The day began, and Jord, in his bed, shivered – not from the morning chill, but something deeper, burrowing into a part of himself he hadn’t known he could feel. Panic clawed at him. He drew shallow breaths and flung himself beneath the blankets, seeking refuge in that dwindling safe haven. Then he counted backwards: 99… 51…12.

  When he finished, he inhaled deeply, steadying his mind – or at least mustering enough resolve to swing his legs over the edge of the bed and tug on his work uniform. He felt suspended between two abysses: one nameless, the other all too familiar. Poverty.

  Jord imagined himself on a tightrope, terrified his destination was no tangible place but a mirage – one that lured him onward only to drown him in memories, all while shadows writhed below. They moaned and screamed and jocked and mocked.

  Unaware of his trembling, he hugged himself.

  He stared at the wall. Its paper was yellow, reminding him of canaries – sweet little things that chirped. Then, he focused on the motifs: white roses, lightly decorated yet simple, with neither thorns nor tails. He noted how the paper was peeling, something he should have repaired. His gaze wandered around the room, taking in every little detail: his wardrobe, its door slightly crooked; his table, its leg shortened from the time he and Elia had cut it for fun – now only books kept it stable.

  Breathing in, breathing out, his wits returned.

  He reached the kitchen, took a coffee with sugar and milk, then bid a muted farewell to the stirring household and stepped outside.

  The streets lay deserted save for the graveyard shifters, their hunched silhouettes more spectral than human. They shuffled, one foot dragged grudgingly after the other, eyes hollow as if they’d clawed through the nine hells and back. Dawn had yet to break when Jord reached the security gate, nor when he arrived at Lapo’s favoured track.

  ‘Good Morrow,’ Jord said.

  ‘Morrow,’ Lapo replied. ‘You sure about…?’

  Jord nodded.

  After warming up, Jord ventured, ‘Haven’t you noticed anything… off lately? Like… more violence?’

  Lapo stared in silence – seconds stretched into small eternities.

  ‘Violence? Suppose you’re onto something. But the cat’s out the bag, isn’t it? Latvians. Folks are feeling the pressure, simmering ’til they boil. So far, four kidnappings – your family included – two high-stakes robberies, a dozen petty squabbles. Like they’ve forgotten the law exists. Settling scores face-to-face, as if we’re back in some bloody fable.’

  ‘No – what I mean is something more… unnatural.’ Jord’s gaze remained fixed ahead, muscles taut, heart pounding in his chest. He refused to succumb, deliberately forcing his eyes away from the stars that inexplicably shimmered in the daylight.

  Lapo arched an eyebrow. ‘Unnatural? As in ghosts?’

  ‘Yes… something like that.’ Jord’s voice wavered.

  Lapo scoffed. ‘In thirty-odd years with the forces, I’ve never seen anything of the sort. Delirious men and women raving about the occult? Aye. Ghosts and their ilk? Never.’ His voice hardened, though his gaze betrayed a flicker of concern. ‘I find your… discourse troubling.’

  He leaned forward, birds chirping in the distance. ‘Tell me – you’ve had palpitations, haven’t you? Heart tremors? The doctors were vague about your condition. Could it be your faculties are… impaired?’ A pause. ‘I’ve handled lads in your state. If you’d prefer, we’ll reassign you. Strictly clerical roles.’

  I’m not out of my mind. Jord swallowed the rebuke like a mouthful of ash. But… maybe Lapo is right, he conceded, flexing his still-trembling hands. Maybe the warehouse night carved deeper than flesh. Yet his gaze remained stubbornly earthbound, refusing to acknowledge the swollen stars crowding the sky.

  ‘Apologies, sir. We’re all… stretched thin. I’m fit to continue.’

  Lapo studied him, eyes narrowing at the plural we. For a breath, Jord thought he glimpsed something behind his mentor’s granite demeanour – a fissure of doubt, perhaps even guilt. Then it vanished.

  ‘Your funeral.’ Lapo muttered, hefting a practice sabre – one he had grabbed from a bag near the track. He rolled his shoulders, settling into a stance. ‘En garde.’

