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Chapter Two

  The tolling bells had just marked midday when Jord reached home; the heat pressed down like a damp rag. The house was still, thick with the kind of silence that felt like it was waiting to be broken. From inside came the soft scratch of a pen against paper, the only sign of life. Elia sat hunched at the kitchen table, scribbling in a notebook. Jord walked by and squinted at the page Elia was bent over (linear algebra, Jord guessed), and jerked his chin at their parents’ empty seats.

  ‘Where’re the heroes of the hour?’

  Elia didn’t glance up. ‘Soup kitchen. Again.’ His pencil scratched louder. ‘The Father needed volunteers to chop onions.’

  ‘Volunteers?’ Jord snorted, slumping into a chair that screeched against the floor. ‘Or victims?’

  ‘Dad said it’s “community duty.”’ Elia’s voice dripped with air quotes.

  ‘Right. Duty.’ Jord flicked a dried pea left on the table. It pinged against the wall, falling into the bin. ‘Bet they’ll still moan about us not “pitching in.”’

  ‘Already did.’ Elia finally looked up, deadpan. ‘Left us a list. Dishes. Laundry. Moral improvement.’

  Jord groaned, dragging a hand down his face. ‘Brilliant. Can’t wait. Then he caught the glint in Elia’s eye: the subtle, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  Jord’s groan shifted into a slow grin. ‘How much do I owe you to misplace that list?’

  ‘Ten.’ Elia stated.

  ‘Five.’

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Eight.’ Elia stopped writing and stared at Jord.

  ‘Eight then.’ Jord raised his hands in mock defeat.

  Jord grinned as Elia resumed his scribbling. ‘Oi. You eaten yet?’ He gestured towards the window, where the smell of freshly baked pies wafted through. ‘Or do you fancy a proper meal for once? Mrs Pelley’s got mutton stew on.’

  Elia glanced up, mock-scowling. ‘I had two whole biscuits and some peas. Practically a feast.’

  ‘Two whole biscuits?’ Jord snatched the notebook, dodging Elia’s swipe. ‘That’s just crumbs with ambition. C’mon – my treat.’

  ‘Your treat?’ Elia raised a brow. ‘Last time you “treated” me, we split a sausage roll, and you still owe me two marks.’

  Jord clutched his chest. ‘Betrayed! And after I carried you home when you tripped over that cat–’

  ‘You tripped over the cat!’

  ‘Details.’ Jord tossed him his coat. ‘Stew’s getting cold, Saint Elia. Move your sanctified feet.’

  Jord shouldered open the door to Tsacini – a pub Mrs Pelley claimed was named after a Zyrian sailor she’d loved decades ago (“Poetic, eh?” she’d wink and then balk at the memory, though the faded sign still misspelled it as Tasinni). The bell clanged, slicing the clotted air of pipe smoke and drunken stupor. A half-dozen dockworkers hunched at the bar, their laughter hefty and sincere.

  ‘Two stews and beers,’ Jord called to Mrs Pelley, who stood behind the counter polishing glasses with a rag that had seen better days.

  Elia interjected. ‘Just a bottle of water, please. Mineral – if there’s any.’

  ‘Right, boys – two stews, a beer, and a mineral comin’ up.’ Mrs Pelley said as she vanished behind the kitchen door.

  They’d barely claimed their corner table – its wood scarred with patron’s initials – when Mrs Pelley barged back in. She thumped down two bowls of greasy stew, a sloshing pint, and a glass of water.

  The stew’s scent unfurled in crashing waves. First came the aroma of roasted marrow left steeped in bone broth. They inhaled. Then came the woodsmoke-kissed thyme, the sweetness of carrots left to soften for hours, and then, as grand finale, came the underlying tone of basil. Their stomachs growled in anxiety, fearing it would be left robbed of such lecornian delicacy.

  ‘Eat,’ she commanded.

  And eat they did – heartily, with gusto. And it didn’t take long for their spoons to scrape the bowls clean of meat and vegetables alike. The hollow clink of iron on ceramic betrayed a hunger neither brother knew to have had.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Jord, raising his glass and taking a hearty swig. ‘But… why did you skip the beer?’

