Book Three - Chapter Seventeen (Patreon)

The overhead cut had good form. Textbook, even—the kind of clean, fluid cut that spoke highly of the young woman’s instructors but poorly of her practical experience.

Alarion let it land.

Not land land—he was neither that arrogant nor that pain-hungry—but he felt like she’d put enough pressure on him that she deserved a reward. He caught the blade on Isha’s haft a hand’s width from his shoulder. Strange mana bled off the impact in a whipping pulse—an on-hit skill or spell of some kind that would have amplified the damage considerably.

Alarion was suddenly very glad he hadn’t let overconfidence make him sloppy.

The girl’s eyes were wide with triumph, and Alarion allowed the clash to linger a beat longer than necessary, letting her drink in her temporary victory.

Then he kicked her in the stomach and sent her sprawling into the training yard dirt.

Her name was Valin. Or Verin? Or something suitably similar that Alarion couldn’t quite put his finger on. He’d learn it eventually, he knew. Lily had long ago taught him a mnemonic trick to memorize new names, and though it had been a tremendous help in leading the 238th, he’d been understandably distracted since they’d returned to Ilvan-Trai. He hadn’t even had a chance to review the dossiers for either of the recruits—which was part of why the girl had come as close as she had to actually hurting him.

“A good attempt. Take a breath,” he said, stepping away from her to lean on Isha’s pommel as he waited for the poor girl to follow his order. “You did well, but you won’t leave your belly open again like that, will you?”

“N-No, Martyr,” she wheezed, fingers tightening around the hilt of her longsword as she stood.

“Orphan,” he corrected. Alarion might never escape the title, but he tried to minimize its use in the ranks. Soldiers who looked up to him were one thing; those who idolized or worshiped him were quite another. “I hit you pretty hard; take a few minutes.”

“No,” Verin—or maybe it was Verun—protested. “I can fight.”

“Show me, then.”

The girl planted her feet, tightened her grip, and came at him with a feint-and-reverse combination that was far sloppier than her previous display.

Alarion feinted her feint, leaning left then stepping right in a way that kept him two steps ahead of the long sweep of her blade. The vast chasm between their Attributes made his evasion look as effortless as it felt, as though Alarion were taking a casual stroll around his attacker.

He knew what it was like to be on the other side of that divide. To be weak. He remembered all too well the frustration and the lessons he’d been taught at the time.

Alarion shook his head. “That was much worse.”

She came harder this time, anger leading her blade more than technique. Strands of mana played along its edge, but the MP was wasted as Alarion drove the flat of his palm into her elbow, then hooked his ankle behind hers and put her flat on her back with a shoulder check.

“I want you to be more serious,” he told her, then paused. “Or are you serious, and this is all you have?”

She didn’t get up right away. Instead, from flat on her back, she lashed out with her longsword, aiming for his shin with an attack so weak she could have just used mean words instead.

Alarion stepped over it without breaking stride, still circling her. When she tried again, he shortened his step, catching her wrist with his sandal and driving it into the dirt. She wrenched her arm once, trying to pull free, then thought better of it as Alarion’s violet eyes bore down on her.

“I get it,” he said. “You are lashing out because you are frustrated. Believe me, I am the last person who should be pointing fingers. But this...” Alarion nodded at her pinned arm for emphasis. “This isn’t working. There is no shame in catching your breath if you have an opportunity, but there is plenty in getting yourself or your comrades killed because you feel like you have something to prove. Or because you are angry.”

For a moment it looked like she might protest as her breath quickened and her cheeks darkened. Alarion could see the petulant rebuttal forming behind her eyes—probably some retort about how she didn’t need to be lectured by a man younger than she was.

But she didn’t say it.

Maybe it was decorum that stayed her hand, or perhaps her admiration for the Martyr if not the man. Whatever the reason, the fight drained out of her all at once, her shoulders sinking back against the dirt as fury burned down to embers.

“...Understood, Orphan,” she said, her tone ashamed and introspective.

“Good, then let us—”

“Pummeling the recruits, Master Sergeant?”

Alarion stiffened at the voice, his expression souring in an instant. He didn’t immediately acknowledge the question, choosing instead to stoop low and help the fallen girl to her feet. “My taunting aside, you did well. That will be enough for now.”

