, that must be it.


    In the echoing atrium he promptly ran into his good friend Shauna, who appeared a wee harried.


    The cailin scowled at him. “There is no one here!”


    Aether, why does she always have to yell at me?


    “And that’s my fault how exactly?” She opened her mouth to voice some inane reason, no doubt, but he carried on, “After you left, Oscar mentioned something about all the instructors and the headmaster being away. Know anything about it?”


    The girl blinked, then smacked her forehead. “Forgot about that.” Puffing out the air in mirth at her expression turned out to be a mistake because she noticed and instantly rounded on him again, “And why are you here?”


    Cillian eyed the interior. “Just having a tour.” He attempted a calming tone as if talking to a quarrelsome cat.


    “Well, you can return to the dormitory; there’s no one and nothing around. All doors are closed.”


    “I’d like to take a gander anyway.”


    Shauna scoffed. “Suit yourself, tarhead. I’m going back.”


    He gave her his most unimpressed look and proceeded deeper. “Don’t hurt yourself on the way out, kitty, the doors are heavy.”


    “What?” When he only waved without looking back, she cursed him and stormed off.


    Blindin’ nutty or not, the girl had been correct, Cillian quickly discovered. There were labels identifying various sections as “Classrooms”, “Auditorium”, and “Underground”, but no way to get in. The areas containing the instructors’ quarters and offices on the second and third floors were similarly shut.


    He grew bored and cut his exploration short without going to the top. The only semi-interesting thing he’d found was a blackboard decorating the wall to the left of the wide stairs on the ground level. “Schedule,” the heading read. And even that was bereft of contents.


    Back outside wasn’t much better. Next to the side entrance, which had welcomed them just a few hours prior, sat another hangar, smaller and with only a handful of ventilation yokes. Add a water tower, a nondescript house near the far-right corner of the main building, a shed next to it, and that was it – the entirety of the proud Foerstner Chevalier Preparatory Academy. What was on the surface, in any case.


    Somewhat disenchanted, Cillian returned to the dormitory, where some activity was finally happening. Sounds were coming from the dining hall, even though the doors remained closed, and the light on the second floor was on. Still no people in sight, but merry laughter spilled from above.


    Oscar and Shauna had been joined by half a dozen other individuals, with everyone occupying sofas, armchairs, and cushions while coalescing around the pair. Only Sorcha stood apart, studying her copy of the rules of conduct.


    Cillian walked up behind her and asked, “Anything noteworthy?”


    Sorcha jerked forward, then looked at him with a grimace. “Personal space, dandy!”


    Great job, mucker.


    Cillian raised an apologetic hand. “Sorry, just wanted to know if there’s anything worthwhile.”


    “Do you not have your own?” She pointedly eyed the folder in his other hand.


    “Aye. But no way I’m reading all this,” he nodded at the stack of papers in her arms, “if all it says is that we should do things that are good and not do things that are not so good.”


    The girl smiled. “I believe most regulations say something of that so–”


    “Sorcha!” came a loud and by now regrettably familiar voice.


    She grimaced, ignored the caller, and continued, “And just so happens, no, there isn’t anything worthwhile. No one should have any problems following the rules unless they are a complete barba–”


    “Oi! Don’t ignore me!”


    Cillian sighed. Sorcha sighed with him, muttering, “Speaking of barbarians.” She glanced at the shouting girl with palpable disdain. “Oh, Shauna? Sorry, didn’t see you there, took you for a banshee. Have you already forgotten where your room is? Need a hand finding it?”


    All around, people erupted in poorly suppressed laughter.


    “You can stick your hand in a boiler,” Shauna spat. “I wish to know what your ring is.”


    “What do you think? You are the only one here who graduated Foerstner primary yet still ended up a second-ringer. I’d say no one could predict it, but I don’t like lying.”


    “Sorcha,” Aoife admonished from one of the cushions.


    “What?”


    “Niss take you, you rancid witch,” Shauna hissed, a wee bit red now, then stuck her finger at Cillian. “And you are one to laugh, tarhead!”


    “Me?” Cillian pointed at himself. “I wasn’t even laughing.” Admittedly, he’d been grinning widely. “Right, I suppose I should show solidarity with the fellow ‘second-ringer’. And I would if I knew what the fuss was about. What’s a–?”


    “I’m not your fellow, eejit! It’s a mistake! One I will correct once the staff actually gets here.”


    “I don’t know, Shauna, seems like a big mistake to make.” It was one of the boys, Cillian thought his name was Lorcan, who said that. “You didn’t do as well as you’d hoped on the finals, everyone knows that, so maybe they simply judged you unworthy.”


