The
Infirmary Tent - Continuous
The
infirmary tent smells of blood, antiseptic, and sweat. Cadets groan
in the background, the low hum of pain and frustration threading
through the air. Some are guided out, limping or staggering, given
directions to head to the location of the next phase of the Final
Exam.
Lucille sits on the gurney,
still armored in her exoskeleton. Her helmet rests beside her, her
longsword and diamond-shaped shield lying quietly on the gurney. She
watches the nurse work, listening to the faint prick of the needle
and the sliding thread of the sutures closing the wound along her
side. Despite the numbing agent, every touch presses sharp against
her nerves. She grips the edge of the gurney, knuckles white, teeth
clenched.
The nurse mutters softly
under her breath, focused on stitching the deep gouge. Around them,
life in the infirmary moves in rhythm with pain and survival.
The tent flap shifts. A
familiar presence. Lucille’s gaze lifts, catching movement through
the chaos. Cain steps inside, scanning frantically. His silvery-blue
eyes light up when they find her, relief and something softer mixed
in his expression. He smiles, a small, patient smile that carries
warmth and steadiness, even amid the blood and exhaustion of the
tent.
He is still in his
exoskeleton, the helmet clipped to his hip, sword sheathed, standing
at ease yet ready for any threat. Each step toward her is measured,
careful, yet purposeful.
Lucille’s attention
shifts from the pain in her side to him, and the rest of the world
narrows. She notices how the armor fits his frame, the subtle
strength it amplifies, the quiet power in the way he moves. Her pulse
quickens, not from the fight anymore, but from the sight of him.
He kneels beside the
gurney, close enough for her to feel his presence radiating
reassurance. His eyes sparkle in that soft way, the kind that seems
to wash away the misery, the loneliness, the raw ache she had been
carrying since she first arrived at the Academy. She hasn’t seen
him since his duel, and though only an hour or so has passed, it
feels like an eternity to her.
Lucille exhales slowly, the
taut edge of tension in her shoulders softening slightly. The world,
the pain, the blood, the battlefield, fades at the edges. For just a
moment, she allows herself to simply be.
Cain’s hand hovers near
hers, hesitating only a breath before brushing it lightly. She
doesn’t pull away. Her fingers twitch toward his, almost
instinctively, a quiet acknowledgment of presence, of comfort.
The nurse continues
stitching, unaware of the subtle human moment beside her. The tent
hums with life and pain, but in that small corner, Lucille and Cain
exist almost outside it, two soldiers amid chaos, finding a heartbeat
of peace.
Cain’s
smile never falters, even as his eyes keep drifting back to the wound
at her side, to the needle drawing thread through torn flesh.
“You fought well,” he
says quietly, voice steady, warm. “Really well.” A pause, just
long enough to give him away. “Still… I wish you wouldn’t take
hits like that.”
He glances at the stitching
again, jaw tightening. Then he adds, lighter, teasing, almost joking.
“Maybe you’ve learned your lesson now that one of them actually
got through.”
Lucille looks up at him,
unfazed. She smiles, small but certain. “It won me the fight.”
Cain exhales softly,
something in his expression giving way. The confidence in her answer
doesn’t frustrate him, it scares him. His smile fades into
something gentler, more vulnerable. Without thinking, he reaches out
and grabs the back of her hand, squeezing it firmly.
“I’m just glad you’re
okay,” he says.
Heat rushes to Lucille’s
face. She looks down quickly, hiding the blush beneath loose strands
of hair, but the smile stays. She turns her hand in his, threading
her fingers through his and holding on.
The nurse keeps stitching.
Somewhere nearby, a cadet groans. Blood, antiseptic, and pain fill
the air.
But for Lucille, the world
narrows to the warmth of Cain’s hand in hers, and for the first
time since the duel, the fire inside her quiets just a little.
