“Adenauer.”


    “Baessler.”


    “Blayney.”


    Instructor Thalacker jumped down from the stage.


    “Well? What are you waiting for?” he thundered. “Converge on me!”


    Cillian saw two guys – Teagan among them – and a girl quickly spring to their feet and move closer to the man, who continued reading from the list in his hands.


    “Eberhardt.”


    The callout lasted until a group of precisely one-third of the first-year students formed next to the first row.


    “You are with me. We’ll start the tour in the inventory. Follow.”


    In the space of ten seconds the auditorium got significantly less crowded. Why the rush? Cillian found himself thinking.


    Then, instructor O’Rourke looked up from his own list and said, “You all know the alphabet. Everyone from Janz to O’Donoghue, gather next to the doors. We’ll visit the metalworking workshop first.” Where the first man had been brisk, this one simply sounded tired.


    When neither of them had moved, Eamon tugged on Cillian’s shirt. “Looks like we are together. What’s your last name again?”


    “It’s Shea.”


    Once only a small group remained, the woman took center stage, both literally and figuratively. “The last sixteen will be with me. I’m Mairead Gehler.” Her voice was warm, and she wore a gentle smile, which contrasted sharply with her predecessors’ attitudes, even if they all could plainly see the undercurrents of fatigue on her face.


    Cillian glanced around and spotted Sorcha, Nuala, and the thickset boy who’d asked Oscar about the tokens also being part of their group.


    “We will go to the gym and proceed downward from there, then finish the tour by visiting the kitchens, the slaughterhouse, and the rest of the facilities above the ground. I’ll ask you not to dally, alright?”


    She started moving, and they followed.


    “The slaughterhouse?” murmured Eamon, raising his eyebrows.


    “You didn’t know? It’s in the pamphlet,” Cillian replied.


    “That so? Guess I haven’t read it very thoroughly.”


    Cillian gave him a look.


    “What? The yoke is entirely too long. Don’t tell me you read all of it.”


    He could only shrug. “It was interesting and, you know, kind of important?”


    Eamon rolled his eyes. “We’ll be told everything we need to know now, won’t we?”


    They proceeded to the section Cillian had seen before – the one labeled “Underground” – which was now open, and took the stairs leading down. There was also a cargo elevator available, an accordion gate serving as its only barrier, allowing them to see the bronze-colored walls and the dark floor inside.


    “Can’t we do the tour some other day?” a red-headed cailin descending ahead of him asked. “You look tired, ma’am, no offense. Don’t you need rest? It doesn’t seem like we’re going to have classes today anyway.”


    The woman glanced back. “Don’t worry, I can last a little longer. The three of us were on relatively light duty on the final day. You should see some of the others.” She chuckled. “Instructor Aleshire had to be all but carried to his room; he was so tired.”


    Meanwhile, a few paces behind and above, Eamon began prodding Cillian for his thoughts on what they’d seen and heard during the assembly.


    “So, what do you think? Interesting system they’ve got in place, huh? Rings, I mean.”


    Cillian made a noncommittal “mhm” sound in lieu of a response. He was still processing the information as quite a lot had been dumped on them all at once.


    And why is the staircase so long?


    “Don’t let Donnacha and his dramatics scare you,” instructor Gehler said over her shoulder. “He is very keen on making a strong impression on the new trainees. This whole ‘let the second-year students and their companions show up all bruised and battered’ was one of his first decrees when he became the headmaster.”


    The woman stopped, once they finally descended to the first underground floor, and turned to face them, still smiling kindly. “As if you don’t already understand the importance.” She gestured to her left. “The gym is this way.”


    Unlike the others, Cillian didn’t look where she’d indicated, and, instead, as soon as his feet transitioned from the steel grating steps to the burgundy carpet with golden and white floral patterns, he cast about, trying to take the whole place in. They’d had to negotiate four flights to descend a single level, which meant that in terms of height it was more like two floors rather than one. The lobby was spacious, and it even felt much more impressive than the stuff on the surface. There were doors and branching corridors everywhere and personnel bustling around. And portraits on the walls, of course; it wouldn’t be a Foerstner facility without the company’s forefathers looking down their noses on everyone either as painted faces or marble busts.


    That’s more like it.


    “You will spend a fair amount of time there being tossed around.” She gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Unpleasant but necessary lessons, I suppose. Personally, I’m not a fan.”


    “I wouldn’t mind being tossed around by her,” some eejit at the back muttered with a snicker.


    Cillian sighed.


    If the woman had heard, and he didn’t think it could’ve been missed, she showed no sign.


    “Up ahead is the infirmary. Currently occupied, so we won’t be stepping inside.”


    “What about the gym? Will we not go there?” The question came from the thickset boy, who’d already strayed a couple of steps in that direction. Cillian really needed to find out the fella’s name, so he could stop mentally referring to him this way.


    “Not this time. The infirmary is a place I hope you’ll never have a cause to frequent, so, if it wasn’t so crowded in there, we would take a look. Unfortunately, this year the injuries were many.” She started moving to her right. “The gym, on the other hand, you will visit regularly, and there isn’t anything that requires an explanation. It’s just one big chamber with an attached locker room and a small recovery pool.”


    Next on their itinerary was a door simply labeled “Supplies”.


    “This is a habitat of our resident quartermaster, Mr. Brian McCloskey. Don’t all come inside.”


    Instructor Gehler and half a dozen students entered while Cillian and Eamon halted at the doorway. The space was nothing to write home about – a long wooden counter and rows and rows of high shelves beyond it, filled to the brim with various paraphernalia. An unassuming gray-haired man sat in between.


    “Hello, Brian.”


    “Ms. Gehler. Students.” He nodded politely.


    “You will get pretty familiar with Brian here and also with Laoise Braband, who oversees the laundry house on the surface, one way or another. You’ll be coming frequently, either bearing tokens asking to mend your clothes or bearing fewer tokens to ask for materials and supplies so you can do the work yourself. It’s–”


    “What?” a disgruntled voice from behind Cillian interrupted. “Why do we have to pay for this? Shouldn’t it be included?”


    “You don’t have to pay,” Mr. McCloskey took over the explanation with a wry smile. “Most basic supplies like threads, needles, pins, tape measures, and so on are all available at no cost. I’ll also be giving free lessons on taking care of your clothing and equipment maintenance. But if you want to use, say, a sewing machine, then aye, you have to part with some tokens. And if you want me or my assistant to do everything for you, then you have to part with more, simple as that.” At one of the boys pulling a face, the man laughed. “It only concerns the damage you do to your everyday outfits, not the special ones you’ll get to wear during the scheduled… umm, outdoor lessons, shall I say. We don’t want you to sit around and make stitches all day after all.” He laughed some more.


