The training resumed as normal. Gradually, the constant exhaustion and fear of failure became the new normal. And just when the recruits had gotten used to the feeling, the sergeants would add something new. An extra lap, another exercise, longer chores, or a creative unannounced torture. Meanwhile if one was observant enough, one might catch glimpses of black robes disappearing behind the corners of tents and buildings, watching them interact.

Lisŗa saw them as clear as day: the garb of empirial investigators. There were more every week; the Laplace must be getting desperate. How easily everyone else seemed to have forgotten that there was a murderer amidst the thousand or so recruits and staff onsite. And she was still in danger of being wrongfully persecuted in addition to being gutted by this unknown killer.

Officially, she was a Scoutrunner now, and early in the mornings she’d say good bye to her tentmates and leave for a designated section of the camp with the other Scoutrunners. They were an advance stealth unit meant to clear the path ahead for caravan companies through the treacherous lands betwixt nations. Dolores became, unsurprisingly, a Bladedancer. Their techniques were designed to be impregnable versus four enemies at a time, the maximum number they would realistically be exposed to at a time. Lisŗa had seen them train before. Their movements hardly seemed human, every step designed to evade, defend, and attack all at once. Chessie was the only one who came back to the tents every night bored and only mildly tired. She seemed more emotionally exhausted than anything. Spellpower had little to do with physical acuity, and she had been training her Mind since she could speak. Lisŗa had to contend with the overwhelming rigor of scaling walls and buildings without so much as dislodging a shingle. Just for a moment, Lisŗa found herself envious, and then she realized why people hated casters so much. If even a friend could feel envy at such a minor thing, she could hardly imagine the hate someone could muster if they were inclined. What if a miscast from the backline killed a friend? How easy would it be to hate a mage?

“How are you feeling,” Lisŗa asked her when they came back one night.

“Same old, same old,” Chessie replied, “They’re giving me more advanced material to practice since I’m making a joke out of what they give to the beginner casters.”

“Is that so?”

“I learned a wide radius eavesdropping Spell the other day. Draws from Hirul, the plane of vast echoes. Amplifies all sound around you.”

“And?”

“You hear the same shit. ‘She’s had lucky genes’. ‘Her family spoonfed her’. ‘She hasn’t had it rough’. Yadda yadda anything to not own up to your own mediocrity.”

“Must be rough.”

“You’re not good at this. Why do you care all of a sudden?”

“I don’t know,” Lisŗa said honestly. “I didn’t have many friends back in Cadeau. Are these feelings normal?”

“Yeah... Yeah they are. How are you feeling?”

“Tired. Just tired.” Lisŗa stared at her hands. They were covered in little scars. Scratches from metal, splinters from wood. Her nails had broken countless times and have been mended over and over. There were so many sores they blended together.

“That nasty captain bother you anymore?”

“He watches me a lot during the courses. They all do. I’m not the fastest, or the most agile, or the most accurate at knife throwing, but they seem really interested in me. Maybe they’re finally thinking about pinning the murder on me.”

“Still defeatist? What are your results for the tests?”

“Well I’m usually between 11th and 3rd for most of them.”

“Most of them. You’re top ten at everything they test you on.”

“I haven’t peeked at the sergeants’ clipboards. I don’t know.”

“Can you perhaps see why they might be interested in you? Cuz I don’t think it’s those two pretty emeralds in your skull.”

Lisŗa looked down at her lap. “Is this a good thing though? I’ve been trying so hard. I have to excel or they might kill me. And it’s only been a few weeks but everyone’s already forgotten about the killer. I don’t know how long I can keep this up.”

Chessie moved uncertainly, not quite knowing how to express sympathy. She looked over to the other bed, but Dolores hadn’t come back yet. Their tent was mostly empty. She sat beside Lisŗa and wrapped an arm around her, rubbing her shoulder. Chessie said nothing. They shared a minute of silence. Gradually, Lisŗa seemed to brighten up.

“You’re really bad at this too,” Lisŗa remarked meekly.

“My siblings didn’t… do this sort of thing, not for me or each other. A noble house is clean to the point of sterility.”

“So was my mother. If she cared she did it in the coldest way possible.”

“I guess we both have damaged childhoods.”

“Why do we keep going like this?”

Chessie didn’t respond. They went to bed earlier than usual, unsatisfied and regretful.