Advanced Military
Survival & Reconnaissance Field – Continuous
The
field stretches wide and uneven, grass trampled thin by boots and
drills. Scattered workbenches sit half-sunk into the earth, scarred
by blades and burns. Kaelis Dravon himself occupies one of them,
seated with the casual authority of someone who does not need to
stand to command respect. His exoskeleton is partially disengaged,
helmet resting at his side. A datapad glows faintly in his hand as he
scrolls, attention split, reading, listening, watching.
Thirty
cadets filter into the field in uneven waves.
Some
walk in under their own power. Others limp. A few have bloodstained
bandages hastily wrapped over armor seams. Every few minutes, another
figure arrives from the distant direction of the Martyr’s Ring, the
noise of that place long faded but its consequences written plainly
on their bodies.
The
cadets cluster in loose groups, sitting in the grass or leaning
against benches. Low conversation hums through the air, nervous
laughter, bragging, grim recounting of blows taken and dealt. Hunger
asserts itself now that adrenaline has bled away. Foil packets are
torn open. MREs are eaten cold and fast.
Lucille
and Cain enter the field together.
They
stop at the supply crate first. The lid is already open. A fresh box
of MREs sits inside, only a handful taken. Two empty crates are
stacked beside it, mute evidence of how long the day has already
been.
Neither
of them bothers to look at the labels. Cain reaches in, grabs two at
random, hands one to Lucille. She takes it without comment. Survival
food is survival food.
As
they turn away, a voice cuts across the field.
“Cain!
Lucille!”
Decimus
is already on his feet, springing up from the grass where he had been
sitting with a small group of cadets. He waves both arms over his
head, utterly unconcerned with dignity, a wide grin splitting his
face. Relief and excitement are written all over him as he calls out
again, beckoning them over.
For
a moment, amid the ache, the blood, and the waiting dread of the next
phase, the field feels almost, briefly, alive.
Lucille
and Cain cross the field and join Decimus near its center.
Decimus grins like a child
who has been waiting too long for friends to arrive, all teeth and
bright eyes despite the grime streaked across his armor. “Finally,”
he says, breathless with relief. “I was starting to think you two
died over there.”
He reaches out and pats
Cain’s shoulder, a quick, familiar gesture. “So?” he asks,
lowering his voice just enough to feel conspiratorial. “How’d
Lucille’s fight go?”
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Cain exhales through his
nose. “It was a fight.”
Lucille can’t help the
grin that tugs at her mouth. She feels it before she can kill it. She
turns away before either of them can comment, drops to a knee in the
grass, and focuses on the MRE instead. She tears the packet open,
fingers working the heating element with practiced efficiency. Steam
begins to creep from the seam.
Decimus chuckles under his
breath, then leans in closer, his tone shifting. “Word is, we don’t
get long,” he says. “Dravon said to rest and eat while we can.”
Cain frowns. “That’s
it? He didn’t say what’s next?”
Decimus shakes his head.
“Nope. Just that.”
Lucille listens in silence,
staring down at the warming ration. If they’re with Dravon now,
that narrows it. His classes never stay contained. Survival,
endurance, adaptation. And even then, survival could mean a hundred
different hells depending on his mood.
She exhales slowly.
The three of them settle
into the grass, armor creaking as they sit. Decimus fills the quiet
with easy, polite chatter, small things, jokes that don’t quite
land, observations about who looks worse coming in from the ring.
It’s the kind of conversation meant to keep the edge at bay.
For now, they eat. For now,
they rest. And nearby, Centurion Kaelis Dravon watches, datapad idle
in his hand, waiting for the moment to begin.
Advanced Military
Survival & Reconnaissance Field – Dusk
Dusk
bleeds across the Academy grounds, turning the grass to bruised gold
and shadow.
Centurion Dravon finally
rises from the workbench.
The simple motion is
enough.
Conversation cuts off
mid-word. Nearly sixty cadets lift their heads as one, bodies
stiffening despite the exhaustion that weighs on them. Armor creaks.
Someone swallows too loudly.