    “As for the laundry,” instructor Gehler added, “the bed sheets and blankets and such will be washed for free. And your everyday attires too but only up to twice a week. You all have two full sets so make use of them. You are expected to always be presentable. Always. No matter how busy you are, you have to take care of your appearance. And you do it by either paying with tokens or paying with your time helping Mr. McCloskey and Ms. Braband doing the patching, washing, and ironing.”


    “This is steamin’ bollocks,” the same voice grumbled. “I’m here to tame a monster, not doing bleedin’ laundry.”


    She didn’t sigh, but Cillian could see on her face that she really wanted to.


    “Remember, you represent Foerstner Group, not just yourself. And being a chevalier means you often venture into faraway places with minimal available amenities. You have to learn how to look after yourself, whether it is killing beasts with your companion or making sure you don’t stink and all of your equipment is functional. Our goal is to teach you to be as self-sufficient as possible.”


    “Hence the cooking we’ll also have to do,” said the redhead from before.


    “Hence the cooking.” The woman nodded. “And hence the skinning, butchering, and de-aethering, as you’ll see.” She thanked Mr. McCloskey for his time and shooed them all outside. “But enough about dirty business. Time to progress further down.”


    “What about the other doors and corridors, ma’am?”


    “Nothing much. There is a recreation area down this hallway.” She pointed further past the ‘Supplies’. “Just follow the directions. Not a lot to see there really; I think you are all capable of picturing what a room full of sofas and tables looks like. Some other areas are maintenance, personnel-only, and the rest are office spaces and such. Feel free to take a look on your own later, but as a rule of thumb – if there is a guard present or a warning saying it’s for staff only, then it’s obviously off limits.” She grinned impishly. “I suppose, you can always try sneaking inside; just don’t get caught.”


    When they began shuffling down the stairs again, Eamon said quietly, “She’s nice, ain’t she? Everyone else appears deadly intense.”


    Cillian was contemplating how arseways his cooking usually came out (despite father’s protestations to the contrary), so his reply was absentminded, “She probably teaches ‘World Studies’ or some other theoretical course, while Donnacha gives lessons on, dunno, people murdering or the like. Or maybe ‘How to look intimidating 101’?”


    Eamon sniggered, but his laugh was overshadowed by a loud, half-suppressed snort from above. Cillian glanced over his shoulder and was surprised to discover that it’d come from Sorcha, who was now studiously looking away and pretending that it wasn’t her who’d made that sound.


    “Actually, headmaster Gorman teaches ‘Diplomacy’. Also butchering, but that’s beside the point,” their guide for the day remarked, her eyes sparkling with merriment. “And I am your archery instructor. Although, I do like ‘World Studies’; it’s an interesting class.”


    “Diplomacy and butchery, that’s a whopper combo.” Eamon kept sniggering. “When one fails you can swiftly follow up with the other.”


    Amidst the ensuing laughter, they descended to the second underground level and reached the wall on the right.


    “Welcome to the Repository.”


    The double doors opened, and Cillian found himself in a… library. Why the fancy name?


    A labyrinth of bookshelves stretching almost to the ceiling hailed them from the left. And above some of the shelves he spied suspended brass signs with letter outlines engraved onto them. The readability was debatable, but he could just about make out the labels denoting the books on “History of Lua”, “The Great Flood”, and, more excitingly, “Bestiary”.


    To Cillian’s right was an equally large space, but it was split into two separate open floors. The lower one was clearly a reading area filled with dark acacia desks, upholstered pine green chairs, and lamps, in addition to what he assumed were private booths along the walls. The mezzanine he couldn’t quite see from his position, but it was clear that the space was also dominated by wooden shelves containing something.


    He immediately knew that he would love it here.


    Instructor Gehler gave them a moment to absorb the scene then said, “Another place you’ll no doubt frequent. As you can see, books are on the left, the reading area – on the right. Most but not all books can be borrowed but only for a limited amount of time.” She gestured to a man standing down the middle. Cillian hadn’t even noticed him before.


    “You bring a book you want to Mr. Shane Foley over there, and he makes a record of it. But I’m sure you all know how this works; what we really came here to see are the phonographs.”


    She led them deeper inside, and the gentleman, Shane, fetched one apparatus from a rack at his back, placed it on the counter, and gestured at it with both hands.


    “Greetings, first-years. For those of you who are unfamiliar, this is a phonograph, specifically, a cylinder phonograph – an instrument for both recording and reproduction of sound. It has a sibling of the disc variety, mostly used for playing music. I’m sure you’ve all seen them.”


    Cillian was, of course, well familiar with music-playing gramophones. He’d never heard them called phonographs but assumed they were the same. The thing he was currently looking at was narrow and elongated, and the name said it all really – the main part took the form of a small cylinder. Instead of a turntable to put a disc record on, the barrel-shaped horizontal yoke was meant to… slide a cylinder record on top of, maybe? The horn was basically the same though, if somewhat narrower – more of a bud than a flower at the end.


    “Allow me to demonstrate to you how it works,” Mr. Foley said while pulling his white gloves on.


    “It’s not the latest model, but we make do. You just have to proceed with care. First, remove the horn.” He unscrewed the brass implement and put it down as gently as if it were a newborn baby. “Unlatch the side clamp; it is used to keep the record in place, see? Like this. And once the phonograph is prepared, you can take the record.” Instructor Gehler handed him a small container that’d been waiting on the counter. He opened it, inserted his index and middle fingers inside, and pulled out a wax-colored cylinder, which was, evidently, hollow. “This is how you handle it. Do not touch the surface itself, only the inside or the edges. And be gentle, please, do not press.”


    “Aether, what kind of douchewagen doesn’t know how to use a phonograph?”


    Cillian didn’t turn around to look but felt confident the words came from the boy who’d been grousing before. Come to think of it, it was also likely the same fella who’d made the inappropriate comment about their instructor. Doesn’t he realize everyone can hear him? Or does he simply not care?


    “Lift the playback stylus and gently slip the record on top of the cylinder.”


    He kept watching, hoping the man’s actions were exaggerated and they didn’t have to move quite that gingerly.


    “Then the clamp, stylus, and horn go back into place.”


    That accomplished, Mr. Foley toggled the switch on the side of the wooden box housing the guts of the machinery, and the cylinder began spinning. For several seconds there was nothing, only the rhythmic vibration of the engaged mechanism itself. But before long a harsh sound burst out – of a man clearing his throat – and finally, actual words started spilling out, somewhat scratchy and strident on the ear.


    “…Ahem. This is a continuation of the record labeled ‘Elanroot Preservation, Part 1’. Last time we discussed the best methods of on-site conservation of freshly obtained roots. Today, we’ll talk about the strategies regarding their long-term storage, and how we can increase the lifespans. As always when it comes to elanroots, the very first thing we have to consider is the species–”


    Alas, they weren’t destined to hear more – the topic was actually pretty interesting – because the librarian chose that moment to turn the phonograph off and, as soon as the cylinder stopped revolving, immediately set out to painstakingly perform the assembly process in reverse.