  The drill unfolded with metronomic brutality. Jord’s parries lacked even the precision of an amateur – his movements were stone, his reflexes glacial. Lapo’s critiques grew barbed.

  ‘Sir–’ Jord panted between clashes, ‘–when do the foreign instructors arrive?’

  Lapo paused, blade tip grazing Jord’s collarbone. ‘Two weeks.’ His free hand gestured skyward. Jord flinched. ‘The Ministry wants a show. Theatre for the attachés.’

  The stars, Jord thought wildly, he means the stars. But Lapo’s finger merely jabbed at the compound’s administrative spire.

  ‘They’ll want drills. Urban simulations.’ The sabre flicked dismissively. ‘Clean warfare – no bloodstains for the diplomats’ silk.’ He paused. ‘Or at least, that’s what should happen. In reality, they’re here as foreign spectators, observing and studying our military infrastructure.’ His tone darkened. ‘It’s foolish to hand over this much intelligence to our adversaries, but the top brass believe themselves above such reproaches.’ Lapo spat onto the ground. ‘Fools, the lot of them,’ he muttered.

  ‘Clean warfare, sir?’

  The cold morning air carried a biting edge, swirling over the frost-laced track. Each breath came with a sharp chill, the kind that settled in the bones. Lapo stood at the centre, sabre in hand, its steel catching the weak dawn light as he idly rotated it in slow, deliberate circles.

  ‘Means they think no white weapons should be involved – bayonets, knives, that sort of thing,’ he said, his tone edged with quiet scorn. A gust of wind sent a shiver through the grass. ‘But, in my humble opinion, you should have the basics in all forms of combat. One never knows when such things will prove useful.’

  The sabre flicked outward, carving through the crisp morning air. ‘Say you’ve got a black weapon – pistol, rifle. A man comes at you with a knife. Orders say no discharge. What then?’

  Jord parted his lips to answer, but Lapo was already moving, the sabre slicing phantom lines through the air.

  ‘First – awareness. What surrounds you? A crowd? A wall at your back? Are you cut off from your squad? Details shift the outcome.’ He paced slowly, boots crunching on frost-bitten grass. ‘Second – assessment. Who’s your assailant? A fit man? A woman? A frail old man? A child?’ The blade stilled. ‘Every scenario demands a different answer.’

  The track stretched emptily around them, the distant hum of city life still sluggish in the early hour. Jord exhaled, watching his breath coil in the cold.

  ‘If an old man comes at you with a knife, don’t scoff. Desperation rots reason.’ The sabre’s tip hovered near Jord’s wrist, then flicked to his collarbone. ‘A man past his prime can still drive steel between your ribs if fear makes you hesitate. Learn well, and you can disarm him. A child, though? A fit man? A trained woman?’ Lapo shook his head. ‘A different beast entirely.’

  That happened to him? Jord’s thoughts snagged. What would drive an old man to wield a knife? Hopelessness? The idea unsettled him.

  Lapo continued, voice steady. ‘If nothing else, training in white weapons sharpens your instincts. You’ll see your enemy’s next move before they make it. Their weight shifts – tells you if they’ll lunge or feint. Their grip tightens – tells you if they’re desperate enough to commit.’

  Jord nodded, resetting his stance. The sabre felt heavier now, its hilt slick with dawn’s condensation. Mist curled across the training field like spectral fingers, the rising sun a jaundiced eye peering through skeletal trees.

  Lapo struck first, blade hissing. Jord parried, his footing steadier than the week prior, knees bent in the ready position Lapo had drilled into him. Progress, however slight. But when the older man feinted left, Jord overcommitted, ribs exposed. The practice blade cracked against his side, pain radiating like a struck bell.

  ‘Focus.’ Lapo circled. Dawn’s pallid light etched his silhouette in jagged relief, the air thick with the tang of exertion. ‘Warfare isn’t a duel. It’s butchery. You conquer by any means – exhaust your enemy’s body, fracture his mind.’

  Jord adjusted his grip.

  ‘Make him question every instinct,’ Lapo continued, blade flicking out to tap Jord’s unprotected flank. ‘Taunt his resolve. Sacrifice flesh if you must.’ Blunted steel kissed Jord’s wrist – a sting, not a cut. ‘But never presume you’ve won.’