    “Who cares about the finals? I got in, so I must be the third.”


    “Personally, I find it hilarious,” Oscar chimed in with a big, happy smile. “All that posturing and for what? To run around in the dark howling at the empty offices?”


    Aoife, who crept behind the couch while the boy was talking, smacked him on the back of the head lightly. “Don’t be a bully, Oscar. It might be a mistake, in which case it would be corrected. And if it is not, then Shauna needs our support, not ridicule.”


    “I don’t need anyone’s support; I’m not a damsel!”


    “About the rings,” Cillian tried once again. “What are they for? I can guess the purpose of tokens, I’ve heard some talk about them, but–”


    “Aye, tokens, what I was about to ask,” a large, thickset fella unapologetically cut him off, “How come you have four, Oscar? Did you take one from another set?”


    Oscar looked at him flatly. “It’s called getting up early; maybe you should try it.”


    “I was plenty early,” the boy protested in his rumbling voice. It was kind of pleasant, actually. “I was the first one. At least, I was the one who turned on the lights. There weren’t any fours there, only twos and threes.”


    “There weren’t?” Oscar asked, sounding surprised.


    Cillian didn’t look at him and, instead, walked up behind Aoife, stopping at an arm’s length this time. She glanced at him questioningly.


    “So what’s with the rings?” he asked her quietly while the discussion about who’d taken the four-token string from the second floor was gathering steam. “Do you know?”


    She made a so-so gesture. “A more fitting name would be something like ‘priority order’, I suppose. The ring determines your standing relative to the others but only in a general sense since there are just three of them. The greater the number, the better.”This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    “I’ve surmised as much. Shouldn’t it be the other way around though?”


    “I think it’s supposed to represent the walls of Lua. Hiding behind three walls is better than hiding behind one – that sort of thing. And I wouldn’t worry about that.” Aoife pointed at the “Year 1 Ranking” line in her chronicle. “This is what actually matters. As for the rest, they will gather us today to explain the details.”


    “Mhm, that’d be grand. Feels like everyone here knows way more than me. Thank you, Aoife.” He nodded to her and turned to retreat to his room.


    Rings and tokens and rankings. With Foerstner, nothing was ever straightforward. He should’ve known.


    On the way back to the wing leading to his accommodations, Cillian could feel someone’s sharp gaze following him, and he felt pretty sure he knew who it was but didn’t pay the attention much mind. Even if the boy had correctly deduced that it was Cillian who’d taken the tokens, what would he do about it? No one had forbidden them to take anything from another floor. He could just claim ignorance.


    After all, it was first come, first serve, wasn’t it?


    <hr>


    Breakfast turned out to be disappointing as well.


    Is this an educational or a penal institution? The bars, the glum buildings, the simple food – what’s with all that? Cillian had been hoping Foerstner would splash some serious scions on their future chevaliers, but it was not to be, apparently. Even their rooms were very plain. So far, the only bright speck amidst the dullness was the elegant communal areas. He wondered how his counterparts who were more accustomed to luxury would cope with the environment. Although, maybe that was the whole point. Teach them to subsist on less.


    Here he was, standing with a tray filled with eggs, thin slices of de-aethered meat, dried tomatoes, and a salad consisting of greens, greens, and more greens. It was like he’d never left school.


    What would it take to get meat from normal animals, some fresh vegetables, and a couple of fruits? Become the headmaster?


    He knew that food production was very challenging and expensive – most of the potentially edible things in the world being tainted with aether saw to that – but still, he was a future chevalier, damn it, and a growing boy to boot.


    Cillian had been the very first to enter the dining hall, and, when he had, a poster proclaiming “1 meal = 1 token” briefly made him worried, but a nice lady manning the counter had explained that it only concerned evening meals – breakfast and lunch would always be provided for free – and that they didn’t have to worry about it until week five anyway.


    Maybe they would be able to buy better food, too.


    Now he was facing a dilemma of where to sit. Three big wooden tables stretched across the entire length of the chamber side by side, offering half a hundred available seats, at a glance. 2 floors, each with 2 wings, and 6 pairs of doors opposite one another in every wing makes… 48 students in total. Seems about right. They all had to sit together like one big happy family then.


    He chose the table closest to the side windows and a spot on it right down the middle. This way, he would be neither in the center nor on the fringes. His own thoughts made him cringe. Aether, why do I keep thinking so strategically about crap like this? It’s not that complicated. Just act natural, tool.