    “The limit for a recording is 20 minutes, give or take, which is why many subjects come in multiple parts,” he explained while delicately brushing some loose wax off the cylinder. “Therefore, unlike books, which usually cover an array of different if related topics, the phonograph records are much narrower in scope. And there are even a few made by the previous generations of students. The floor above us contains the repository. And this is the way up.” He pointed over his shoulder at the doorway gaping open to the right of the counter.


    The red-haired cailin asked, “I assume we are not allowed to take phonographs to our rooms?”


    “You can, actually. For a fee.”


    “Right.”


    “Thank you, Shane. We’ll move on with our tour.”


    Mr. Foley inclined his head. “Always a pleasure, Mairead.”


    When they exited, instructor Gehler led them to the bulkiest double doors on the adjacent wall. “Workshop”, the plaque above the frame proclaimed.


    “One of the two workshops we have in the academy. This one is multipurpose, but it’s mostly used for working with hides of various common beasts.” She proceeded to come in.


    Inside awaited an antechamber, both the far and the right walls of which featured wide windows tightly screened by wire mesh.


    “On the left are the lockers, the main space is forward, and the nook on the right is a woodworking area – a much later and smaller addition as we rarely deal with wood. I should mention that for the first several surges you won’t be here too often; it’s even possible some of you would never step foot in this place again since not all companions benefit from having any protective or decorative gear. Case in point being the hedorah – the slime monster you met earlier.”


    “Aren’t we all going to have classes on armor-making?” Cillian asked. “It’s in the pamphlet.”


    Instructor Gehler nodded. “Some of you will. We used to have a more extensive handcrafting program, but, the truth is, you already have to learn a lot in a short amount of time, and chevaliers rarely require proficiency in leather working and such. After all, if you need custom armor for your companion or yourself, you have the entire might of the well-oiled Foerstner machine behind you. There are plenty of skilled craftsmen.”


    She tried turning the brass handle of the door leading to, in her own words, the main chamber, but it didn’t budge. The woman frowned. “Fergus is not here yet, I guess. Shame. I wanted to show you how it looks on the inside. There are wonderful taxidermy mounts on the walls.”


    Her feet carried her to the smaller workshop next, but it turned out to be locked as well. The students followed like ducklings.


    “Anyway,” she continued while somewhat grouchily stepping back into the lobby, “the very first armor for your companion – given that it takes to it well – will be made by the academy staff. Everything but the finishing, which is usually handled by a specialist shop in the settlement. And the only mandatory class is metalworking, but even it has limited hours.”


    They were going down again, it seemed.


    “Our understanding is always evolving, and these days we believe that making protection for your companion all by yourself doesn’t bring any substantial benefits, so whatever lessons you have will mostly be focused on maintaining armor rather than fabricating it. You’ll appreciate why when you actually procure a companion and begin studying the imprinting theory, which will take a while. And–”


    Right at the opening to the stairs, she suddenly broke off her explanation and stopped dead, her heeled boots clanging on the grating. Then someone’s outraged voice reverberated, “You there, in a hospital gown, halt where you are!”


    Cillian startled and ceased moving as well, and the rest did the same. The woman’s face had turned thunderous. Oh, it was her. He swiveled his head from side to side – there was no one here dressed as a patient, was there? Belatedly, he noticed that she was pointing downstairs; there had to be someone she could see across the staircase’s well.


    Uh-oh.


    “Saoirse, I know it’s you. Come up here. Now.”


    Alright. I take back my words about her teaching “World Studies”.


    He heard some unidentifiable cursing from below. Had to be cursing. Followed by shuffling.


    The group stood and waited while Saoirse – whoever she was – arduously crept up to their level. Even if Cillian didn’t know that the incomer was wearing a hospital gown, he would still guess that she was injured. Or, perhaps, old. That’s how slow her footsteps and how labored her breathing were.


    The look on the girl’s face when she finally showed up said it all. Guilty.


    Instructor Gehler was displeased, to put it mildly.


    “Saoirse,” she began. “What are you–?!”


    “Please, ma’am, I have to see Darr– I mean, I have to see my companion!” The cailin looked miserable. “I can’t leave him alone right now! He’s suffering!”


    “Saoirse, we’ve talked about this.” The woman made an obvious effort to stay composed. “You can see your companion after you get treated yourself.”


    “I don’t have anything serious! Nurse Kaspar has cleared me!”


    “Don’t feed me this rot, girl! I know you escaped; it’s written all over your face!”


    More thuds of footsteps came from above, these ones sounding significantly more urgent.


    Saoirse peeped over her shoulder and shuddered. “Oh no.”


    Another woman, a brunette wearing maroon scrubs, all but flew down the stairs, clutching the railing to make a tight turn at the landing. When the injured girl came into view, she visibly fumed and proceeded to clear the final flight in three big jumps.


    Cillian felt an urge to take two steps back. Just to observe the spectacle better, you understand.


    “Ms. Oelberg,” the newcomer hissed and swiftly grabbed Saoirse’s left hand. The girl winced. “What do you think you’re doing?! You have a concussion, for aether’s sake! Not to mention the bites!”


    “Aine, not here,” instructor Gehler cut in firmly. She cast a meaningful glance toward her charges. “Bring Saoirse back and make sure she stays there. And you,” she looked daggers at the girl, “once I’m done with my duties here, I will pay the infirmary a visit. Look at me.”


    Saoirse reluctantly did but not before throwing one final wistful glance at the staircase.


    “Here’s a question for you. Should I come straight away, or should I swing by Mr. McCloskey first and ask for leather straps? I’m thinking three would do – one around your shoulders, one for the waist, and the last one to tie your ankles to the bed. But what do you think?”


    The girl wisely didn’t say anything.


    “I understand the urge, really I do. Your companion is asleep and recovering, the same as–”


    “And how would you know this?!” Saoirse exploded. “You are here, and he is downs–!”


    “Enough! I know this because I’m a chevalier myself, you silly girl. I’m done trying to be courteous.”


    She gestured for the nurse to take the cailin away.


    “Please, ma’am!”


    “You have to rest for a couple of days at the very least, Ms. Oelberg. Drop your tantrums and you’ll meet your companion again soon enough,” the woman – nurse Kaspar, presumably – urged the distressed girl to leave.


    And that was how they spent the ensuing uncomfortable minute or two – watching the tear-streaked Saoirse, who was breathing shallowly, being more or less dragged upstairs.


    Eamon sidled up next to Cillian and whispered, “I can’t decide if it’s a part of the theater or not.”


    “What?” He furrowed his brows. “Oh come on, Eamon, not everything here is staged.”


    “Just sayin’.”


    Cillian could see their chaperone take several steadying breaths before turning to face them once more.


    “That girl. There’s always at least one.” She chuckled humorlessly. “In any case, where were we?”