  Elia swirled his glass, watching the whirl-pull settle. ‘Someone’s got to remember the way home. Last time you drank, you mistook a lamppost for an alley.’ He paused, thumbing on the table’s edge. ‘Besides, beer tastes better when it’s not paid for by debt.’

  Jord had no retort. He let silence hang between them – thick, guilty, and cutting as the paper note crumpled in his pocket. The debt gnawed at him: a yellowed scrap from Old Man Herrin’s ledger of promises, stamped with the old man signet ring and Jord’s own sloppy signature. He’d meant to repay it weeks ago. But like the rusted hinges on his bedroom door – squealing, ignored – he’d let it linger. Now, the compounding interest would fester.

  ‘I have joined the guardsmen.’ He said.

  Elia let the words hang in the air. Then, as if struck between the eyes, he froze. ‘You mad? After what they’ve done to Pa–’

  ‘It’s better than any job I’ve scrounged,’ Jord shot back, his tone hollow, haunted by the word Elia was about to utter. ‘And don’t act like you haven’t seen the bills stacking up. The calendar’s bleeding red, Elia. And much as I like the colour, I don’t care to see it on debt notices.’

  Elia set his glass down so fast it clinked sharp enough to almost cut through the tavern’s cacophony. ‘You’ve got a mark on your record, Jord. The riot at the docks – they’ll toss your application into the shredder at first glance.’

  ‘Not if they’re desperate for hands.’ Jord exhaled sharply, rubbing a thumb over the rim of his mug. ‘And they are.’ He let the words settle, as if convincing himself as much as Elia. Then he leaned forward, voice low, measured. ‘I walked in just to ask, and next thing I know, I’m trapped between hell’s hound and desperation. Elia… I needed something. Anything.’

  Elia let the word hang in the air like a foul curse. ‘Anything,’ he echoed, his voice tight. ‘And now what? You’re their thug? Their jackal?’

  ‘If it gets me – us – money? Then yeah.’

  Elia stared, then barked a bitter laugh. He leaned in too, his voice fraying, turning coarse. ‘They will own you. You’ll be running their debt collector’s errands in that shiny uniform.’

  Jord lowered his head, his gaze fixed on Elia’s glass. The world faded at its edges. He mentally traced the carvings: delicate flowers, their petals thin as Jord’s felt, the lines so precise they must have been etched by hands so steady that they know not the definition of imperfection. He followed them as if they held an answer, as if, in their careful symmetry, he might find some semblance of order to the mess he'd walked into.

  For a long moment, neither brother broke the fragile truce. The tavern’s clamour swelled around them: clinking glasses, slurred hymns, the thud of a drunk collapsing into his plate, and the laughter that followed. Finally, Elia dragged a hand down his face. ‘Fine. Play their dog. But when they send you to kick in some poor man’s door –’ he jabbed a finger at Jord’s chest, ‘– don’t come whining to me about the fleas.’

  Jord nodded. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ he murmured.

  Elia stood, chair screeching like the hinges back home. ‘You’re a fool.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Jord said, but didn’t look up.

  Elia hesitated at the door, hand braced against the frame, his expression laced with unsaid words. The bell clattered in his wake. Jord stared at his own palm, tracing the lines, wondering if guilt, too, had a compound rate.

  –––

  When Jord stepped out of the pub, the sun bore down like a yoke on his shoulders. To Jord, the day felt already wasted, the hours until sleep could not come sooner. He walked, but the conversation gnawed at him, hollowing him bit by bit. He reflected on himself. He felt his life was labour, then more labour: He stole naps, he forged calluses for coin that vanished like steam. Jord glanced down at himself, a wry thought flickering through his mind, a way to distract himself from reality. My sole accomplishment? Jord looked down. Not yet growing a labourer’s gut.

  He knew that perseverance hadn’t saved him. It had only carved him in the shape that Thamburg demanded. So, why wait for tomorrow? Get the shit done today. He set his jaw, squared his shoulders, and walked.