    Soon the hall began filling up with people, some arriving in ones and twos, others – in big companies. Before long Cillian had neighbors both left and right. He ate slowly and listened with half an ear, looking for familiar faces.


    Aoife, Sorcha, and an unknown girl had seated themselves at the central table and were preoccupied with a lively conversation, while Oscar was waiting in line and talking to a large fella. Maybe measurements for some had been less precise than others, Cillian mused, eyeing the way the boy’s muscled back and shoulders tested the stretchability of his dress shirt and vest. Shauna was ambling toward the table nearest the entrance, looking down at the porcelain plates on her tray with disdain. She would be quite lovely if not for her constant displeased grimace. Eamon was still nowhere to be found.


    Someone tapped him on the shoulder.


    “And what about you?”


    “Hm?” Cillian glanced to the right and saw a boy looking at him with an expectant expression. “Sorry, did you ask something? Kind of lost in thought.”


    “Aye, I get you, a lot to take in. We,” his neighbor gestured at the nearby faces, “have been talking about the rings and tokens and so on. What’s your name?”


    “Right. I’m Cillian Shea.”


    “My name’s Patrick. So, what ring are you?”


    “Second.”


    “Same as me then,” the fella smiled broadly. “Seems we are in the minority. You figured what it means yet?”


    “I told you what it means,” said the girl across from him. “Preferential treatment.”


    “You’re just repeating what you heard on the train,” the boy waved her off. “Saying ‘preferential treatment’ is only marginally less obscure than saying ‘ring’. Preferential treatment for what exactly? I don’t see anyone getting better meals than me or not having to stand in line. Do you?”


    “You know I don’t.” She rolled her eyes. “But clearly it’s going to be important. Otherwise, why have it? And right in our chronicles at that.” The cailin then inclined her head at Cillian. “I’m Nuala; Patrick here is not keen on introducing me, looks like.”


    He was about to nod in return when a cheerful voice called out to him.


    “Hey, Cillian!”


    Eamon dropped on the bench next to Nuala, a steaming cup of tea as his sole company.


    “Eamon,” he greeted back, eying the noticeable absence of any food on the tray. “You’re not eating?”


    The boy grimaced. “Don’t feel like it; me stomach is in knots. Happens sometimes when I’m nervous.” His sour look rapidly morphed into a smiling one when he spotted who was sitting at his shoulder. “Good morning! Eamon O’Leary, at your service.” He gave a bow, which came out awkward yet did nothing to deter him. “But people also call me ‘the charming one’. Or ‘the dazzling one’. Depends on the circumstances.”


    Nuala huffed a quiet laugh. “Or they do, do they?”


    “Indeed.”


    “Surround yourself with liars much?”


    “Alas,” Eamon glanced up at the ceiling and affected a forlorn look, “they see this honest face and always try to swindle me. Such is the burden of those pure of soul, I’m afraid.” He grinned and shuffled closer to her. “But you have me at a disadvantage, m’lady. You are…?”


    “Nuala Rafferty. No one calls me charming or dazzling, sad to say.”


    He peered at her with narrowed eyes. “Are you a liar too? There’s no way. Even a rotfang would feel your allure. Cillian, quick, call the lady dazzling.”


    Munching on the meat as he was, Cillian could only blink in surprise. He slowly finished chewing, swallowed, took a sip of water, and swallowed that too. All the while the company kept staring at him. He turned to regard the girl carefully up and down. “Umm, I suppose you are? Dazzling, I mean.”


    Eamon sniggered.


    “Why, thank you. I’ll gladly accept a compliment given with such conviction,” Nuala commented with a wry smile.


    “Sorry.” Cillian scratched at his forehead. “I don’t really know you. And compliments aren’t my forte.”


    “No need. Thoughtful compliments are much better.” She glanced at Eamon meaningfully.


    “Hey!” the boy protested. “My compliments are always thoughtful too!”


    “Oh really? My ‘allure’? What does it even mean?”


    “And what ring are you?” Patrick interjected, attempting to steer the conversation back on track and eying Eamon a wee sourly for some reason.


    “Ring?”


    “Aye, that’s what I said.”


    “You haven’t checked yet?” Cillian asked. “There’s a folder with your name in the communal area.”


    “Huh?” Eamon looked puzzled. “Nah, I haven’t seen nothing. To be fair, I didn’t look, went down straight away. What’s in there, and what’s a ring?”


    Patrick opened his mouth to answer, but a rumble of approaching vehicles made him pause. Everyone turned to look. Behind the windows giving a view into the yard, several trucks were raising a dust haze on their way to the main building. Once they stopped, people began spilling out of the open beds and closed cabins.