    “Did she name her companion?” Nuala asked, her tone more curious than mocking.


    Instructor Gehler sighed. “It happens quite often; nothing unusual. But enough about Saoirse; we should continue. Next on our tour are the ranges. My domain.”


    As they began descending again, Eamon dragged Cillian closer to Nuala.


    “Nuala! We meet again!”


    “I’ve been here the whole time. Seems to me I’m not that dazzling if you don’t even notice me.”


    “Apologies. Cillian had been distracting me with his ceaseless conversation, see. Not a moment of reprieve.”


    Cillian half chortled, half coughed in surprise. Bleedin’ cockheaded shit-monkey!


    Nuala saw that and pointed at him with a laugh. “Seems to me your friend disagrees.”


    Screw that!


    He wasn’t about to be outdone so outrageously. Countless hours spent on the receiving end of the boy’s endless chatter on the train flew through his mind, and Cillian went on the offensive – he cozied up to the girl and said, “Eamon actually told me he’d been practicing compliments on you and meant none of them.”


    Nuala hid a smile. “You don’t say?”


    “Slander!”


    “He also keeps saying that you are wearing this,” he glanced down at the leather corset on top of her blouse, “because he reckons you need it.”


    She cracked up.


    “Hey now–!”


    “I knew from the start he couldn’t be trust–”


    “Will you three shut up?!” a hot-tempered big fella snapped and pushed his way past them. “Some of us are trying to listen here.”


    Cillian turned into an unwilling admirer of a pair of broad shoulders. Listen to what? Then it clicked. Oh, so that’s what a gorilla looks like. It was that guy who’d made the moronic comments. He’d seen the fella before in the dining hall, speaking to Oscar.


    “Listen to what?” Eamon echoed Cillian’s thoughts. “The sound of our boots pounding down the steps?”Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    The gorilla didn’t reply.


    They emerged onto the third underground level, and one thing differentiating it from the previous floors became instantly obvious – a gate was blocking the way further down. Or it would if it wasn’t unlocked. The bars were jet black but sported a number of golden and brown smears. When he found himself directly in front of the swinging door, he understood – the smears formed a paw if seen from the right angle. A bear’s paw, to his mind.


    Cillian eyed it for some time, wondering what was secreted downstairs. Is this where the cailin had been going? Are the companions there?


    When he at last shook off the distraction, the tail end of the group was already a dozen meters ahead. Cillian caught up in time to hear Eamon grumbling to Nuala.


    “I’m just saying that the entire thing is designed to keep us down.” The boy seemed a wee agitated and was speaking rapidly. “Multiplying by the average ring of the group? This just means that all the third-ringers would want to stick working with each other, innit? And us lowly ones would be left in the dust. They would earn way more!”


    “You haven’t even told me what your ring is. Have you found out?” Nuala asked.


    “Hm? Oh, aye, I’m the first. And you?”


    “Second.”


    “See? Even for you it’d be disadvantageous to work with me since our average ring would be one and a half. Grand for me; not so grand for you.”


    “There, there. I’m sure you’d find someone desperate enough to take you in.”


    At that point, the gorilla did a one-eighty and invited himself to the conversation, “Show us that you have a use, that we’d earn more tokens if we include you even if the average ring goes down, then you’d belong here. Can’t do that?” He clicked his tongue. “Too bad.”


    “Uh-huh, that’s what the headmaster said. I’m deeply grateful for repeating his words almost verbatim, sham.”


    Aether. Why does he feel the need to provoke everyone?


    “The whole formula thing is garbage,” Cillian chimed in before Eamon could kick-start another fight.


    The hulking fella was scowling. He opened his gob to speak, but Cillian didn’t let him.


    “I mean, even if it exists, which I doubt, it doesn’t actually matter because I guarantee you there is an additional ‘+ X’ factor at the very end, where ‘X’ could be anything, even negative, depending on what’s necessary.” He knew enough about various performance metrics his father had in his workplace. The supposedly fair measurements of productivity, according to which his oul fella should have been promoted yonks ago, but somehow there was always someone else ‘more deserving’ than him. “It’s all arbitrary and easily exploitable is what I’m saying.”


    “So what are you suggesting?” Eamon asked. “Just don’t take the average ring into account and earn less?”


    “I’m not suggesting anything. Pick whatever partners work for you best, I suppose. Trying to play the game you don’t know the rules of is kind of, you know,” Cillian shrugged, “dumb.”


    “But we do know the rules,” Nuala pointed out.


    “Not really, we only know what we–”


    “You tarheads come in here and think you can talk shit about your hosts?!” the gorilla demanded angrily. “Who in the steamin’ Heaven you think you are?!”


    His outburst attracted everyone’s attention, not that Cillian noticed.


    “The hell? I’m talking to Eamon and Nuala here, not you. Weren’t you walking ahead to listen?”


    “I can do whatever I want, rat.”


    “Rat? That’s a new one.” Keep your calm, mucker. “And I’ll be sure to ask for your approval every time I want to voice my opinion.”


    “Ahem,” instructor Gehler cleared her throat, very deliberately. Cillian looked up. “If you gentlemen are quite finished, we still have a long tour ahead of us.”


    The guy quickly pivoted. “Apologies, Ms. Gehler, I’m simply educating the… less civilized.”


    Cillian tried to blind himself to the eejit’s stupid smile. Unsuccessfully.


    “It’s ma’am or instructor Gehler, got it?”


    “Of course. And I’m Rory Raskopf.”


    The woman ignored him. She opened the doors and stepped inside the range. The students kept playacting as her shadow.


    Shit. So much for not making further provocation, tool. Cillian rubbed the back of his neck.


    “It’s ‘tar’ spelled backwards,” Nuala said from beside him.


    “What?”


    “‘Rat’ is ‘tar’ spelled backwards. You’d never heard it used before?”


    “Oh. No. Or perhaps I just don’t remember. Kind of forget a lot of stuff like this.”


    Eamon urged them both forward, “Come on, let’s not make our dear instructor wait.”


    Another antechamber greeted Cillian on the other side of the doorway.


    The gun range to the left was a concrete box, and it sported shooting booths at the head of every lane. The ceiling looked curious – it resembled a window shutter with its horizontal slats angled to admit air but not direct skylight or rain. In this case, the slats served to deflect stray bullets, he reckoned. And close to the far end, the floor sloped upward like a ramp. As for the near wall – the one gawking downrange – it was taken in its entirety by a huge window, beyond which Cillian could see a featureless room.


    The archery range, on the other hand, presented a simpler affair. The walls and ceiling were lined with long wooden panels, making the space as a whole give off a feeling of finding yourself in a barn. There were no booths or viewing areas, but both ranges had side doors leading to, according to the signs, their corresponding arsenals. Instructor Gehler didn’t allow the wandering hands to get anywhere near.