  The older man’s footwork was liquid, predatory. Jord tried to mirror him. He didn’t succeed.

  ‘Overconfidence is a rot,’ Lapo hissed, feinting high before sweeping low. Jord barely blocked, the impact jarring his arm. ‘It hollows you out. Makes you soft.’

  A pause. Lapo’s gaze sharpened, boring into Jord as if peeling back layers of sinew and bone. ‘You think this nebulous? Abstract?’

  Jord said nothing. But his throat burned with caged remarks.

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  ‘Good.’ Lapo’s blade arced suddenly, a silver blur. Jord parried, but the older man’s free hand shot out, seizing his collar. ‘Adapt.’

  They stood frozen, noses inches apart. Lapo’s breath smelled of bitter coffee and something darker. ‘You’ll understand,’ he murmured, ‘when your first kill stares back at you. When you see the emptiness behind their eyes.’

  He released Jord with a shove. ‘Again.’

  The clang of steel resumed, each strike reverberating like a tolling bell. Jord’s muscles screamed, but his footwork tightened, and his blocks grew sharper, more precise, but not enough, never enough.

  Lapo’s shadow stretched impossibly long across the field, its edges fraying into tendrils that seemed to claw at the dirt.

  Just the light, Jord told himself.

  Jord lunged, and the sabre caught the first rays of the sun, gleaming.

  Lapo sidestepped effortlessly, his shadow stretching across the frost-glazed grass – too long, too angular, as if dawn’s light bent unnaturally around him.

  ‘Better,’ Lapo conceded, deflecting Jord’s next strike. ‘But your periphery’s still blind.’

  A twitch of his wrist, and Jord’s blade veered wide. Lapo took a sudden step, their distance negligible, his foot hooked behind Jord’s ankle – a move borrowed from back-alley brawlers, not military doctrine.

  Jord hit the ground hard, breath knocked loose. Above him, the sky swam, stars still visible at the edges of daylight, their light pinpricking his vision.

  ‘And that’s how you end up carrion.’ Lapo loomed, silhouetted against the swollen sun. ‘Presume every shadow hides a knife. Every bystander, a vulture.’

  Jord groaned, accepting the offered hand. Lapo’s grip was iron, pulling him upright with a grunt. ‘Need to put on weight, boy. A stiff breeze would fold you.’

  The jab stung less than the truth beneath it. Jord’s uniform hung loose, collarbones sharp as sabre hilts. Weeks of sleepless nights and tireless shifts as a dockhand had whittled him to bone and resolve.

  ‘Again,’ Jord rasped, raising his blade.

  Lapo’s smirk was a blade of its own. ‘Eager to taste dirt twice before noon?’

  The clang of steel resumed, echoing across the field. Jord’s muscles burned, but his strikes grew tighter, instincts sharpening. Yet with every parry, the horizon seemed to pulse – a subsonic hum vibrating in his molars. The stars watched, patient and pitiless, as if applauding the futility.

  Not long after, Jord all but begged for respite. He hadn’t realised how much fighting would take from him – how every strike, every parry, every desperate attempt to keep pace would drain him so utterly and so fast. His upper body burned, a lattice of stinging welts where Lapo’s sabre had kissed flesh. The bursts of exertion had stolen his breath, the weight of fatigue settling deep into his limbs.

  Lapo studied him with a measured gaze, twirling his sabre idly. ‘I was wondering how long you’d last,’ he mused, voice tinged with something just shy of disappointment. ‘Seems… average.’ A pause. Then, with an exhale, he relented. ‘But time will fix that. We’ll carve something useful out of you yet. And meat–’ he gestured vaguely at Jord’s frame, ‘–we need to put some hard meat on those bones.’

  Jord barely had the energy to scoff.

  Lapo sheathed his sabre with a practised motion. ‘Enough for now. No use training a corpse. Let’s eat – fuel up.’ A semblance of a smirk graced his lips. ‘Might even start seeing improvement, eh?’

  Jord didn’t argue.

  The canteen stood nearly empty, its fluorescent lights buzzing like trapped flies. Only Hesk stood behind the counter, ladle in hand, eyeing Jord with a mix of pity and amusement.