    Armed and armored people, to be precise.


    Cillian approached one of the windows to observe closer, and he wasn’t the only one.


    There you are, instructors, hello! And some security personnel, too.


    The groups could be easily distinguished from one another by their attires. The guards were dressed in tough-looking black jackets and pants, overlaid with lighter slabs of carapace of an unknown beast to cover the vital areas. On the other hand, the chevaliers, who were clearly in charge, wore much heavier protection. Not a full armor enclosing every hairsbreadth in steel, like in the painting, but an assortment of solid pieces tightly strapped on top of the gambesons.


    No two chevaliers looked the same though. One was practically gleaming in the yet muted skylight, on account of every single part of his armor being made from polished metal. The cuirass – the chest piece – even appeared forged from bronze. Another chevalier, who briefly glanced at the curious faces behind the glass, had almost no metal on her at all. Instead, everything from the vambraces and pauldrons to the greaves shielding her lower legs and even the battle skirt, composed of overlapping horizontal bands that went all around but left a narrow opening at the front, was fabricated from some scaly hide. Big scales, in color and texture resembling chestnuts, to Cillian’s mind. There was also a man at the back, sporting a tea-green cape, of all things, which was gently undulating in the wind.


    The one element that united everyone present was the fact they all wore burgundy neckerchiefs or scarves, speaking to their affiliation. Even those chevaliers who carried neck protection still had them on top.


    Idly, Cillian noted the difference between Foerstner security personnel in Lua, including the ones who’d chaperoned the students on the way here, and those currently in his line of sight. It seemed that, away from the general public, the company put much more stock in practicality than showboating. Rugged jackets as opposed to flamboyant coats, heavy-duty boots rather than tall ones which were currently in fashion, and the complete absence of any hats – all contributed to the impression. Although, the lack of headwear might be due to their recent open-air truck ride.


    None of the arrivals mingled. Most instructors marched toward the main building, with only a couple heading somewhere behind it, while the enforcers went any which way. One man set out straight to the dormitory.


    “It was nice knowing you,” Eamon said from Cillian’s right, making him jolt in surprise.


    “What?”


    “There’s a dangerous-looking fella carrying a rifle on the way here. And is that blood on his jacket and hands?” The boy practically mashed his face against the glass.


    Cillian peered closer too. “Sure looks it.”


    The security operative entered the dining hall, and everyone looked up expectantly, but he only froze at the doors and began counting the students.


    Silence stretched for a while, interrupted only by the clinking of cutlery. Eventually, he proclaimed, “47 in total. One is missing.”


    Aoife rose and spoke up, “Moira is in her room; she doesn’t eat breakfast.”


    “I don’t need to know that. You’ll relay the information to her.”


    “Of course,” she replied even though that hadn’t sounded like a question.


    “The headmaster calls for a general assembly in the auditorium at 8 o’clock. Go through the main doors and turn left. Everyone should be dressed in uniform, including these.” He casually untied the neckerchief with his bloody right hand. “One minute early is too late, understood? And in the meantime, don’t go anywhere. There are matters currently happening outside that you have no business witnessing.”


    Not staying to see if there were any questions, the man spun around and began marching away.


    “Will there be classes today?” a boy from Cillian’s table called out.


    There was no reply, only the sound of the doors swinging shut. They watched the guard stalk back to one of the trucks.


    “Cheerful fella,” Eamon commented while the transports reversed and disappeared back through the main gates.


    Cillian checked his pocket watch – 07:35 – and asked, “What did he mean by ‘matters outside’? Nothing’s happening.”


    Both boys returned to the table.


    “Who knows. I get the inkling it’s all deliberate, you feel me?”


    “What do you mean?” Nuala asked. She hadn’t bothered to stand or even pause her eating, it seemed, as her plate was now completely devoid of food.


    “I mean all of it.” Eamon gestured around. “No greetings yesterday, some mysterious rings you mentioned before, and now this arrival,“ he nodded at the windows, “suspiciously timed so we could see it. There might be a perfectly ordinary explanation for all that, but the bloody man with a firearm paying us a visit? Why not some ordinary staffer, hm? Cheap theatrics, I say. All of it.”


    “For what purpose?” Patrick challenged. “None of it made much of an impression.”


    “Why yer asking me? I ain’t the one who came up with it.”


    “They’ll tell us soon enough, I reckon. For now, we can at least put one myth to rest,” Cillian said.