There wasn’t a sensible answer. Lisŗa laid on her side, dreaming of a world where she hadn’t left the Chalet. Maybe she would have become an entertainer like her mother. Or attended school properly and became independent slowly, following the system like everyone else. That was how more than ninety-nine percent of human beings lived. Provide a utility for society and hope the collateral from its imperfections didn’t swallow you whole. Why did she fear that life so much she ran all the way to the military?

Did Chessie have pride in her family? Did the cold iron of emotional isolation and the pressure of duty really breed noblesse oblige? Lisŗa had so many simpler notions before she came here: her life was miserable, and it must be the fault of those above. But she had never once shown sympathy to a beggar beyond a spare copper. Hypocrisy. Her fist gripped her pillow.

Maybe this was the right path. She had left the Chalet because she didn’t like being beholden to Valdren. She had trained so hard because she feared someone far away might call for her death. Maybe it was time she fought for something she wanted. She didn’t have much time left to prepare. The cumulative test was coming.

The days passed quickly. The camp became quieter and quieter with every sunrise. Not just from the sense of impending finality, no doubt. Even Dolores barely spoke. There were fewer recruits than before. She caught one being sent home on the back of a carriage one day. Until then, she had never seen a noble cry, let alone so profusely. The tents felt lonelier. On one overcast night, Lisŗa was awoken by the sounds of a bedframe creaking and soft moaning. No one spoke of it the next morning.

And then everyone’s time was up.

They were brought before an artificial town hidden in a valley in the hill. The architecture wasn’t Falerian. Waterproof plaster was painted over large bricks. Steeper rooftops rose into sharp points unlike the slanted red roofs in Cadeau. Those would be much harder to traverse on. The roads were paved with smaller, darker stones rather than the light, wide tiles more common to Falerian design. It was hard to believe they did all this just for a test.

Lisŗa stood at the entrance beside nine other recruits. Only two others were girls. She was probably one of the smallest. Two flanks of guards stood close by. Everyone straightened at the arrival of the captain. The man walked without sound. It was uncanny.

His eyes went from left to right, lingering for a moment on Lisŗa. Then he stopped before them. His heels clicked together.

“Five prisoners of war have been released in this town,” he said. “Each will be carrying one of these.” His cape parted to reveal what was in his hand: a thin card with a distinct symbol of a hawk carved on both sides. “Bring these cards back to where I am standing. You have six hours.”

The recruits looked at each other, then at themselves. They were not armed. They only had the standard uniform of a Scoutrunner: a thin, black full body suit designed not to chafe when they moved. Without another word, one of the recruits leapt into action, followed quickly by the others. Lisŗa was the last to leave the starting line.

She sprinted up onto the first rooftop and absorbed her surroundings. The others had already disappeared. She tried to think as she moved from building to building, hopping through open windows and alongside rain gutters.

The instructions were so unclear. Was that on purpose? What was stopping these prisoners from dropping the cards? Unless-

She nearly slipped. Her show slipping caused a splash of water to fall onto the street below. She quickly ducked indoors. Her heart felt ready to leap out of her chest. Notions ran wild in her skull. The captain had said prisoners of war. So these were real enemies. Were they armed? Lisŗa had to find a weapon. There must be a smith in this fake town. She moved slower, more methodically, from house to house. Under the gentle pitter patter of the rain, Lisŗa gradually calmed, and skills she was already proficient at before coming to the camp resurfaced. She slipped between the alleyways, sticking to the damp shadows. The walls she leaned on felt cold. She found it relaxing. Eventually she could hear again, no longer distracted by her own heartbeat.

Her ears perked up. Regular patterns in the running water. That meant footsteps. A Scoutrunner wouldn’t make that kind of mistake. She crossed the street and leaned against the wall, peering at the source. She saw a figure in a tattered robe trip and fall onto the road. Chains clinked at their feet. Their hands were similarly clasped. Out of reach and dangling from a bit of cable was one of the Hawk cards. Lisŗa almost stepped out.

Two males landed on the street behind the figure, clad in a familiar black. Lisŗa was late. She turned to leave.

“No! No please!”

There was a meaty sound, the kind one might hear in a busy dinner hall. Then a cry echoed throughout the streets. Lisŗa’s skin chilled. She felt bumps push against her clothes on her arms. The two recruits began arguing. Lisŗa heard fists meet wet skin and animalistic grunting.

She realized then that there were ten recruits in the test and only five cards. Were they competing for them? That didn’t make sense; Scoutrunners rarely needed to meet each other in the field other than to give information. But then again, in the field their instructions would be very specific. She took off. Stepping in to stop them would have been a bad idea.