    “The gun range is small arms only, but we also have an outdoor one to practice with the firearms packing a fiercer punch,” the woman explained when they were already on the way out. It appeared that the small confrontation with the stubborn girl had drained the last vestiges of energy from her. “And over there is the inventory.” She pointed to the opposite wall, then adopted a genial, if forced, expression and soldiered on. “Let’s get you all suited up!”


    They all but marched in the indicated direction, and Eamon paused his flirting with Nuala long enough to ask, “Suited up? Do we get armor already?”


    “No, but you do get to complete your uniforms. Everything else is standardized; the hats though we allow you to pick your own, otherwise we’d fear a revolt,” she replied with a tired smile. “And tomorrow all of us will go on a trip!”


    “What? Aren’t Sundays days off?” the redhead found her voice again.


    “Normally, yes, but not this time. Headmaster Gorman is not quite done with you yet. You’ve met the companions; now he wants you to get a look at something else. Besides, don’t tell me you need more rest? You’ve been doing nothing but sitting around for the last couple of days.”


    “Where are we going?” another girl asked.


    The woman opened the doors and invited them to come in. “That’s for me to know and you all to be surprised by.”


    From his position at the back, Cillian saw everyone begin swirling their heads left and right upon entering. It looked pretty comical. Once inside himself, he understood why. Whoa. This is an inventory?


    His first impression of the new location was that it felt… comfortable. Aye, the room engulfed him straight away with its warmth and snugness, the way he imagined a hunting lodge would, albeit a very big one. There was no fireplace or stuffed beasts that he could see, but they wouldn’t be out of place here. Not at all. His fancy dress shoes drowned in the soft rug.


    Cillian’s second impression was that the chamber also had the look of a museum to it, on account of a good number of tall glass cases spread all over, accompanying a collection of wooden mannequins lining the walls and displaying different attires. Well, maybe “different” wasn’t quite the right word, since all the outfits were fashioned in the same general style, omnipresent Foerstner colors playing a major role in it.


    What is this? He shuffled closer to one of the showcases and squinted. Eamon joined him.


    After several seconds of careful scrutinizing, Cillian came to the conclusion that he had no aetheric idea what he was looking at. Some sort of metal wreckage? A brief glance around revealed that everyone else was examining the items on display as well.


    “I see you lot are the same as the others,” an oul fella, who had to be in his 70s, croaked from the far side of the room. His walking stick made barely any sound as he sauntered toward them. And that’s the head hunter himself.


    “Everyone, allow me to introduce our chief of all things equipment, Mr. Rowan Valentin.”


    The man scoffed, “Chief. Moryah.” He came close enough for Cillian to see his green eyes still full of vigor. “How went the trip, Mairead?”


    “It went,” the woman replied noncommittally, but after a moment of silent pondering and a glance in the students’ direction decided to elaborate, “A little heavier on the injuries than anticipated. A little heavy on the foolishness, too.”


    Mr. Valentin laughed. “The former is preventable; less so the latter, I’m afraid. The young ones are all alike. Look at them!” He raised his cane and emphatically moved it from left to right and back to indicate the gathered first-years. “Not even a greeting.”


    Eamon immediately took up the challenge and stepped forward. “G’morning, sir. How’s the craic?”


    The man put the walking stick down and eyed the boy like he was despicable. “On second thought, perhaps some people should stay mum. Preferably, indefinitely.” He turned around gruffly, muttering, “The craic! Aether help us.”


    “Oi! I’m just being friendly.”


    Instructor Gehler gave an amused chuckle before addressing the students again, “Let’s do this quick, shall we? Everyone will receive a hat and an aether compass, then we’ll be off. Another group will be coming soon.”


    She directed the gaggle to follow the fleeing man.


    “But what are these?” Cillian gestured at the glass box before him, still rooted to the spot.


    “Hm? Oh. Curious, isn’t it?” Instead of answering, she regarded the expectant faces, then pointed at the nearest casing and said, “Look closely at the shape. What does it remind you of?”


    He shrugged. It was nothing but a pile of junk to his mind.


    “A motorwagen wreck?” Eamon ventured a guess. “Some of them have wheels.”


    “No,” Cillian disagreed right away. “How do you even squash a motorwagen like this?”


    “I have a guess–” someone began.


    “I believe these are locomotors’ remains,” Sorcha replied, tracing her finger along the smooth screen of another exhibit. He’d almost forgotten she was among them.


    “What’s a locomotor?” Eamon asked. Cillian had never heard of it either.


    “Correct. Although, ‘locomotor’ is not the official name; it’s a catch-all term encapsulating several types of mechanical beasts.”


    He blinked. I’m sorry, what?


    “They aren’t well-known because they are exceedingly rare. It is speculated that there is a hotspot deep within the Hierarchy’s territory, but these are just rumors. Most chevaliers would be hard-pressed to meet even a single specimen throughout their entire careers.”


    What in the aether? How can a creature be mechanical?


    “Have you?” Eamon asked.


    She shook her head. “No. And I’m glad I haven’t.” Before any more questions could come, she forestalled them by raising her hand. “Believe me, you’ll have ample opportunity to ask about everything and everyone to your heart’s content later, alright? We should do what we came here to do.”


    “Yes, yes, gather ‘round, gather ‘round,” Mr. Valentin raised his voice. He was now behind the counter. “Let’s attempt to make you a little more civilized. In looks if not in manners.”


    They left the glass cases behind and joined the man, who immediately stabbed his stick in Eamon’s direction and demanded, “The craic lad. You go first. I can’t stand the sight of your feral hair any longer. Don’t you know what a comb is?”


    The boy smiled and replied, “My hair is unconquerable.”


    “Be quiet and plant your feet over here.”


    The next couple of minutes were spent watching the pair try on different hats, starting with several variations of gatsbies. A thrilling spectacle, truly.


    Do we really have to stand and gape at them?


    Instructor Gehler, who looked like she was on her last legs but was stubbornly putting on a pleasant front, eventually asked for permission to start doing the same for the females among them, and, after way too lengthy of deliberation, the man grumpily acquiesced.


    Cillian slipped away back to the interesting part of the room. Sorcha was also there, examining one of the masked and clothed mannequins.


    “Why would anyone wear a half-mask like this?” he asked, situating himself at the girl’s shoulder.


    She glanced at him. “What’s wrong with it? Looks pretty enough to my eyes.”


    “I suppose. But what I mean is that it doesn’t really conceal your identity, does it? And if you don’t care about the secrecy, why wear a mask in the first place? It’s just an extra load. I doubt this thin slice of metal would protect you from anything.”


    “Masks are usually reserved for when you are in a settlement.” Sorcha gestured around vaguely. “The same goes for the cloaks you often see chevaliers wear. Not something you’d want to burden yourself with in the wilderness, but when you are among the civilized people, the company expects you to cover the armor and put on a mask. Although, it’s not exactly a strict rule.”