    “Which is?” Eamon raised his eyebrows.


    “That all academy instructors are August chevaliers. There was a single fella wearing a mask, and I’m pretty sure he only had two leaves etched on his left cheek.”


    “Hadn’t our mutual friend from the train already disillusioned us, manky culchies?”


    “Aye. Not that I put much faith into his words.”


    “Fair.” Eamon drank the rest of his lukewarm tea in two gulps and stood up. “Anyway. M’lady,” he bowed low to Nuala, “I hope to see you again soon, otherwise–”


    “We are in the same academy,” she remarked.


    “–otherwise I fear I’d languish in despair for all eternity. Now that I got but a glimpse of your beauty–”


    “Where are you going? It’s still too early,” Cillian asked while Nuala mumbled something unintelligible.


    Eamon rolled his eyes. “No one appreciates me refined manners. Fine. I just want to check out that folder you told me about. Also,” the boy gestured at his clothing, which was decidedly not their issued uniform, “need to change. And, Kil, you aren’t wearing the necker either.”


    That said, he twirled around and was gone in a blink.


    Eamon O’Leary, cailini and fellas. Coming and going like a storm.


    “Name’s Cillian,” he grumbled, hurrying to finish his meal.


    “You’re friends?” Nuala inquired.


    “Hm? No, no, we met on the train.” He turned to look at the yard again. “Although, we’ve already been in one scuffle together. I suppose it counts for something.”


    “Scuffle?” “You two came to blows?” Nuala and Patrick asked at the same time.


    But Cillian had already stuffed his mouth full of scrambled eggs and could only shrug in response.


    Friends. After so long, the notion inspired uncertainty rather than delight. Would he even be able to build lasting friendships, the way he was now?


    “Just a minor one,” once swallowed, he clarified, seeing that his neighbors’ curious faces weren’t going away. “And not with each other. Doesn’t matter. I don’t even recall what provoked it, that’s how stupid it was.”


    A lot of the students were now heading for the doors.


    Before the pair could ask him any more questions, Cillian, too, rose to his feet. “I’ll see you in the auditorium, I guess. It was nice meeting you both. Eamon had the right idea though; need to get my attire in order.”


    He gave a polite nod, brought his tray to the scullery window, and ambled out of the hall.


    Well, nothing to it but try, I suppose. And Eamon seems like a fine option, Cillian mused on his way to the third floor.


    A couple of boys all but flew past him up the staircase. He watched them disappear.


    Aye. Not friends yet, but we’ll see.


    <hr>


    The auditorium turned out to be way more spacious than their measly half a hundred people warranted. Cillian and Eamon sat at one of the top rows straight down the middle, both properly dressed now. The former had not only put on the neckerchief but also exchanged his own boots for a pair of provided dress shoes. They were fiercely uncomfortable.


    “You reckon that’s the headmaster?” Eamon pointed at a grey-haired man standing at the center of the stage.


    “Doesn’t look like one to me, but what do I know. He seems tired.”


    In fact, all of the instructors appeared to be in various states of fatigue, and only three had taken time to swap their armor for normal clothing. Far to the left of the centerpiece fella, stood a woman in a dark brown dress with sleeves barely reaching the middle of her upper arms – nothing unusual. Apart from the fact that the dress itself was cut into pieces. One piece for each shoulder, one figure-hugging piece going down from below her breasts all the way to the pelvis, and the final one for the skirt. The three parts covering the torso didn’t quite meet, leaving an area where the woman’s white blouse was peeking through – wide at the chest level and narrowing down as it extended toward her neck.


    The two other instructors not dressed in armor flanked the woman. Both were men. The trio were also the only ones wearing hats – fedoras all. However, the woman’s one was, again, more fashionable as it sported a slightly off-center crown and a brim that was curving down a lot – not in the middle but above her right eyebrow – giving the hat an asymmetrical, skewed look.


    The attire succeeded in pulling eyes away from her face but did nothing to mask the woman’s overall exhaustion. It was in the way her shoulders slouched, Cillian supposed.


    “By the by,” Eamon fetched his string of tokens from a pocket, “you know what these are for? I saw the ring mentioned in the logbook yoke but nothing about coins with holes in them. I thought maybe these were the rings, but I’m 1, not 3.”


    “Logbook… I like it. The proper name is ‘Chronicle’ though. And the coins are tokens. I only know that for 1 token we can buy dinner, that’s it. Local currency, I reckon. And I’m a second-ringer myself.”


    “Aether. Rings, tokens, chronicles – why does it have to be so complicated?”


