Cillian was still on the floor, his heart finally calm, when someone knocked again. Oh come on, get lost.

  He ignored it. Turned to look at the horn. An initial surface inspection yielded no appreciable damage. The last thing he needed was to wreck a handout before the classes even began.

  I could’ve killed the guy if not for Keefe. That wasn’t smart.

  He didn’t get an opportunity to examine the brass yoke any further because, as he sat up and reached for it, another more insistent rapping shook the door. Then a female voice followed, “Are you alright in there?”

  When he didn’t answer this time either, the unseen girl carried on, “I’ll have to call an instructor if you don’t open. For all I know, you might be seriously injured. Please respond.”

  Cillian sighed. He just wanted to be left alone for a spell. Nevertheless, he swept the improvised weapon under the bed together with the cracked bracelet, got up with a wince, and shuffled to see who it was, glancing in the mirror ahead of presenting himself. He didn’t look all that impressive.

  He opened the door. Aoife was there. He’d thought the voice sounded familiar.

  “Hello. What is it?” Cillian smiled and hoped his greeting had come out nonchalant.

  “Oh, Cillian?”

  “Yes?” He looked left down the corridor. Nobody. “You knocked, and it’s my room.”

  “Yes, sorry, I just didn’t know who actually lived here. Haven’t memorized the rooms yet.”

  “Same here. Do you need something?”

  Aoife just stared at him. He stared back.

  Before the silence could steer toward awkward, she said casually, “I saw Keefe and Rory leave in a hurry; both were bleeding. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, would you?”

  “Both? I mean, I don’t know.”

  Her expressive eyebrows flew up, and she traced her gaze meaningfully down his body and back up again.

  It took Cillian a moment to cop on, then he slowly raised his left hand to look at it. Oh, right, I’m dripping blood, too.

  “Just a… shaving accident.” What? Why was he suddenly thinking half-witted jokes and making nonsensical comments?

  She laughed. “A shaving accident? For your sake, I hope this is not the best you can come up with when lying.”

  “Look, everything’s fine. I just want some time alone to collect myself. I’m not injured, not seriously at least, so you can relax. I appreciate the concern, but now I’m asking you to leave. Please.”

  She sobered up quickly. “If you want to be left alone, then you should probably do something about the blood.”

  He examined his hand again. “I will. Once you leave.”

  “I meant that blood.” Aoife gestured at the floor.

  Oh. Crimson droplets were splattered in the hallway, leading away from his door. Not suspicious at all.

  “One moment.”

  He tried to run back inside but could only manage a fast shamble. His entire torso hurt, and he hadn’t even noticed until now that he was still breathing shallowly.

  The rag with which he’d cleaned the boots previously back in his hands, Cillian returned to the corridor and began swiftly erasing the evidence.

  Wait. Do I need the blood here as proof?

  He dithered for a moment but then finished the activity. No, it doesn’t matter. Unless someone actually testifies, nothing would happen. And probably not even then.

  Aoife was watching him again. “Are you sure you are alright? You don’t look it, no offense. And you’re missing two buttons.”

  Cillian glanced down. Indeed, his favorite shirt also hadn’t been spared. He gingerly touched his chest and regretted it instantly. Hurt.

  “I’m fine. I will go to the infirmary once I’m done here.” He started gently shutting the door, giving the cailin ample time to get out of the way. “Thank you, Aoife.”

  “Wait!” She hesitated. “I don’t know what happened, and if you don’t want to talk about it, it’s your decision. Even though one doesn’t need the skylight to take note of the details,” she said wryly. “It’s just– Rory is– you just stay away from him, alright? He wasn’t always like this, but these days he can be… somewhat volatile.”

  “So you immediately jump to the conclusion that it was Rory and not Keefe? Interesting. And I appreciate the timely advice.” He smiled softly to show that he wasn’t bitter. “See you later, Aoife.” The wooden barrier gently but firmly cut him off from the rest of the world.

  “Visit the infirmary, Cillian!” were the girl’s parting words.

  I will, he thought to himself. He wasn’t a total moron.

  Alone again, he cleaned up, both the room and himself, then began undoing whatever buttons were still left on his shirt. Sure enough, an ugly bruise now decorated his chest. He tried to take a normal breath rather than an instinctual shallow one. It was unpleasant, but he could do it. Ribs broken or not?

  Hopefully not, as rib fractures could supposedly be nasty. His liver felt fine though.

  Self-examination complete, Cillian collected his trashed belongings. The tokens were gone, as expected. He looked for the estranged buttons next but could only find one. Later.

  He returned his attention to the horn and the bracelet. A more focused appraisal revealed no kinks or fractures in the former, which he found positively miraculous. But the metal hand was banjaxed beyond repair. You served me well, my friend. Crushing it against the gorilla’s skull had felt gratifying.

  But what the hell is wrong with me?

  Three tangles in four days wasn’t normal; he hadn’t had such frequent scraps even at 13. Well, he’d already avoided putting into writing the first two; not mentioning this one to his father wouldn’t be a big deal either. That reminds me. Need to hand over the letter today.

