13 Seleszeni 10.076 Z.C., Early Morning

Returning to the initiates’ barracks, Mav blew out a sigh. Around him, fellow legionnaires got ready for the day - some sharing the details of their new postings in small, excited groups, others just rolling out of bed and heading for the latrine. He summed up the narrow bunk he’d grown accustomed to in the past weeks. Strange feeling, not knowing where I’ll rest my head tonight.

Unbidden, memories of the three years he lived in the wojek barracks resurfaced. After Ace’s accident, his ‘jek partners adopted the ten-year-old as an unofficial mascot. Mav never experienced a big, close family like that, except maybe with Splatz in the warren.

But he felt like a guest here, an outsider. With the wojeks, he belonged. Even though the memory of his father clouded the ‘jeks’ eyes every time they looked at him, even though he lived out of a small pack for years, even though he didn’t even have his own bunk… Those men were family. That barracks was home.

‘C’mon Mav, you’re not gonna start cryin’ now, are ya?’ Mav shook his head at Brutus’ voice, dismissing the welling tears. He laid back on his bunk one last time, thinking about Ace’s old partners. He hated how much he cared about them, hated how much they cared about him, but most of all, hated the fear that they only cared because of his father…

And now I’ve repeated the cycle; I’ve joined the Legion myself. He chose to subject himself to all those same damn fears and worries, like the uncertainty of whether your partners would come back from their next patrol. And for what, a sense of belonging? He belonged there, with them. Because … because even though they knew who his father was, they got to know Mav for who he was. They accepted him.

But now? He couldn’t about-face without bumping into someone’s outsized assumptions about him, often laced with envy or spite. And what do they have to be jealous of? A dead family? Never measuring up to anyone’s expectations?

He stared at a crack in one of the ceiling stones, focusing his mind. None of the other initiates even bothered to get to know me; how could they possibly understand? They don’t want me to belong here. Which is fine. I enlisted to become the best damn skyknight there ever was, not to earn their approval. He sat up on the edge of the bunk, eying the others.

Not belonging doesn’t bother me anyway, he convinced himself.

On the far side of the room, a group of soldiers applauded a friend for making sergeant training, laughing and congratulating each other, making plans to celebrate at the Golden Gauntlet later. One of them caught Mav’s eye, their expression souring. They whispered to the group; some glanced over at him. Their conversation took a low tone, and Mav felt his ears burn as they gossiped before hastily grabbing their things and leaving without a backward glance. Jealous assholes, get a life.

Teeth gritted, Mav knelt down and grabbed his pack, moving his few belongings from the footlocker, careful to fold his spare uniform so it didn’t wrinkle. Out of habit, he checked the condition of his weapons and took a moment to wax his bowstring.

“Y’check the postings yet?” a familiar voice cracked behind him. “People won’t shut up about it.”

“Not yet,” he told Splatz.

“Mhmm.” Splatz stepped around the bunk, hovering over Mav as he filed down the edges of his fingernails. “You and Lilla have fun last night?” his friend asked with mild implication. Mav glanced over his shoulder to make sure Splatz saw his eyes roll.

“Had a bad feeling about that Rigoleto guy, so we kept watch over Nadine’s house last night,” he muttered. Splatz nodded, hiding a flash of hurt at not being included. Mav winced.

“Well pretty boy, while you were busy flirting with bluebutt, I took care of that thing. We’ll hear about any connections she might have in the next few days.” Splatz’ tone sounded confident.

Then he produced a small stack of papers, changing the subject. “I finished my application for skyknight training. That way I have a couple weeks before graduation to fix it if somethin’s wrong.” Splatz handed the application to Mav, who peered through the details.

The Legion certainly improved Splatz’ education, Mav marvelled as he looked over his friend’s neat handwriting. In fact, the goblin’s penmanship looked cleaner than Mav’s now. As youngsters, Splatz took some private lessons with him, but they both generally focused on getting out of class. That all stopped when Mav moved in with Aunt Melo, then Uncle Brutus and the other wojeks.

At what cost, though? He wondered, watching Splatz from the corner of his eye. Ever since his squire training with that hulking cow Enkha, his friend seemed distracted, always looking over his shoulder.

“Looks good,” he reported, nodding with approval when he finished reading the application. “Just hang onto it, you’ll be done in no time,” he assured the goblin.

“Easy for you to say,” Splatz muttered.

Ignoring the jab, Mav retrieved his comb from his bag, brushing snarls out of his hair.

“I’m heading out to lift weights,” Splatz announced, getting Mav’s attention. “You should really check those duty-postings when you’re done grooming, pretty boy.” Mav rolled his eyes again. These comments weren’t new from Splatz, but increased in frequency ever since that secret squire’s party just before Guildpact Day.

After they parted ways, Mav shouldered his pack. He drifted through the corridors, allowing the crowd to press him toward the mess. As usual, a clamor of people crowded the corridors outside. As he squeezed through the press to get into the larger hall, he missed the busy market streets of Precinct Six and the stillness of the smoky night air. Guided by the current of bodies, Mav wandered through the mess and towards the duty postings as everyone else rushed around for food.