    “My thoughts exactly.”


    “Alright, settle down!” boomed a powerful voice, cutting through any and all conversations.


    A man, his appearance befitting the delivery, swiftly climbed to the stage and took a spot next to the grey-haired fella. The new arrival looked to be in his sixties and was entirely bold, but vitality radiated from his every movement and gesture.


    “Everyone here? Good. Let us get through the agenda on the double.”


    The doors were pushed shut to punctuate the statement.


    “My name is Donnacha Gorman, and I’m the headmaster of Foerstner Chevalier Preparatory Academy. I’m also an August chevalier myself. Every single instructor here is of the Noble rank with years of experience in the field. Niall Zweber,” he tapped the man beside him on the shoulder, “is my deputy. I do apologize for our appearance, we were engaged in some rather important and bloody matters until very recently.”


    He did look disheveled – the long sleeves of his dress shirt were carelessly rolled up, and the neckerchief lay limply around his neck, untied.


    “These two gentlemen and the lady,” headmaster Gorman gestured to his right, “are instructors Rian Thalacker, Mairead Gehler, and Tiernan O’Rourke. Down below are Aisling Haertel and Rory Gehler. And at the doors is Callum Hipke. You will meet the rest later. The proper forms of address are ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’. ‘Instructor’ is also acceptable.


    “On behalf of the academy, I welcome you all. Your hard climb to the top begins now. You have questions, no doubt, and I will answer some of them. Others – you will have to find the answers on your own.”


    Muffled noise came from outside the auditorium – some stomping and rattling of metal – but the man ignored it.


    “First, you do not get graded in the traditional sense. We maintain internal rankings, but you will rarely see them. All I can say is that hard work gets rewarded, and it’s not all about results.”


    The fella at the doors – instructor Hipke – cracked them open and stuck his head through the gap.


    “Second, we have two forms of currency here – tokens and stones. You should all have some tokens by now. They can be used for mundane things like meals, cleaning your gear, mending clothes, more frequent correspondence with Lua – the like. Obviously, you don’t have to pay for most of it, and, in fact, the main goal is to give you no choice but to learn how to handle these simple but vital tasks on your own. To that end, tokens can also be used for less mundane acquisitions. Examples include buying extra hours and ammunition for the ranges, renting restricted books from the repository, and buying supplementary equipment for competitions.”


    He gave them a somewhat predatory smile. “You will get a chance to figure out what I mean by the latter soon enough.”


    Callum Hipke shut the doors again and gave the headmaster a crisp nod.


    “As for the stones, well, all you have to know for now is that the tokens are meant for items available in a more or less boundless supply, while the stones are for limited commodities. It’ll become clear later. The next point is–”


    Deputy Zweber leaned in to whisper in the man’s ear.


    “Right. Thank you, Niall,” he said in a normal volume. “I forgot to mention that you are free to trade the tokens between each other. How you set prices is up to you, we are not going to regulate it, got it?”


    Not waiting for an acknowledgment, he moved on, “Now, onto the matter number three. To spend tokens you have to first earn them. The handouts you received earlier are a one-off. You earn tokens by completing assignments, which can vary from simple written tests on various subjects and general chores to hands-on missions, sometimes lasting several days. Nothing too dangerous – believe me, we are very aware that you lot are barely adults – at least until you have any genuine skills to contribute.


    “Which brings me to the rings. Speaking frankly, your ring directly affects your earnings. That is, the higher your ring is, the more tokens and stones you can make.”


    He left the statement hanging for a few heartbeats.


    Umm, what does that mean? Cillian exchanged uncertain glances with Eamon.


    “Potentially. The exact formula is a secret, but you can think of it like this:


    “Completing assignments equates tokens, but how you complete them is often up to you. Some of them are strictly individual, but most practical ones have to be fulfilled in groups of predetermined sizes. There is always a base reward for completion, which is used as the starting point. Then, in the formula, the average ring of the group members is used as a multiplier.” The man paused to let that sink in. “Of course, it’s not quite as simple as that since there are always things like out-of-control circumstances, impeding injuries, bonus rewards for exceptional performance, and other additional factors to consider, but I hope the general implications are clear to you all.”


    Oh you gotta be kidding me. Cillian grimaced.


    “I imagine some of you might think it’s unfair. After all, why hand an edge to those who already enjoy the advantage of better prior education and closer ties to the company? And the answer is simple: such is life. Our families and backgrounds make us inherently unequal. Like it or not, this is how things work.”


    The man swept his intense gaze over the gathered faces.