    “Huh.” His mind unwittingly flashed to the blue-eyed chevalier, who’d been wearing a mask but casual clothes as far as he could recall. He certainly remembered the coat. Had the man been off duty and responded to the emergency? “He looks like he’s muzzled and cuffed though,” Cillian pointed out, waving at the silver bracelets gleaming atop the mannequins’ wrists.


    “This one’s a woman.”


    “Eh? How can you tell?” He opened the coat wider to check if there was a… distinguishing feature present. And only realized what he’d done after the fact.


    Sorcha snickered. “Not that. The general style of both the coat and the fedora. Can’t you see the difference?”


    Cillian shifted his shoulders in embarrassment and eyed the figure up and down, then moved his gaze to the models standing further to the side. “Are they all women? Look the same to me.”


    “You can’t be serious.”


    He shrugged and reached for the mask, wishing to trace his finger along the engraved shamrock, but…


    “And what do you think you are doing, young man?” Mr. Valentin’s voice filled with considerable irritation pierced the air.


    Cillian froze and glanced over his shoulder. Shit. Unfortunately, the displeasure had been aimed squarely at him. Sorcha snorted quietly.


    Are they done already?


    “Do not touch anything, you fool. And do you require a written summons? Get back here.”


    He trotted to join the rest of the students. “Apologies, sir.”


    Eamon was now sporting a plain-looking bowler hat, entirely black.


    “Not what I imagined you wearing, honestly.”


    The boy rolled his eyes dramatically. “Apparently, me ‘wild mane’ requires tempering with something formal and boring. Stubborn oul fella…”


    When it was Cillian’s turn, he accepted Mr. Valentin’s suggestion without complaining. It was a standard campaign hat for him.


    “Splendid! Everyone has a hat?” The man eyed the girls’ selections critically, grimaced, but held his tongue. “Next you’ll all receive aether compasses. Nothing advanced, but you’ll need it for the trip tomorrow and beyond.” He retreated to the backroom and returned with a box, which he unceremoniously dropped to the floor. “Don’t worry; they are tough cookies, have to be. Also identical, so just come and pick one.”


    Alright, this is getting exciting. My own compass!


    The “equipment chief” hadn’t lied. The implements they were being handed out were the most basic models imaginable – they mimicked pocket watches, only significantly heftier.


    “Lastly, everyone will sign right here.” Mr. Valentin opened the immense book sitting on the counter. “And please, don’t put your signature under someone else’s name. Please.”


    They all managed to do so without further aggravating the man.


    It felt to Cillian like the tour had taken a day and a half, but a glance at the actual pocket watch revealed that it was still morning. They weren’t done yet though.


    Instructor Gehler ushered the group outside and suggested, “Let’s leave the rest for after lunch, alright?” Or are we? “We are supposed to do the whole walkabout right now, but there are only a couple of surface facilities left, and, frankly, I can’t wait to get into bed any longer.”


    “Of course, ma’am,” the ginger girl immediately agreed. “Where should we meet and at what time?”


    “I’ll collect you from the dining hall myself. Don’t spread around.”


    “What’s our schedule for the rest of the day?” Cillian asked.


    “You don’t have one. But I suggest you take time to think about what you are missing. I know that new students often neglect to bring various essentials from home, like ink, crayons, fountain pens, and such. And you, boys, don’t forget that taking care of your appearance includes shaving regularly. Have you all brought razors?” Null. Have I? “In the early days, Mr. McCloskey – that’s the quartermaster, in case you’ve forgotten – is usually more lenient, so you might be able to obtain what you’re missing from him free of charge. But not if you wait too long.”


    “Got it,” Eamon answered for everyone. “And can we leave the perimeter, perchance?”


    The woman shook her head. “No. But like I said, tomorrow we will go on a trip and…” she trailed off and covered her mouth as a huge yawn took over her face. Cillian clamped down on a smile. “…Aaanyway, cadets, I’ll see you all after lunch. Nap time awaits.”


    Two girls began excitedly chattering and ambled to examine one of the portraits.


    “Do you want company in your bed, instructor?”


    The girls froze mid-step. A stunned hush snuffed out all other movements and sounds.


    There’s no way.


    Cillian slowly turned his head to look at the gorilla, not quite believing what had just come out of his mouth. No one’s such a blindin’ cretin. No way. But the astonished expressions around served as proof that his ears had gotten it right. He glanced at their chaperone’s face, expecting her to… well, he didn’t know what he expected. To smack the gobshite until he transformed into one big bruise? But what actually transpired – the boy could have never predicted.


    Mairead Gehler smiled. It was a radiant smile, full of warmth and… something else Cillian wasn’t astute enough to identify.


    She stretched out her right arm, offering the hand to the fella. When he grinned and pressed past the others to take it, the woman surprised him by deftly stepping forward herself and bumping his newly acquired gatsby clear off his head.


    “Wha–?”


    She grabbed him by the shoulders and kneed him in the stomach, and the guy croaked and crumpled like a bird hitting a locomotive head-on.


    “Shit!” someone yelped.


    The fella got the wind pummeled out of him. One moment he was upright, the next – lay on the floor in the fetal position wheezing and groaning, trying and failing to fill his lungs with air.


    Cillian couldn’t help but wince sympathetically. He’d been there before and hoped to never be there again.


    “Knew I was forgetting something.”


    Instructor Gehler squatted down to check on the fallen bo– no, scratch that. Instead of showing concern for her student, the woman simply reached for his trousers’ pockets, padded them both, and fetched the string of tokens from the right one.


    Then she straightened out, and Cillian instinctively did the same. Gone was her pleasant expression, to be replaced with an austere one. It was a Noble chevalier who regarded the students now, and she didn’t need her armor or companion to look the part.


    “As you can see, Mr. Raskopf here was gracious enough to demonstrate two more clauses from the academy’s regulations in action. Thank you for volunteering, dear boy.”


    The gorilla kept wheezing.


    “First: we discipline you however we see fit. And yes, in some exceptional cases it includes physical punishment. I say, if you are stupid enough to make not one but two inappropriate comments about your superior, the situation qualifies. And second: tokens can be taken away just as easily as they are rewarded. See?” She dangled the string in front of them. “Two comments – two tokens. I would take even more for pissing me off, but, sadly, he doesn’t have any left.”


    The fella finally started coming back to his senses. He knelt on the carpet, panting like he’d just completed a marathon, his shoulders quivering.


    “How are you feeling?”


    “You– you rotten whore,” he spat, literally, and looked up. His eyes seemed unfocused. “I’m Raskopf.” He coughed and tried to stand. “Raskopf! Do you– do you even comprehend what it means, you steamin’ cunt!?!” The boy staggered but kept his balance.


    The woman gave him a cold smile. “Oh, I’m sure your name would be enough to sway some of the others, but, as far as I’m concerned, you’ve signed the contract. No matter what you might think, you are bound to the terms now, and those terms give me complete authority over you for the next year. Or until you drop out, in any case. Besides, I think you are forgetting my own name, Mr. Raskopf.”