Decimus mutters under his
breath, “Finally.”
Marcus elbows him in the
arm without looking, a sharp, silent warning.
Dravon steps forward into
the open ground. He doesn’t shout. He never does. He lets his gaze
move over them instead, slow and deliberate, measuring each cadet
like a piece of equipment that may or may not fail when needed most.
He lets the silence stretch until it starts to hurt.
Then he speaks. No flare.
No dramatics.
“Phase Two begins now.”
The words settle heavy.
“You will be conducting a
multi-day live-fire operation.”
A ripple runs through the
field. A few cadets straighten, spines snapping rigid despite
exhaustion. Others go very still, as if any movement might draw
attention they cannot afford.
Dravon’s gaze sweeps them
again. “You will form teams. Two, if you insist.” A pause, thin
and deliberate. “I advise against it. Four is preferred. Six is the
maximum. Any more and you become slow. Any less and you become dead.”
The cadeys are silent, but
eyes shift.
“Each team will receive a
mission dossier.” He turns slightly, indicating the stacked folders
behind him. “Inside is your assignment. You will be given a VIP
target. Your objective is to locate them, secure them, and extract
from the field.”
His eyes harden. “Alive.”
Another pause. Longer this
time.
“Failure is not
theoretical,” Dravon continues. “If you fail to locate your
target, if you fail to extract, or if you allow them to be killed,
that failure will be recorded. Permanently.”
A few cadets swallow.
“You will be issued
coordinates,” he says. “General location only. No exact
positions. You will search, you will adapt, and you will make
decisions without guidance.”
He gestures with one gloved
hand as he speaks, precise and economical. First toward the armored
vehicles lined along one edge of the field, dark shapes waiting in
silence. Then toward the horses tied to posts on the opposite side,
shifting and snorting in the gloom. Finally, he lifts his hand toward
the open land beyond the Academy walls, already sinking into shadow.
“You may choose your
method of insertion. Vehicle. Mount. Or on foot.”
His hand drops.
“And understand this,”
Dravon adds, voice flattening. “You will not be alone out there.
Other cadet teams will be assigned overlapping mission zones. Your
objectives may intersect. Your routes may cross.”
He lets that sink in before
finishing, “How you handle those encounters is up to you.”
Silence grips the field
again, heavier now, sharpened by implication.
“Choose your teams,”
Dravon says at last. “Choose wisely.”
Dravon turns away, already
done speaking. He moves toward the workbenches where thick folders
wait, mission dossiers stacked with precise indifference. He waves
once to the other instructors, his assistants, and they begin hauling
forward rucksacks already packed and waiting.
The field explodes into
motion.
Cadets stand, call out
names, drift and collide as groups form with hurried certainty or
quiet calculation.
Marcus and Decimus exchange
a grin and look to Cain and Lucille. There’s no discussion needed.
Or so they think.
Two figures break from
another cluster and approach.
Tiber Tiber walks at the
front, posture relaxed, expression open. Arruns Bato follows half a
step behind, broader, quieter, eyes constantly tracking the movement
around them.
They stop in front of the
group.
Tiber’s gaze flicks to
Lucille, and for a moment the noise of the field seems to fall away.
He smiles at her, genuine, almost warm. “Hell of a fight,” he
says. “Julianus never saw it coming. Congratulations.”
The unspoken question hangs
in the air between them.
Marcus
steps into the gap at Lucille’s side, broad frame angling subtly in
front of her. His arms cross over his chest as he looks down at
Tiber, eyes narrowed, measuring. “Our team’s full,” Marcus says
flatly.
Arruns
scoffs, already shaking his head. “It’s four,” he shoots back.
“Six is better than four. Dravon even said so.”
Marcus
doesn’t even look at Arruns. His attention stays locked on Tiber.
“I know what you’ve done,” he says, voice low, edged. “I’ve
seen you in the halls. Picking fights with her.” A nod toward
Lucille, brief but unmistakable. “So tell me why in the hells we’d
want you on the same team.”