    “There are only 14 first and second-ringers in this entire cohort. But don’t fret, it’s not all bad for you. I was of the first ring myself back in the day. And, like I said, every assignment, no matter tedious or exciting, offers extra rewards for exceeding expectations. Which means there’s no reason for those of a higher ring to not consider you if they think that your contribution would offset any losses caused by the decreased average ring.“


    He clapped once, which served as the signal for the doors to be opened.


    “It’s all secondary, regardless. Work hard, follow our instructions, and you will succeed. As for what you have to aspire toward…”


    The heavy wooden barriers swung open, and both Cillian and Eamon leaned forward with interest.


    “Follow me and don’t rush,” came a muted voice from the corridor.


    First through the doorway marched a chevalier – that nobleman with the mask – who proceeded to join his colleagues waiting below the stage. The three of them spread out to stand next to the seats of the lowest row – the one the students had been warned not to occupy – as if preparing to shield the audience.


    What followed next was a procession of platform carts, each clearing the bumpy threshold with a rattle and then rolling in ponderously. Every cart was being propelled by a single individual, but Cillian didn’t even notice them at first, his attention was directed squarely at the cargo.


    “Second-years,” Eamon muttered.


    Huh? Cillian glanced at the faces of the new arrivals. Aren’t they supposed to be already gone? But it had to be them, he reckoned, as all three looked young, which was visible even beneath all the grime covering their faces. Dirt was literally falling off them as they strained to push the cages deeper inside.


    Well, the one at the front wasn’t really a cage but a giant glass ball. And inside sat a creature that he could only describe as a lump of green slime. An enormous eyeball swirled to look at them from that lump, seemingly straight at Cillian. He blinked in surprise. The eye blinked too, albeit slowly, as if savoring every wee bit of the motion. The reaction among the students was mixed – someone laughed nervously while a fella on the second row cursed loudly and pressed himself deeper into the seat.


    Aye, that would surely help.


    The advance stopped, and the doors were pushed closed once again.


    The beast’s semisolid shell sparkled in the warm light, but he got a distinctive impression that it was supposed to be glowing too but wasn’t. Then a single tentacle began emerging from the body. Cillian watched in fascination as the appendage grew and grew, green droplets splashing down, while the main mass was shrinking. He didn’t know the species but surmised that the overall volume had to remain constant.


    The tentacle reached the glass, and the featureless stump separated into three “fingers”, which immediately stuck to the smooth surface as if sucked in by a pump.


    “A brave choice,” Cillian commented.


    “Craic, innit?” Eamon looked down at the scene with glee.


    The student next to the cart, a girl, who was clearly the companion’s master, smiled gently at the creature.


    Chevaliers almost always preferred either majestic or terrifying beasts. The slime was just disgusting. Although captivating at the same time, Cillian had to admit. He forced his gaze sideways.


    The creature in the middle was housed in an actual cage. This one he was familiar with. A mongrel. That was, a single individual of the species known as mongrelfolk. One of several species that resembled humans. Or, in this particular case, leprechauns – stocky little men from folklore.


    The heavily muscled, to the point of being comical, creature appeared to be sulking while sitting flat on its arse and scrutinizing the floor. At least, its main head was angled down. The creature’s second head was pointed toward the audience, but its eyes were closed, the mind behind them sleeping. Not a surprise, considering it was the head of an infant. The dichotomy between the dominant neckless head with the face of an old bearded drunkard and the much smaller secondary head on a short yet powerful neck was fiercely unsettling. Clearly, not to Cillian alone if the tense silence among the first-years was any indication.


    The reason for the mongrel’s glum mood was pretty obvious – it was bleeding. Hard to say from where though since the brown rags that passed for its clothes were stained with red all over. Cillian could hear the main head’s labored breathing, now that he concentrated on it.


    He imagined that if you looked at the creature from its right side only, it would appear almost entirely human since both the infant head and the enormous crab-like claw that served as its left arm would be out of sight. The other appendages seemed human enough, discounting the somewhat swollen right hand and both feet.


    Whereas the first two companions were disgusting and unsettling, respectively, the final one was just pure banality. Yet another rougarou. A miniaturized version of the one he’d seen at the graduation ceremony, only without armor. It, too, appeared injured. In fact, there was an entire chunk missing from its rocky shoulder as if someone had taken a bite out of it. It had to have been a mighty jaw indeed. The companion stood proudly, glaring at them and caring neither about the large hole nor a series of smaller ones littering the edges of its moss-covered torso.


