Henry was pinned. He strained, thrashing from side to side as he tried to free his arms. He shouted, kicked, and caught his bare foot on something hard. The pain shocked him. He struggled harder, rolled, and was weightless for a moment.

He crashed to the floor, sweat-damp sheets wound around his body. His throat was sore, and someone was pounding on the door of the room, shouting. Henry scrabbled backwards until his spine was pressed against the broad turned-oak leg of the bed. They were coming for him. He blinked, and saw the bloodied eye-sockets again, the blood-streaked face.

The chair that Henry had jammed against the door exploded, the door itself shattering as white-hot light bloomed in the darkened room. He shielded his eyes, screaming in desperation and fear. His voice cracked. Hands fell on his shoulders, and he lashed out, driving his knuckles into something hard. The weight lifted, and Henry lowered his hands.

Francis was sprawled out on the floor, his brow split and blood welling up and dripping down his face. He pressed his hand to the wound, and sat up. “Henry, are you okay?”

“Oh God, Francis I'm so sorry! I didn't know-”

“Don't. It's alright.” Francis pushed himself upright, and then held out his free hand. “I shouldn't have handled you like that, I wasn't thinking. Why couldn't I open the door?”

Henry took the hand, and let Francis pull him to his feet. “I put a chair against it. I shouldn't have.”

“I thought you were being attacked, the way you were shouting and crashing around.”

“I know. I'm sorry, I guess I thought I was too.”

Heavy feet hammered down the corridor, and Byford burst in with one of his footmen. He scanned the room quickly, moving through the room and flinging open the curtains. Weak winter sunlight spilled through the glass windows. “What on earth is going on here?”

Francis immediately stepped forward. “I'm sorry, Mr Byford. I heard a shout from Henry and panicked. I'm afraid I broke the door down.”

“I can see that.” His eyes darted quickly around the room, piecing together what must have happened. “Impressive work,” he said, and grinned. “Are either of you hurt?”

Francis scratched his head, and blushed. “A scratch, sir. I'll be fine.”

“Very well. See that you have the cook look at you. She knows herbs, and she's a steady hand with a needle, should it be required.”

“Thank you, I'll go at once.” And Francis scuttled out, still bowing, leaving Henry to face his new teacher.

“So,” Byford said, and took a seat on a nearby chair, the surviving counterpart to Henry' ill-fated barricade. “You are having nightmares?”

“Yes sir. I’ve always had them, but these are worse.”

Byford nods, his expression sympathetic. “You know the men who died are not worthy of such concern.”

Henry looks down at his hands. “So you have said, but they were men all the same, and I murdered one of them.”

“You gave him a far better death than he would have afforded you, lad. Don't let your misplaced guilt drag you down any further.” Byford steepled his fingers, and looked Henry up and down. “The gifts we have are gifts of war. You will kill again, or be killed in turn. Be glad that your first was so clearly an enemy, and died so cleanly.”

“Master Byford, did you feel this way when you first killed?”

“Worse, if anything. But the man I killed had done nothing to me, had not threatened anyone I loved. I was just given a scrap of parchment with his name and likeness on it. I was trained not to ask questions, so I did as I was told. After, I fell ill with grief for days.”

Henry fell silent, allowing the conversation lapse into awkwardness. Byford coughed, and hauled himself out of the chair. “Your training begins this morning. I suggest you try and get some proper sleep, and eat something before you start.” He left through the shattered door, and Henry could hear him shouting for one of the servants to bring a carpenter before he turned the corner and out of earshot.

The Taylor’s guild was huge, a sequence of magnificent halls and corridors, opulent apartments and wood-paneled offices. This, the side that the visitor would gawk and wonder at, was only the surface however. As he began to explore, Henry became more concerned with the warren of tunnel-like passages that riddled the building. He walked through the store-rooms and work spaces, the tiny cramped rooms that housed the legion of staff that kept the place running. It is these passages that the Witches passed through, and beyond them, down into the belly of the building, beneath even the wine cellars. There, in the dark, were the classrooms and bunk-houses that held the novices.

Henry was led to the training hall for the first time by Byford. Maggie walked beside him, her expression unreadable. The passages were winding, and Henry lost track of the turns before they finally stopped in front of a narrow door. Byford opened it, and ushered them into a dormitory. They had private rooms for the last few nights while they got used to their surroundings, but now their training was starting, and they would be quartered with everyone else.

There were ten bunks arranged against the walls. Henry was surprised at their number. He had expected that he and Maggie might have been alone, or joined one or two others, but there were six other novices standing by their beds, all around Henry’s age. The setup reminded him of the lower dorms at the orphanage, where the younger children slept.