  Lapo had already claimed a corner table, shovelling vegetables into his mouth with mechanical efficiency.

  Jord approached the serving line, gripping his tray tightly, afraid his hand might suddenly go lax and drop it.

  ‘So you’ve paired with the daredevil,’ Hesk muttered, slopping an extra ladle of gravy onto Jord’s plate.

  ‘Daredevil?’

  ‘Polazit.’ Hesk wiped his hands on a rag that had seen better decades. ‘Man’s got a reputation. Trains rookies like he’s sculpting cannon fodder.’ He leaned closer, apron reeking of burnt fat. ‘Thinks paperwork’s beneath him. Uses you lot as an excuse to swing things all day.’

  Jord stared at the gravy pooling around his mash.

  ‘Eat,’ Hesk ordered. ‘You’ll need the ballast. Seen his type before – worships the grind till it grinds them.’ A potato landed on Jord’s tray with a wet splat. ‘Fail to keep up?’ He mimed tossing scraps to the floor. ‘Rag-dolled. Happened to a lad last winter. Never seen a man being so happy for doing latrine duty, truly.’

  Jord’s fork hovered. ‘Why is he still training recruits, then?’

  Hesk barked a laugh. ‘Cause the brass love results. And Polazit? He’s a bloody artisan of results.’ The cook’s gaze flicked to Lapo, who was now methodically dissecting a sausage. ‘Heard you survived your first op. Congrats. Most puke their guts up after.’

  ‘Thanks… Hank.’

  ‘Hesk.’ The cook scowled. ‘Get my name wrong again, I’ll serve you tripe tomorrow.’

  Jord retreated to Lapo’s table, trying to balance two trays, one his and the other burdened with Hesk’s so-called sympathy portion – a mountain of buttery mash flanked by charred sausages. The officer barely looked up.

  ‘Know him?’

  ‘Somewhat.’

  And that was that.

  The mash tasted of salt and little else. Jord chewed mechanically, Hesk’s warnings slithering through his thoughts like oil on water. Across the canteen, the cook lingered, arms folded, watching.

  Concerned for me? Or concerned he’s just poisoned me? Jord wasn’t sure which was more likely. With a mental shrug, he shovelled another bite into his mouth and decided not to think too hard about it.

  For some reason, after eating, Lapo dragged Jord out for a walk. To digest, he claimed. The compound was a hive of movement – clerks rushing between offices, officers barking orders at trainees, visitors weaving through the crowd, and even dogs. Big dogs, all oddly friendly, their massive heads nudging at outstretched hands. Jord hadn't expected that.

  And on and on they walked.

  It gave Jord time to think, to take stock of everything. He had joined the Guard expecting to kick down doors – now he was mobilised for war. What a time to be alive. His grandfather had often said, “We live in interesting times,” a phrase that, as a boy, Jord had never understood.

  “And why is that a bad thing?” he had asked once, confused. “Interesting times are fun! They’re… well, interesting!”

  His grandfather had only lifted a bushy eyebrow in pity – his one eyebrow, for it was so thick it refused to be divided – before dissolving into laughter.

  Now, step by step, Lapo at his side, Jord finally understood.

  ‘Good times?’ Lapo asked, catching the faint smile on Jord’s lips.

  ‘Good times.’ Jord nodded. ‘My old grandpa, bless his soul, always talked about those “interesting times.” I used to mock him for it, you see. Ah, how the turntables.’

  ‘A man of wisdom.’

  Jord nodded. ‘He was fond of scolding through lectures – torture, if you asked my cousin Karla. The old man loved teaching and had a knack for it. But life had its way with him, and his dreams were carried off with the wind.’

  Lapo took a moment to respond, their pace unbroken. ‘Happens. Life’s like that. One moment, you’re set on climbing the ladder – then a gust of wind knocks you off, and suddenly you see it for what it is.’ His voice was quiet, thoughtful. ‘Just a ladder. Just something to distract yourself with. A way to sleepwalk through life. But when you hit the ground? When everything crumbles? You see things as they are. The breeze. The grass. The feel of the earth beneath your feet. That’s existence.’