    The strangest part was how silent all three of the beasts were. The eye kept blinking, the sedate action sharply contrasting with the tentacle’s haphazard dance along the glass. The mongrel kept breathing. And the rougarou kept imitating a statue. Apart from the wheezing of air, no sounds escaped the freak show in front of them.


    The masters themselves were in a better physical shape. Marginally. The rightmost student, a boy, was grimacing and had his arm in a sling. And he had to push the big cage with one arm. Ouch. The fella in the middle sported a bandaged head. Only the girl wasn’t visibly harmed. And all three of them looked like they’d been mud-wrestling with wild boars for hours and had blood on their gambesons and armor to show for it.


    “These are the ones least injured among the, as of this moment, second-year students,” headmaster Gorman proclaimed with a proud smile. “We’ve just returned from the end-of-the-year competition. The competition finalizing the sorting order for selecting assignment posts. The competition determining whether they would spend the entirety of the next year on the border with rotfangs or get a chance to go on an expedition into one of the many lost cities. That competition.”


    The man gestured at the trio of human-monster pairs at his feet.


    “They did well. Most of the students did. Unfortunately, there can only ever be one winner, and there is always a very real chance of failure, in which case you don’t get to transition to the second year at all.”


    All of a sudden, he jumped down from the stage, landing right next to the mongrel, fetched a dagger from the holster on his belt, and began rattling the bars with it. The companion’s master scowled but said nothing.


    “Come on, you mopey piece of niss-shit, wake up!”


    The old head growled and shook side to side, still not looking up, then the beast lifted its right arm and swatted at the cage as if trying to get rid of an annoying bug. But headmaster Gorman proved to be an insistent pest. He transitioned to pushing and pulling the cart rapidly back and forth while keeping up the barrage of insults.


    “Useless lump of meat, you almost got your master killed today, didn’t you? Wake UP!”


    In all likelihood, the companion couldn’t understand anything. Resembling a human or not, it was still a young beast, if a somewhat tamed one. But it clearly didn’t care for being disturbed and rattled – its one proper hand curled into a fist, and its growls were rapidly growing in volume. Then, like a hammer blow, the man drove the flat of his boot into the cage, and the mongrel finally snapped its main head up with a ferocious snarl, and, at the same time, the infant woke up and wailed.


    Heaven! Cillian covered his ears, the same as everyone else. The hell is he doing?!


    With speed that belied its ungainly body, the companion moved to its knees, mashed its big head against the bars, and stuck the arm out as far as it would go, trying to reach for the offender, while its claw began banging on the metal, too big to do the same. The infant carried on wailing.


    Headmaster Gorman only smiled in satisfaction and calmly gestured for his colleagues to start rolling the cages away.


    They all watched in silence as the mongrel kept trying to claw its way to the man all the way out the doors, while the eye in the slime spun and darted around in clear agitation inside its shell, the tentacle nowhere to be found. The rougarou remained still.


    Once the doors clicked closed, muffling both the snarling and the horrible yowling, he climbed back to the stage.


    At their bewildered looks, the man shrugged. “The lad should’ve done it himself long ago. It’s no good for a mongrel to act all dejected and broken, not after a fight. But youngsters like you are often too soft.” He sighed and cleared his throat. “Anyway. What awaits them now is a couple of weeks in isolation to put themselves back together, both the masters and the companions. It’s an important part of forming a bond, so don’t bother the seniors if you happen to see them. And, as for you, dear newbies,” a predatory smile found its way back to his face, “you are a long way off something as exciting as this. For you, it will be hard, often dreary work week in, week out before you even get a sniff of your own companion. Because, as of right now, you’re nowhere near ready.”


    He invited the trio of non-armored instructors to join him at the center of the stage with a wave. “Instructors Thalacker, Gehler, and O’Rourke will take it from here. And I will meet you again tomorrow.” With that, he whispered something to his deputy, and they both began striding away.


    “Isn’t tomorrow Sunday?” Eamon muttered.


    Once near the doors though, the headmaster halted, faced the audience again, and stated, “Welcome to your new lives, boys and girls! Now prove to the company, prove to me that you deserve to become chevaliers. Remember, I will be watching.”


    The doors swung shut for the umpteenth time behind the duo.


    Everyone’s way too dramatic in here, Cillian thought while eyeing the other students’ reactions. Some of them appeared utterly unfazed.


    “Alright,” the woman – instructor Gehler, was it? – spoke up, “that’s enough excitement for today. It’s time for you to get familiar with the place. We,” she gestured at herself and her colleagues, “will take you on a tour.”