Fresh batch of new recruits, must be Obzsday, he observed with a wry smile, watching a pair of young women tussle over the pastry platter, recalling the first day of squire training.

Brogmir sure knew how to throw a ‘bow. What a difference six weeks can make, he mused, turning to the soldiers mobbing the message boards. Peering over as many heads as he could, he made out some titles above the new duty rosters, pushing his way toward the list for skyknight training.

Generally, it took several tours of duty before a soldier would be accepted into advanced training programs, like those for command or the skyknights. He wouldn’t hold his breath over his chances of getting in, but superior officers often took note of eager young recruits. Even if he wasn’t accepted this time, he would establish a reputation up the chain as someone looking to improve himself and get things done.

I’ll probably just be assigned a beat patrol for a few months. Maybe I could talk to Equei about getting reassigned to the scouts, I bet that would improve my application’s chances in the future.

He neared the front of the throng, almost able to make out the names on the roster when a voice rose above the din of the mess hall behind them. Mav’s blood ran cold, recognizing the condescending tone.

“Well well well… I thought it was just some joke when I heard your name; I had to see for myself. And here you are.”

Mav could feel the sneer behind the words, dripping with malice. Holding his position in the mass of bodies, he turned, scanning nearby faces. Locating the speaker didn’t take long.

The elf grew tall - much taller than the last time they’d met. He’d meticulously groomed his platinum blond hair, and his knobby limbs filled out over intervening years as well. Mav curled his upper lip into a snarl as he assessed the elf’s lean physique. I could still take him.

“Looking to follow in your daddy’s bootprints, Viktorr? Or whatever print he left behind...” Caeldrim disparaged, looking down at Mav. “Maybe they’ll get the stain out of the cobblestones this time.”

Over the drumming of his heart, Mav became dimly aware of the mess hall reaching an eerie stillness. The rabble around them cleared as people backed off to a safe distance, surrounding him and the elf. Hands clenching into fists, Mav glanced at Caeldrim’s insignia to see just how much trouble he’d be in after he broke Caeldrim’s prickish nose. The haughty elf wore a pair of brass wings. Skyknight cadet. Praise Razia I wasn’t assigned to him as a squire.

“You’re one to talk,” Mav returned, conscious of the many eyes on him. “If your mother wasn’t such a shit pilot, they’d both be alive.”

Caeldrim clicked his lips. “Predictable. You’ve got his arrogance, but I doubt you’re anywhere near as good as he was, little Viktorr. Your father was too conceited, he couldn’t fly as part of a unit, and my mother paid the price for it.”

Their stares intensified, brows furrowing. Then Caeldrim raised his voice, projecting for all to hear. “Everyone knows your family is cursed, Viktorr. It’s been a long time since their heyday. One by one, you’ve all dropped like flies. Follow in their footsteps: drop out and quit while you still can. Before you become a danger to everyone who flies with you. You don’t have what it takes to be a skyknight.”

Mav knew from experience the crowd wouldn’t like him taking the bait and lashing out in response to Caeldrim’s words. Yet he hated this elf so much he could taste it. Nails biting into the skin of his palms, Mav focused on the pain, grounding himself in the sensation. He wanted nothing more than to launch an all-out attack on Caeldrim’s despicable face. Fantasizing about the crunch of his rival’s nose under his fist, Mav glanced around the hall for a way out.

Hardened faces looked on through a sea of tension. Alone and friendless among the mass of judgmental and pitying faces, Mav clung to his anger, using it as a shield to protect against the quivering helplessness creeping up inside him.

Behind Caeldrim, another skyknight cadet broke from the crowd, placing a hand on the elf’s shoulder.

“C’mon Reaper, give it a rest. This hatchling hasn’t even flown yet.” The newcomer shot his wingmate a confident grin. “Unless you really think he’s competition?”

Caeldrim glared at the half-elf, brushed his hand off his shoulder, then scoffed.

“Not a chance. This brat won’t even make it out of the clutch.” Caeldrim sneered in Mav’s direction. “Not alive, anyways.”

Turning on his heel, the elf strode out of the mess hall without a backward glance, the other soldiers parting before him without resistance. The moment he disappeared from sight, the murmuring began. Mav released his breath, relaxing his throbbing fists and glancing at the marks on his palms where his nails dug into them.

He looked over to find the half-elf watching him.

“Sorry about Reaper,” the cadet apologized with a sincere laugh, gesturing toward the threshold. “We’re not all like that, I promise. Don’t let him scare you off. I’m Lucien, but just call me Loose. Everyone does.”

Mav nodded, managing a half-smile. “Maverick, call me Mav.” As the two shook hands, Mav read a sort-of contented glee in Loose’s eyes. Is this guy always like this?

He glanced around the other nearby faces, meeting judgment or pity on them as the hall buzzed about the tragedy of the Viktorr line, and Mav’s probable fate.

“Come on, I’ll show you to the clutch. That’s the skyknight trainees’ barracks; it’s not far from the cadets’,” Loose encouraged. Mav adjusted his pack where it hung over one shoulder.

“Lead the way,” he muttered with dry surrender. The crowd parted for them as they left, giving Mav a wide berth.