There were plenty of differences here from the orphanage. The dormitory was mixed for starters, and nearly half of the children were girls. Byford led them to an unoccupied set of bunks, and Maggie immediately claimed the top one. When Henry put his bag down on the bottom bunk, he noticed that the mattresses were stuffed with feathers instead of straw. Judging by the state of his bunk-mates, the food was healthy too, and plentiful as well. The room was warm, and scrupulously clean.

But there were other similarities to the orphanage too, unfortunately. The first walked up to Henry the moment the door closed behind Byford. A tall boy, well-fed, perhaps sixteen or seventeen. He was relaxed and handsome, with the bearing of a young lord, someone already used to power. Curly red hair, rich clothes. Two other boys, one practically a giant, and a girl came with him, rising from their beds and roughly encircling the two newcomers.

“That’s not your bed.”

Henry sighed. He turned his back on the leader, ignoring him. Maggie however turns and scowls at him.

“It is too. Master Byford said so.”

Henry put his hand on her shoulder without turning. “Ignore him.”

“I will not be ignored. Robert?”

‘Robert’ was a hulking mountain, already sprouting a patchy beard, and with a thin layer of puppy-fat covering slabs of well-fed muscle. He stepped forward, and made a grab for Maggie’s bag. Henry stepped inside Robert’s guard, dropped his shoulder, and hammered his fist up into the larger boy’s sternum, driving the wind out of him. Henry followed up with a vicious left hook, knocking the boy back on his heels and leaving him with a nasty cut under his eye. Blood spattered the floor, but the wound stopped bleeding almost instantly. The other two immediately rushed in, and Henry bit into his tongue, feeling the familiar rush of power. He turned on the two stooges, surprising them with his speed, and lashed out, but the advantage only lasted a moment. Henry dropped the second boy with a jab to the throat, but the girl twisted away and then blurred. Stars burst across the room as Henry was struck in the side of the head, and then hands grabbed him roughly by his wrist and shoulder and lifted him off the ground, their strength overwhelming. He had a brief sensation of weightlessness before the floor swooped up and slammed him in the face.

When his rattled brain recovered enough to make sense of his new perspective, he realised that he was pinned to the floor. The lordling’s left shoe dominated his field of vision, and he assumed that the cold, crushing weight on his cheek was probably the right one. His remaining hench-girl had Henry’ arm twisted nearly out of its socket, and what felt like her knee digging into his kidneys. Henry could see Maggie too, kneeling a few feet away, one hand on the floor where Robert went down.

“Now, where were we?” The other boy affected a tone of boredom, but it was just that: an affectation. Henry could hear the anger. This boy was not used to being disobeyed. And he was even less used to moments of surprise, or fear. “That. Is. Not. Your. Bed. You sleep on the floor. You sweep, dust and fetch like a good little slave, until I say otherwise. Understand?”

Henry strained to look up, but his head was clamped to the floor. He felt something warm and wet strike his cheek and the side of his nose.

“I asked you a question, rat.”

Henry coughed, and then hacks a wad of phlegm onto the lordling’s expensive shoe. “Fuck you.” He knew that would only cause him pain in the long run, but he couldn’t help himself.

The weight on his cheek lifted for a second, and then he blacked out as it crashed down into the side of his head. When he came around, it was to a searing pain in his ribs, but both his arms were free. He could hear the girl yelling for someone called Thomas to stop. He looked up, his vision blurry, and saw the red and blue outline of the young nobleman surging forward again, his foot coming down.

Scrambling, he rolled out of the way of the kick and got up onto his feet again. Thomas stalked after him, followed by Robert, who’s cut eye had already completely healed. The boy’s face is now twisted with rage.

Henry was off-balance, woozy. He raises his fists, but in his state he knew that he was in trouble now. He drew on his blood to clear his head and ease his pain. Thomas was smiling. He knew he’d won, and was taking his time, enjoying the moment. But Robert had no patience for gloating. He strode forward, eyes shining and unfocused, teeth bared. Henry tried to defend himself, but the boy blurred, and knocked Henry back to the floor, winded.

Thomas, strangely, looked upset. He rushed over to Robert, his hand outstretched, but the boy’s eyes were still glazed. He turned on Thomas, swinging a wide haymaker that knocked Thomas out cold. Even as he fell, Robert kicked him across the room and then started to follow him. This was too much, seemingly. The other students surged forward and grabbed him by the arms and legs. They lifted him from his feet and, with effort, slammed him into the wall, pinning him there until he calmed down. Only Maggie stayed where she was, watching the whole thing from where she kneels on the floor, her fingers pressed against the dark smear of Robert’s blood on the floorboards. With a groan, Henry curled up and surrendered to unconsciousness.