The ground descended beneath her as she returned to the safety of the upper floors. She nearly slipped when an explosion rattled the buildings. A plume of black smoke rose in the distance. She made her way there. People were yelling.

“What the hell are we supposed to do against her?” A male recruit was yelling. He was one of the tall ones, muscular and unseemly for this kind of work. There were several others there, surrounding two prisoners. One was cowering behind the other. Lisŗa could smell the tearing of the planes. A mage POW.

“Do we have any weapons?” A female recruit asked. She was a girl with auburn hair clipped into a professional bun. Lisŗa simply kept her hair short. She noticed this tendency of the other recruits, a refusal to give certain things up. Meanwhile the mage was warning them all with raised hands, glyphs pulsating by her fingers.

“Stay back!” She yelled.

“She has to be running low, right?” Another recruit said.

“I’ve got enough for all of you!”

Lisŗa assessed the surroundings while they were stuck in this static impasse. Her compatriots had the two targets pressed against the wall of a house. She noticed the mage’s back was towards a window. Lisŗa left her vantage point and took the long way around to the other side. When she entered the house, the argument was still going on. The recruits had resorted to threatening the mage, citing all manner of nasty ways they’d hurt her if she didn’t give them the cards.

Lisŗa found a skillet in the house and approached the window with it in hand. As the yelling escalated, she simply opened the panes and swung the underside of the pan against the mage’s head. With a wet sound, the mage fell flat on the street. The one she had been protecting fell backwards, shuffling away. Panicked noises came out of his mouth. She looked at the prisoners’ faces. They were covered in scars. Baggy eyes betrayed years of abuse.

The other recruits were already disentangling the card from the unconscious mage.

“Good work, runner,” a male recruit with an exotic haircut said. The corners of his mouth lifted into a smirk.

“Wait,” Lisŗa said. She turned to the prisoner on the ground. “Why don’t you just let us have these?”

“They said they’d let us go if we held onto the cards for six hours,” the man on the ground sputtered. “Please, I’m going to die. You can’t.”

Lisŗa looked him eye to eye. His were green. A dizzying feeling immobilized her. The male recruit pushed her out of the way.

“You too tired?” He quipped. “Let me do it.” He tore the card free, ignoring the prisoner’s desperate cries.

“Alright then,” Lisŗa said, her voice barely audible.

“Why are you doing this?” The prisoner began crawling towards Lisŗa. “Please help me! I’ll do anything! I’ll integrate like you have!”

“I…” Lisŗa stumbled backwards.

“They’ll kill me if I don’t have that card at the end of this!”

Lisŗa shoved the man away with her foot, spending his emaciated form sprawling.

“You’ve made an error in assumption,” Lisŗa said. “I haven’t faintest idea how to help you, nor do I care to.”

The other recruits glanced at each other.

“I heard about you from rumors around the camp,” the tall, muscled one said. “Seems like the rumors aren’t entirely accurate.”

“Like windborne words matter to me,” Lisŗa spat. “I saw a third card in the hands of two idiots further back. I’m going to find the other two cards. I doubt it matters who brings them to the examiner.”

“It wouldn’t make sense for Captain Yavi to intend for five of us to pass,” the auburn haired girl said. “They’re probably watching us right now, assessing us individually.”

So that was his name. “We’re probably meant to work together, so come if you want,” Lisŗa said.

“I’m not missing out on action,” the exotic-haired one said, brushing the strands out of his eyes. “Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

A body fell in front of their feet. The recruits jumped back. The tall one cried out in surprise. The body was still alive, barely holding form as though it had been flayed by a poor butcher, connected still by arteries and sinew and bone. Exposed muscles twitched uselessly. The face was unrecognizable. The throat was laid bare and the cords severed. Only small whimpers could be heard escaping the body. What was unmistakable on the victim was the black Scoutrunner uniform.

The killer jumped down from the rooftop, dragging bits of disconnected chain by his ankles. A man with metallic fingernails an inch long, eyes red with blood vessels, and an eager disposition. His skin was exposed to the rain from the shredded holes in his prisoner’s clothes. Crossed patterns of gashes both healed and fresh covered his face.

“What? They put you in those cages for so looong,” he said. “I could only do it to myself.”

He spread his arms, making a display of the dangling, broken chains on his wrists. Tied around both wrists was a Hawk card, one distinctly cleaner than the other. Lisŗa’s blood froze as she realized what the recruits were supposed to do.