  Jord tilted his head. ‘Didn’t take you for a reflective type, sir.’

  Lapo chuckled. ‘It’s hard to live so long without picking up a few insights. Harder still to avoid thinking about them when you’re surrounded by peril.’ His gaze flicked skyward. ‘I’ve seen many things, Jord. But one of the most striking is a man's final walk – when he knows the end is near. You can see it in him. That shift. That sudden love for everything – every blade of grass, every breath of wind, every living thing. It’s… liberating, in a way. Doom, I’ve found, sets the mind free.’

  ‘Free?’ Jord echoed.

  Lapo’s smile was unreadable. ‘What’s there to worry about when there’s no tomorrow? No obligations. No expectations. Just you, alone in the world. A leaf in the wind – shackles rusted to dust.’

  They basked in the light, bathed in the hum of the world around them, and shared a quiet, unspoken contentment.

  An hour passed before Lapo broke the stillness. ‘Time to train you in the use of rifles. Are you up to the task?’

  Jord nodded.

  The shooting range greeted them with the sharp tang of gunpowder and the echo of gunfire. Paper silhouettes swayed slightly in the artificial breeze, waiting to be marked, judged, or spared by a shooter’s hand. Lapo strode ahead with the ease of someone who had long since made peace with the weight of a rifle. Jord followed, his own weapon feeling heavier than it should have.

  ‘First lesson: a rifle is not a magic wand. You don’t just point and expect results.’ He patted the LR-11’s stock. ‘It’s a tool, and like any tool, it obeys its user only if the user knows what they’re doing.’

  Jord nodded, fingers brushing the cool metal of the weapon. Lapo studied him for a moment before continuing.

  ‘Start with stance. Feet shoulder-width apart. Rifle tucked into your shoulder, not resting against it – you want control, not discomfort.’ He demonstrated, moving with the precision of long practice. ‘Good footing absorbs recoil. Bad footing gets you knocked flat on your arse.’

  Jord copied the stance, adjusting under Lapo’s scrutinizing gaze. The older man nudged his elbow up, corrected the angle.

  ‘Good. Now, breath control. Steady in, steady out. The moment you fire should feel like a continuation of your breath, not an interruption.’

  Jord inhaled deeply, the stock pressed firm against his shoulder.

  ‘Trigger discipline. Finger rests outside the guard until you’re ready to fire. No twitchy nerves, no impatient squeezing.’

  Jord swallowed, index finger following along the trigger’s curve.

  Lapo stepped back. ‘Now, aim. Your eyes, the sights, the target – they must align. Focus not on the rifle, not on the target as a whole, but on the point you wish to hit.’

  Jord lined up the sights, breath slow, posture locked. His heartbeat thudded behind his ribs.

  ‘Fire when ready.’

  He squeezed. The rifle cracked, a violent kick into his shoulder. The bullet tore into the target, but it veered left – far from centre mass.

  Lapo sighed, but there was no real disappointment in it. ‘You fought the rifle. It doesn’t need to be manhandled, Whittaker. Again.’

  Jord readjusted, jaw tightening. The second shot veered off-centre but closer.

  ‘Better,’ Lapo admitted. ‘But you need consistency.’

  And so it went – shot after shot, correction after correction. Lapo drilled him on everything: trigger pull, follow-through, target reacquisition. When Jord started tightening his groupings at twenty meters, Lapo upped the challenge – faster shooting, further targets. He introduced magazine changes, forcing Jord to reload under time pressure. He tested him on movement, making him fire from different positions – standing, kneeling, prone.

  Hours passed. His arms ached. His fingers grew numb. The LR-11 was no longer just a rifle; it was an extension of himself, a conversation between muscle and metal.

  Jord exhaled, steadying his aim one last time. The rifle barked, the bullet striking true – dead centre.

  Lapo let out a quiet huff of approval. ‘You’re learning, lad.’ He slung his own rifle over his shoulder. ‘Now we see if you can keep learning. Tomorrow, we do this again. And the next day. And the next. Until it’s instinct.’

  Jord nodded and took a step through the range door, rifle in hand – and shivered.

  The world stilled. For the world had been eaten.