Tiber
stiffens. For a moment, he looks like he might snap back. Then he
stops. The tension drains from his shoulders as understanding finally
clicks into place.
“That
was years ago,” he says slowly. He clears his throat, gaze dropping
before lifting again, not to Marcus, but to Lucille. He steps forward
and extends a hand toward her, open, unarmed.
“I
was a dumbass,” Tiber says. “An idiot.” A crooked, humorless
breath escapes him. “I sided with someone I liked instead of doing
the right thing. I took it out on you when I shouldn’t have. That’s
on me.”
He
meets her eyes. “I’m sorry. Properly sorry.”
Lucille
doesn’t take his hand.
She
hesitates, heart ticking faster. Trust does not come easily to her,
not here, not after everything. Her gaze drifts to Cain, searching
his face as if he might hold the answer she cannot find.
Cain
only smiles at her. Soft. Steady. Unafraid.
Lucille
looks back to Tiber. She thinks of his scores, of what she’s seen
of him in training. He is
good. Reliable in the field, if not always in temperament. The
apology feels real, but feeling real doesn’t mean it is.
Slowly,
she reaches out and takes his hand.
“Alright,”
Lucille says quietly.
Tiber
exhales, relief flickering across his face as he gives her hand a
brief squeeze before letting go.
Lucille
straightens, looking at the group now. Cain. Marcus. Decimus. She
knows, deep down, that if Tiber intends anything underhanded, it
won’t go unnoticed. Sabotage would be stupidity of the highest
order, no one passes this exam alone, no matter how much they might
want to.
“Six
is better than four,” she adds at last.
Marcus
grunts, clearly unconvinced, but he steps back into place.
The
team is set.
Dravon’s
voice cuts across the field, sharp and unmistakable, calling out Cain
and Lucille’s team by name.
They
rise together and move as one, crossing the grass toward the line of
workbenches where several instructors wait. The benches are stacked
high with packed rucksacks, uniform, heavy, already marked with unit
codes and serial numbers. One by one, the instructors shove a pack
into each cadet’s hands.
The
weight is immediate.
Dravon
passes Cain a thick folder, its edges worn and stained. The dossier.
He taps it once with a gloved finger. “Your mission,” he says.
“You’ll read it after you’re armed.” Then he nods toward the
next workbench over.
Weapons.
Standard-issue
rifles line the rack in neat rows, matte black and impersonal. SMGs
and shotguns rest beneath them. Crates of utility gear sit open,
grenades, flashbangs, smoke canisters, sensor spikes, breaching
charges. Tools meant for problems that bleed.
The
team fans out, slinging rucksacks over armored shoulders.
Cain
takes a standard rifle without hesitation. Lucille mirrors him,
checking the weight, the balance, the familiar feel of the grip in
her hands. Tiber and Arruns both follow suit, rifles locked and
shouldered with practiced motions.
Marcus
reaches past the rifles and pulls a shotgun from the rack, testing
the action with a solid clack.
Decimus selects a DMR, already checking the optic and the integrity
of the barrel.
They
gather utility items with quiet efficiency, each choosing according
to habit and instinct.
As
they work, Tiber glances up. “So,” he says, “have we decided on
mounts?”
Lucille
answers before anyone else can. “Horses.”
Arruns
snorts. “Truck,” he counters immediately. “Faster. Less time
exposed.”
“They’ll
bog down in the mountains,” Lucille replies, not missing a beat.
“Narrow passes, bad terrain. Horses can go where trucks can’t,
and they’re quieter.”
Cain
nods once. “She’s right.”
That’s
all it takes.
Arruns
exhales through his nose, rolling his shoulders. Marcus shrugs.
Decimus simply adjusts the sling on his rifle. No one argues further.
Horses
it is.
Lucille
secures her rifle, tightening the strap across her chest. The
decision settles over the team like a final lock snapping into place.
They’re
moving soon.
Into
the dark.