“Did I pass?”

“It is not that sort of test,” he answered. “But if it were—you would have, Specialist...”

“Veyrun,” she said wryly.

“Specialist Veyrun,” he repeated for emphasis, drilling it into his mind. “I will not forget again. You will report to—”

Behind him, a throat cleared, pointed and unmistakable.

Veyrun looked past Alarion, saw who it was, and came to attention with such haste that she nearly dropped her longsword. “Lieutenant!”

Alarion sighed. Ignoring her was never going to be a long-term solution, but he’d enjoyed it while it lasted.

Reluctantly, he turned to face her.

Anastacia stood a few feet away in an outfit that straddled the line between fashion and military decorum.

She wore what looked like half of a deep navy longcoat with gold trim. Clearly inspired by the Vitrian dress uniform without being beholden to formality, the asymmetrical garment possessed only a single long sleeve on the left-hand side, and even someone as provincial as he was recognized it for what it was. A duelist’s jacket. It had a wide, pointed collar folded back to reveal a teal underlayer, the whole thing cinched at the waist by a thick leather belt with twin buckles. The hem flared dramatically at her hips, with layered navy-and-cream fabric falling in flattering tiers.

Beneath it, a striped teal fencing jacket looked both practical and stylish, cut short at the forearm to allow room for the padded, knuckle-armored gloves she wore on each hand. A short dagger sat holstered against her hip, more of an accessory than a weapon judging by its size—though Alarion knew from personal experience that such things were subject to change.

Thigh-high riding boots of dark leather were worn over lighter, more conservative trousers, completing a very aristocratic appearance. She looked rich in a way Sierra never had, and Alarion found himself wondering about that.

Syrus Feln had visited with fewer staff and less fanfare than Anastacia. Was she that pompous? Or were the Felns especially humble?

“Just a training exercise, Lieutenant,” Alarion said, knowing he had to say something. He gave a proper salute, then turned his attention back to Veyrun. “Specialist Hart will sort out the rest of your logisti—”

“I heard it was more a rite of passage,” Anastacia interrupted. “Everyone goes a few rounds with the commander so that you know what they can do.”

“And so they know what I can do,” he added.

The ‘tradition’ dated back to the early days of the 238th when he’d openly dueled Kali, and was reinforced when he beat the Tenri brothers bloody. They’d been the first ones to disrespect him openly, but sadly not the last. Plenty of soldiers volunteered to join the 238th knowing who Alarion was, but then balked at the reality when a teenager ordered them around.

Cracking a few skulls put things in perspective for such rabble-rousers, but it also encouraged a competitive spirit among those who thought they could do better. Eventually, Alarion had dueled so many of his subordinates that they began putting peer pressure on the ones who hadn’t.

It had become tradition among the 238th, but also entertainment. No one had much hope for Veyrun, but dozens of off-duty soldiers had shown up to watch nonetheless. Watch, and bet on the outcome, of course.

“Unorthodox, but admirable. You fight two-quarters matches, then?”

“Nothing so formal, Madam. For most, just some light sparring and some pointers.”

“For most,” she noted. “But if someone were to push... well, you have never turned down a challenge, have you, Master Sergeant? Eighty-six victories and counting, that is what I have heard.”

For someone who’d been on station for barely a day, Anastacia was frighteningly well informed about the idiosyncrasies of her new command. He’d have to look into that.

Of course, Alarion wasn’t stupid. He knew where she was going with her line of questioning. But he’d be damned if he didn’t try to veer off while he had the opportunity.

“That would be correct, but if you are suggesting—”

“What makes you think I am suggesting, Master Sergeant?” Her tone was icy, even if her expression remained placid. “I would hate to break with tradition.”

“Madam—”

“But a three-quarters match would be better, agreed? It would not do for things to end early,” she continued without a care for his protest. “Do I need to make this an order?”

Alarion’s jaw tightened, his face every bit as flushed as the girl he’d been batting around minutes earlier. She wouldn’t have to, and she knew it. Her tone alone was making him itch for the opportunity. “No, Lieutenant. Happy to.”