  The Citadel’s halls echoed hollowly, the morning’s clamour gone. Only the click-clack of Jord’s boots on polished stone polluted the silence. No queues, no barked orders – just his boots and his own shadow stretching thin under sterile light. Building Three, he repeated, passing vaulted archways until he found the East Wing. A dented door bore a plaque: Reception.

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  Inside, it was more closet than room. Just a desk, a chair, and barely enough space to turn around. A woman sat hunched over a terminal, her face lit blue by the screen.

  ‘Good day. How can I help you, sir?’ She said.

  ‘Morning. Are you, perchance, Officer Lory?’

  ‘That’s my colleague.’ Her emerald eyes flicked to him, then back to the screen. ‘If you’re here for him, you must be a new recruit. Name?’

  ‘Jord Whittaker.’

  She arched a brow as she typed, the rhythmic clack of keys filling the silence before stopping. ‘Your induction’s tomorrow. And you are quite early.’ A smirk tugged at her lips. ‘Ah. One of those.’

  ‘One of… those?’

  ‘The eager ones.’ She leaned back slightly. ‘The ones who don’t wait to be pushed before throwing themselves into the meat grinder. They think drowning in work will drown out everything else. But if that ever worked, I’d have seen it by now.’

  Jord held her gaze, unflinching. The day had worn him down, scraping away hesitation until only purpose remained. ‘Just here for the money.’

  She snorted. ‘Sure,’ she slid a form across the desk. ‘Sign here. And here. The grinder chews quick, eager or not.’

  He scrawled his name.

  ‘Hargrave mentioned training and a manual.’ Jord’s voice flattened, worn smooth like the countertop under his palms, the memory of Hargrave’s smug face scraping against his patience.

  The clerk exhaled a slow, measured breath, more like the release of steam from a kettle than a sigh. She tapped her pen against the desk in an idle rhythm before brightening, as if slipping into a well-rehearsed script.

  ‘Manuals are digital. Got a phone?’

  Jord nodded.

  ‘Good. Get a technician to link it with the city network. If it doesn’t work, we’ll issue you a brick.’ Her lips quirked, lingering on the last word.

  She plucked a key card from a drawer and slid it across the counter with a practised flick. ‘Smart cards, these. Linked to the city network. They hold your basic details. You will be issued two uniforms, but not until after orientation. Can’t do anything about that until tomorrow, you see. You need a superior’s authorization for that.’

  Leaning back slightly, she twirled her pen once before pointing it towards the exit. ‘You’ll need to report to the big grey brick building on Milasii Lane – you can’t miss it. The whole compound is quite striking. The third floor is for the newly minted. I’m told the lifts jam halfway. The stairs will save you time.’

  Jord pocketed the key card.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Should I report to this office for tomorrow’s orientation, or can I just head straight to Malasii lane?’

  ‘Now?’ She enquired, brow raised.

  ‘Yes.’

  The clerk – Haelin M, according to her plaque – tapped a command into her terminal. Not long after, she said, ‘It seems you can. If you wish, I will inform them that you are to be expected.’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  –––

  By the time Jord reached the building on Milasii Lane, the feeble rain that had begun when he left the Citadel had turned into a needling drizzle. A man in sodden fatigues slouched under the archway connecting the compound to the outside, cigarette smoke curling upwards. He eyed Jord and snorted.

  ‘You are the first of the new batch, you know?’

  Jord shrugged.

  ‘Bah, you are no fun. Rookies’ on the third floor. Better take the stairs, unless you fancy getting stuck with yesterday’s sandwich stink.’

  Then the man ground his cigarette underfoot and said, ‘Mara’s on desk duty. She’ll love you, especially if you’re here to lighten her filing.’

  Jord nodded, thanked the guard, and passed through the gate.

  The stairwell swallowed him whole, reeking of damp concrete and the burnt tang of stale coffee. Above, voices spiralled down – a bark of laughter, the tinny blare of a radio drowning in static, songs of protest lost in the distortion. Jord climbed and then climbed some more. Each step dragged him back to the noon conversation. He tried to empty his mind, but the thoughts rose unbidden. They coiled around him like a noose, tightening with every step.