    “You’ll fucking pa–!”


    “Shut your mouth, Rory,” Sorcha cut him off and interposed herself between the advancing boy and the instructor. “No one here wants to hear your whining.”


    He got in her face then, “Are you fucking ordering me, Vogt?!”


    She wasn’t impressed and didn’t even reply, instead turned to the woman and said, “Thank you for your time, ma’am. We’ll see you after lunch.”


    Instructor Gehler appeared amused at the intervention but didn’t try to argue. “Ms. Vogt. Everyone. Until later.” She inclined her head, adjusted her fedora, and began ambling back to the stairs.


    “We are not done, whore!”


    “Yes, we are.” Sorcha briefly looked over the faces of everyone. Everyone other than Rory. Him she kept ignoring. “Go attend to your business. Clear out the space.”


    “What?” Nuala asked, uncomprehending.


    “Just leave him here alone to stew in his own dimness.”


    And the dark-haired cailin began doing just that – leaving.


    “Where the fuck do you think you are going, Vogt?!”


    The fella grabbed her hand, and that was too much bestial behavior for Cillian to ignore. Without thinking, he stepped close and pushed the gorilla in the chest, gentle like.


    Aether, why are these arseholes always so huge?


    “Don’t make things worse, fella.”


    The guy’s face turned even angrier, but Sorcha beat him to the punch. “Aether, did I ask you to intervene?” She wriggled out of the grasping hand, shoved Cillian away, and resumed departing as if nothing had happened. “Leave him to rot here, I said.”


    Rory made a determined step forward back into Cillian’s personal space and raised his fist. “Bleedin’ rat!”


    “You boys having fun?”


    Both of them whirled to look in the direction of the approaching voice. It was a security guard.


    “Thank you, Emer,” Sorcha said to the ginger girl, who appeared next to her out of nowhere, panting.


    “Sorry it took so long,” she replied. “Didn’t know where to run.”


    “Sir,” the brunette called out. “Can you make sure this big man-child stays here and cools off? We don’t want any incidents. Or any more incidents. He has already insulted instructor Mairead Gehler multiple times today.”


    “Is that so?” the man’s expression shifted from jovial to unkind in a blink. “I’ll keep him company then. What about this lad?” He nodded at Cillian.


    Sorcha rolled her eyes. “No, this one’s just an idiot. Cillian? Did you hear what I’ve said twice? Leave.”


    “I’m not going anywhere with you,” Rory seethed at the guard.


    “Oh, we aren’t leaving. Not right away at least. You and I are going to have a talk. Insult Mairead Gehler, did you?”


    Cillian wisely backed away. The gorilla shot him a withering glare.


    Huh. Two confrontations in less than three days. Both started by someone else, and both times he’d felt the need to get involved.


    The hell’s wrong with me?


    That resentful and easily provoked part of him should stay dead and buried.


    “What a prick,” was the first thing Eamon said once Cillian caught up. “You still think there aren’t any stupid ones in here?”


    Rory was howling obscenities at the security rep in the background.


    He chuckled. “Not sure what to think, to tell the truth.”


    They started climbing back to the surface.


    “Of course there are idiots here,” Sorcha commented from a flight above. “How could there not be?”


    Cillian rubbed his forehead awkwardly, amidst the growing amused whispering and the gradually withdrawing shouting.


    Well, if there are nitwits in the academy, let’s make sure I’m not among their number, aye?


    He eyed the rest of their ascending party.


    And keep your hands where they are, mucker.


    <hr>


    Cillian traced his finger along the snaking river all the way up to the edge of the map. It didn’t seem to have a name, the same as the settlement itself didn’t have one. Do they just call it “the river”? Aren’t there more nearby?


    The map didn’t show any, but then again, the scale of this particular one only allowed it to encapsulate the area within 50 kilometers of the academy. He could see the forest immediately on top of the outer Heaven wall, another forest standing further away to the Rim, the aforementioned river, but mostly hills and plains. What interested him more though were the man-made structures.


    Apart from the railway tracks, there was a spot labeled as “O’Driscoll’s abandoned farm” as well as four shield symbols scattered around the town at a considerable distance. No legend explained what the marks meant.


    “Take a look at this,” Mr. Foley – the librarian – unrolled another chart and superimposed it on top.


    “Whoa.”


    It was a see-through vellum paper, and in size it matched the one he’d been looking at perfectly.


    “This is how we keep track of changes. It’s one of the old overlays. Look here. There used to be a sizable pack of nargacugas making a home for themselves right in the forsaken.”


    Cillian looked up at the man. “Forsaken?”


    “It’s what we call the farm.”


    “Ah. And the nargacugas aren’t there anymore?”


    “No, no, not for a long time. It’s useful for our purposes to have some beasts around the settlement, but leave them thriving for too long and they’d grow excessively powerful. We try to stay on top and wipe out any potential threats.”


    Cillian studied the assortment of markings on the paper, many of which were crossed out, then asked, “Can you show me a more recent version?”


    Mr. Foley smiled apologetically. “I’m not allowed to. For educational reasons.”


    “That so?” He waited to see if the man was joking, but nothing else came. “Noted.”


    Cillian stayed in the libra– that was, the repository a while longer, perusing the shelves and listening to a couple of randomly selected phonograph records. He now knew a little more about the working principle behind moderator lamps and how to produce ethanol from potatoes and barley. Yay!


    When he left, Cillian was surprised to find out that it was already close to lunchtime.


    Back in the dining hall, he met up with Eamon and Nuala and couldn’t help but wonder if they’d spent the past few hours together. The fella sure worked fast.


    “What were you up to?” Eamon asked once they sat down with their trays.


    Cillian took a swig of water and replied, “Nothing much. Just back in my room, processing, you know, then in the repository, wandering around. And you two?”


    “In the rec room, mostly,” Nuala said while cutting off the fat from her meat. She moved it aside.


    Eamon nodded enthusiastically. “Aye. And let me tell you, it’s not just couches and tables; there are cards, chess, backgammon and halma sets, gramophones, and even billiards! And the chairs are not those instruments of torment we have in our rooms but comfortable recliners and rockers. Our gorgeous yet intimidating instructor didn’t do the place justice, my friend!”


    “You can’t help but make compliments even when the woman in question is not present, can you?” Nuala poked him.


    “She made an impression.” The boy smiled. “Oh, and get this, Kil, the knucklehead from before – you know whom I’m referring to – the word is he got ripped a new one by deputy… umm, what’s his name–?”


    “Niall Zweber, and keep it down, Eamon,” Cillian urged.


    “Deputy Zweber, aye. Don’t know how exactly, but the prick came to the rec room all sullen and resentful. Shame they didn’t kick him out–”


    “Raskopfs are a big deal,” Nuala noted.


    “–but I wager he’s going to keep real quiet for the foreseeable future. But that’s not even what I wanted to tell you. Remember our friend from the train, Teagy-boy? Another prick?”


    “I think he was just pissed at something else, not us.”


    “Does it matter? Anyway, that Moira cailin turned out to be his mot, just like I thought, and during the tour the two of them were in the same group and had a quarrel, which, apparently, got heated. No kicking each other or anything, methinks, but still intense. And the upshot is – they both got penalized a token each,” Eamon said gleefully. “That’s a perfect day so far!”


    “Curious,” Cillian commented after devouring another spoonful of soup. “On one hand, we have this ring system, which is just a poor excuse to favor some students over others. On the other hand though, the instructors seem to not have any qualms about punishing the inring kids.”


    “It probably depends on the instructor.”


    “I think it’s just a way to demonstrate that no niss-shit will be tolerated from anyone,” Eamon said. “Go after the important brats from the start to show who’s in charge, you feel me?”


    “Aye, that would be grand.” And unlikely, Cillian finished mentally.


    Equal treatment for everyone, at least when it comes to discipline? Moryah.


    After lunch, it was time for the “gorgeous yet intimidating” Mairead Gehler to collect them, just as promised, and the group went to finish what they’d started in the morning. Cillian had to admit, it was a wee funny to see the gorilla straining to keep his gob shut throughout. Although, the hateful glances the fella threw at their instructor, at Sorcha, and, more importantly, at him, all in the space of the three opening minutes, weren’t that amusing.


    Only a few steps across the corridor separated them from the first point of interest – the kitchens were located right in the dormitory. Eight of them in total, so there would have to be some scheduling involved.


    The good news was that their cooking skills wouldn’t be graded in any way. The faculty considered not succumbing to food poisoning to be good enough. Instructor Gehler said it with utter seriousness, and they took her words in the spirit they were given. Poisoning was a major issue, after all. The four weeks of free meals would be used to get them up to speed on how to identify improperly de-aethered products. Unfortunately, contrary to popular belief, monster attacks were a distant third when ranking assorted causes of death, with incompetence or negligence in preparing ingredients and disease confidently occupying the top steps of the podium.


    Following the kitchens, the group got introduced to the metalworking workshop, much to Eamon’s delight – it turned out to be that large hangar, the view of which dominated Cillian’s unit window – and the laundry house. Then, their brief journey came to an end at the so-called slaughterhouse located in the smaller warehouse that he’d already noted during his solo excursion.


    The very first thing they learned about the facility was that it wasn’t actually a slaughterhouse, per se. That was, no livestock was slaughtered there – whatever meat that was brought came either from local beasts already killed and dressed or, much more frequently, by way of regular deliveries from Lua. The name had supposedly been appropriate at one point but now was just a historical misnomer.


    “We don’t rely on hunting for meat supply, but all students are required to learn how to hunt a few select species and how to field dress them.” Instructor Gehler looked at them sympathetically. “Dressing is not for the weak of stomach, I know, but it’s an important skill for any aspiring chevalier. Skinning, butchering, and de-aethering are all done here. Don’t fret though; you are only expected to gain basic proficiency in these areas. Your future careers will ensure that you have enough practice to master the skills.”


    Eamon looked a wee queasy when they were briefly shown skinning in action. Apparently, there was always a lot of work to be done in the slaughterhouse at this time of year, on account of the very recently concluded end-of-the-year competition.


    “Bleh. And the dressing is even worse than this,” was all the boy had said the entire time they spent inside, which constituted a minor miracle.


    You’ll get used to it. We all will.


    Cillian himself didn’t feel much bothered, even though it wasn’t exactly pleasant work.


    The outing on the whole took less than an hour, and the only noteworthy thing – to him personally – happened when the stocky boy with a rumbling voice, whose name he still hadn’t learned despite intending to do so, came up to Cillian and politely asked if he was the one who’d taken the four-token string from the second floor. To his simple “Yes?”, the fella replied that, since he was from the third floor, he shouldn’t have touched it. Cillian’s similarly polite suggestion to address any and all complaints to the faculty members, who’d failed to provide them with sufficient instructions, was met civilly but not overly friendly.


    Aether, this talk about fairness from someone from the inring is just mad.


    Later that day, Cillian decided that hiding away any further in his room or the repository wouldn’t do, so he tagged along with Eamon when the boy opted to head back to the recreation area. It was full of people, but the sheer size of the space still made it feel half-empty.


    He naturally gravitated toward one of the quieter corners, where, surprise-surprise, Sorcha was playing chess. Her opponent was Teagan, and, from Cillian’s admittedly limited understanding, it didn’t look like the fella completely sucked. At least he wasn’t being swept off the board in ten moves, unlike some.


    He watched for a while but then joined another activity happening a few tables away.


    It was a game he’d never played before, never even heard of before, but it didn’t present a problem since he wasn’t the only one. In fact, only Aoife, who’d brought the set from home in the first place, and Moira actually knew how to play it. Everyone else caught up on the rules in no time.


    It was called “Lighting the Sky” and was played as a group – not a competitive game but rather a cooperative one. The participants had to coordinate their actions to achieve a mutual goal – “to ignite all five differently colored skywalkers” before it was too late and “the beasts came to town to drown them all in blood and darkness”.


    Lighting the skywalker was achieved by placing five cards of the same color in a row in the ascending order of their numbers – from 1 to 5. The gist was – the players could see everyone else’s cards but not their own, so they had to share information in order to succeed. What information could be shared when making a move was strictly regulated by the rules, and there was a limit on the number of moves available as well as a penalty for putting a card out of place. The penalty naturally involved the beasts creeping closer to their goal of gorging themselves on the players’ flesh.


    All in all, it was an amusing experience, but Cillian mostly appreciated the thought behind it. Aoife had deliberately brought a simple, cooperative game, as opposed to some complicated and competitive monstrosity. Presumably, in the hope of kindling a spark of camaraderie. And it helped that it was fun, too.


    Throughout the evening, Cillian found that he was genuinely enjoying himself and not just pretending to do so. He still had moments of not knowing what to say or how to react, but fitting in was rapidly growing easier. He always knew that his old self was lurking underneath the surface, but it was nice to have some confirmation that the horrific experience and the subsequent surges of making poor choices hadn’t ruined him.


    But even so, he had a long way to go yet.


    And later, when he was lying in bed ready to sleep, once more processing the events of the seemingly endless day, the boy felt optimistic. At least one of their instructors came across as fair, other students were mostly tolerable, and the setup he’d seen looked comprehensive and professional if a wee run-of-the-mill in terms of appearance.


    He was looking forward to what the next day would bring. And the next year.


    Cillian hoped his oul fella back home was doing well without him.


    He doesn’t really need to know about a couple of near scuffles, does he?


    After all, there wouldn’t be any more.