  By the time he reached the third floor, sweat glued his collar to his neck. After inquiring, he found himself at yet another reception desk – the last, he prayed – looming ahead, lit by the same sterile glare endemic to bureaucratic hellholes. A woman hunched over a terminal, her posture mirroring Haelin’s, though her plaque read Mara V.

  ‘Name?’ she said, scrutinising the new arrival.

  ‘Jord Whittaker.’

  She squinted at her screen. ‘Whittaker… Whittaker… Ah. Early bird.’ A flicker of a smirk. ‘Well, a late bird, in this case.’ (It was past five by the time Jord reached the compound.)

  ‘Regardless, Haelin must have already told you what you need to do, so you have to sign some forms.’ She handed Jord a fountain pen.

  He scrawled his initials. ‘How many more?’ he asked, his signature already moulding into the kind of scribble doctors made, barely legible.

  ‘Patience, recruit.’ Mara slid another form across the desk. ‘We have to sign a waiver first. Then, the liability disclosure. Then the–’

  ‘Gods. More?’

  She arched a brow. ‘Institution’s got rules. More for troublemakers.’ A chuckle. She knew. Had gossip already poisoned the well?

  The hum of the printer grated like a dull blade, each minute spitting out more dreaded legalese. Jord stared at the flickering light above her desk. He signed forms. Then, signed even more.

  ‘Why didn’t the other clerks let me do all this at their desks?’

  ‘Protocol.’

  ‘But… what’s the point?’ He leaned forward, pen held in his grip. ‘Isn’t this all just–’

  ‘Meaningless? Wasteful? Yes, and yes. But this is the job, and – unfortunate as it is – we don’t make the rules,’ Mara finished.

  Jord, jovially, noted that her eyes were as grey and flat as the terminal screen.

  ‘That’s the job’s first lesson, Whittaker. Protocols must be followed and accounted for.’

  A fresh sheet spat from the printer. She snagged it in mid-air. ‘Now: Non-disclosure agreement. Sub-section 12.3: Unauthorised publications of critiques will void your pension and will dock your pay.’

  Jord snatched the pen. ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Mara agreed mildly, ‘has its subsection.’ She leaned forward, grey eyes glinting with the quiet weariness of someone who’d seen a hundred recruits cycle through. ‘Whittaker, let you in on some hard-won wisdom: rules only bite if someone’s watching. Do as you’re told, keep your head down, and no one will bat an eye at minor missteps.’

  She tapped the form. ‘But skip a step?’ A shrug. ‘You will meet the system teeth. And trust me – it bites.’

  Jord stared at the non-disclosure agreement, its dense paragraphs swimming. ‘There’s a pension?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Mara said. ‘Sign.’

  And he scrawled his name once again, ink smearing his palm.

  Jord flexed his hand, the ache in his knuckles a dull protest. ‘Don’t think I’ve ever signed this much in my entire life.’

  Mara shrugged, stacking the forms. ‘Another lesson: you’ll sign your name until it stops feeling like yours. The system loves paperwork.’

  Jord signed five more forms.

  ‘Now what?’ He pushed the stack back and glanced at his palm: a constellation of ink dots. ‘Haelin said I can’t do anything before orientation. Can’t you… expedite things a little?’

  Mara’s smirk returned, sharper this time. ‘Expedite. Cute.’ She filed the forms into a drawer labelled Pending – Low Priority. ‘Tell you what – head to the canteen. Kitchen staff’s always short-handed. Peel spuds, scrub pans. Unofficially, of course.’

  ‘Unofficially.’

  ‘Third lesson, Whittaker.’ She nodded to the flickering corridor light. ‘No one cares what you do – as long as you don’t step on the wrong toes.’

  ‘So I can’t refuse?’

  Mara’s gaze drifted to her drawer. ‘Of course you can. What are we, back in the Varicritian Empire? Well, it’s that, or you sit here. And I’ll find more forms to compile.’

  Jord’s phone buzzed – a shrill, outdated alarm he’d forgotten to change.

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Almost forgot. Need to synchronise this,’ he said, holding up his phone, ‘with the city network.’ Jord placed it on the table.

  ‘Synchronisation with a personal device requires a form,’ she said, printing before sliding a triplicate form toward him. She nodded at the paperwork. ‘Fill this out. Section B needs your blood type and preferred font for alerts.’

  Jord scribbled answers, half-guessing. ‘Why the font?’

  ‘Guard’s IT manual: “Aesthetic cohesion mitigates cognitive dissonance in high-stress scenarios.”’ She mimed air quotes. ‘Or because the techs are pretentious twats.’ Her lips twitched.

  He shoved the form back. ‘How long for the link-up?’

  ‘Confirmation takes…’ She squinted at the submission code present on her monitor. ‘Anywhere between two hours and never. Depends if Robert is sober.’

  A notification pinged. ‘Ah. Lucky day. He’ll ping you a login within the hour.’

  ‘And if I never receive the login?’

  Mara shrugged. ‘Then you’re a brick carrier.’

  ‘And by brick carrier, you mean…?’

  ‘You’ll carry a brick.’ She said, her facade not breaking. A beat. ‘A phone,’ she smirked. ‘Well, they are phones but you might as well club someone with those things for how heavy and cumbersome they are. I really do not recommend them.’

  Jord stared at her. ‘Thank you, but I think I’ll follow your earlier suggestion.’ He clawed at his collar, the damp fabric clinging to his skin. ‘Where’s the canteen?’

  ‘Second floor. Follow the smell of burnt gravy.’

  He left, the thrum of clattering keystrokes fading behind him. Somewhere ahead, a man barked orders. A voice swore. Jord walked faster.

  –––

  Mara’s advice rang true: the stench of burnt gravy seared Jord’s nostrils long before the canteen’s double doors lurched into view. Ten steps down a flickering corridor, and there it sprawled – a cavern of harsh fluorescents and stainless-steel countertops, the air thick with the stench of industrial detergent.

  A mountain of unpeeled potatoes teetered beside a sink. Behind it, a wiry man in a grease-streaked apron barked into a handheld radio. ‘–said six crates, not bloody seven–’ He spotted Jord, scowled. ‘You lost, mate?’

  ‘Mara sent me. Implied you’re in dire need of hands.’

  The man – Hesk, according to his name-tag – snorted. ‘Short-handed? We’re short on sanity.’ He lobbed a peeler at Jord. It clattered onto the counter. ‘Knives are blunt. Spuds are sprouting. Knock yourself out.’

  Jord eyed the peeler, its blade nicked and dull. ‘Pay?’

  Hesk grinned, revealing a chipped incisor. ‘Pay’s tomorrow. Today’s volunteer. Rookie’s law: Pre-contract labour accrues no fiscal obligation. Handy, innit?’ He tossed a sprouting potato into a bucket. Grey’s got a clause for everything.’

  Labour, then more labour. Jord rolled his sleeves, his phone digging into his thigh as he leaned into the sink. Damn, forgot to ask for the manual. Maybe Hesk will run me up.

  ‘Have you read the manual?’ Jord asked, peeling with deliberate slowness.

  ‘Read it?’ Hesk barked a laugh. ‘Mate, I lived it. Twenty years scrubbing pans and cutting teaches you the Guard’s three truths.’ He held up grease-blackened fingers. ‘One: Rules exist to hang you, not them. Two: “Volunteer” means unpaid. Three: That brick that they use for communication?’ He jerked his sharp chin at Jord’s phone. ‘It’s got one useful line page, something two-hundred: Oversights rectified retroactively. Means they’ll dock your pay tomorrow for today’s fuck-ups.’

  Jord’s peeler slipped, gouging the potato. ‘So why bother?’

  ‘Because,’ Hesk lobbed another spud at him, ‘the job’s simple. Head down, do what you’re told, and you’ll – trust me – reap the benefits. Plus...’ He wiped grime off his apron, pausing. ‘The uniform’s good for one thing: catchin’ eyes. Some very… appreciative eyes.’ A wink, sharp as a blade. ‘Well, if you’re lucky, that is.’ He added, almost in afterthought.

  The sink filled with murky water. Jord’s phone buzzed – a notification of how to link his device with the city network. It didn’t take long, and soon, another message greeted him:

  Welcome to the Guard.

  Haelin didn't make sense, Jord was not in the headspace for such thing))

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