  He wanted to sit and think through what had just transpired but knew from experience that it would be prudent to put some distance from the incident first. And he needed to visit the infirmary anyway.

  Cillian only remembered that the place was teeming with the recovering second-years when he already got there.

  He knocked before entering but shouldn’t have bothered as the space on the other side was devoid of people. Three chairs and a door on each wall served as his welcoming party. The one on the left stood open, and he spotted a dark-haired woman sitting behind a desk in the cramped cabinet. She looked up as he approached the doorway.

  “Are you injured?” Her tone was brisk. “If not, I will have to ask you to leave. We have many patients at the moment.”

  “I am, unfortunately.”

  She stood up and came closer. “What are your injuries?”

  Cillian unbuttoned his shirt and showed her.

  “Sit.” She pointed at the chairs. “Dr. Fabian is occupied, so I will perform the examination. I’m nurse Whelan.”

  The woman proceeded to gently touch his chest in several places, then instructed him to take measured, deep breaths, try to stand and sit again, lightly twist his torso. After that, questions followed. About pains in the chest and back, fits of coughing, dizziness.

  Is making stupid quips a symptom?

  Satisfied with her probing, she proclaimed, “I can’t tell one hundred percent; rib bruising and fracturing cannot be easily distinguished, but I think in your case it’s a bruise.”

  “Good. Well, not good but… how do I treat it?”

  In lieu of an answer, nurse Whelan turned and disappeared down the middle door. Cillian waited. She reappeared, carrying an ice pack and a piece of cloth.

  “Here.” She handed him the fabric, which she’d neatly wrapped around the pack beforehand. “Apply for twenty minutes. You can’t take it with you; young men never return it. Come back for another after dinner. And tomorrow if you feel you need it. As for the treatment, there’s not much that can be prescribed other than not straining yourself. If you still breathe shallowly the next morning, remember to take at least 10 deep breaths every hour. And if you find yourself unable to fall asleep, try the semi-upright position. Find some cushions. Nothing else to it.“ She shrugged. “It will have to heal naturally.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “It depends. Can take from a couple of weeks to a few months, but I think it’s the former in your case, provided that you don’t do anything to aggravate the injury.” The woman looked down at him meaningfully. When he didn’t say anything, she elaborated, “This is the part when you tell me how you acquired the bruising in the first place.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It does. Because if you simply fell or if someone dealt you the injury tells me how likely it is to be repeated.”

  Cillian sighed, grimaced at the aching sensation, and applied the pack. “I don’t know. I mean, it was dealt to me, as you say, but I don’t know if it’s going to be an ongoing or closed issue.”

  “Mhm. Were there any witnesses?”

  “Aye. Technically. There was another guy, but he was with the first one, not just a bystander. He didn’t do anything, but I doubt he would testify.”

  “What ring was he?”

  Cillian furrowed his brows. “The witness? Umm… third, I think? Is it important?”

  She nodded. “Only a third-ringer can testify. And depending on the severity of the accusation it might require several third-ringers.”

  Cillian thought he’d misheard. “Only a third-ringer can testify?” When she didn’t add anything, he sighed again. “Great system.”

  “It is what it is. Your name, by the way?”

  “Cillian Shea.”

  “Well, Cillian, try not to visit us too often, will you?” She smiled encouragingly. “You can always advance through the rings yourself.”

  Cillian didn’t want to play this game, but he had to ask, “Right. How does one do that exactly?”

  Her smile turned apologetic. “How does one get promoted in a company? Who knows? Get better, Cillian, and I hope to never see you again.” She turned to leave but paused. “Apart from this evening, of course. Don’t forget about it.”

  “I won’t. Thank you.”

  “Leave the pack on my desk.” She vanished behind the center door.

  The woman moves fast.

  With nothing better to do but sit and wait, Cillian brooded. He wasn’t prone to it these days, but the occasion felt appropriate. Damn brute.

  Have I done something to provoke such a reaction? He didn’t think so. Then again, it’s not like he himself had needed much of a reason back in the day. At least, Keefe’s involvement appeared straightforward. The boy had been upset about him taking the tokens from the second floor. And Cillian had kind of brushed him aside yesterday. At some point, the thickset boy and the gorilla had talked, and the latter offered to go “convince” Cillian to return the tokens. Or something of that sort. Keefe clearly hadn’t known what Rory had been planning in that dense noggin of his.

  But why would Rory even need Keefe in the first place? Because he’d thought Cillian wouldn’t open to him? Perhaps.

  Maybe the knucklehead wasn’t a complete eejit. He’d noticed that someone else wasn’t pleased with Cillian and brought them along to soften the target. The fella had also ambushed him in his unit and not in the middle of some hallway. No witnesses and a guarantee that the tokens would actually be there. And he’d avoided punching Cillian in the face for some reason. Although, that one probably meant nothing.

  Cillian needed to prepare for future confrontations, which seemed unavoidable. Aoife had said Rory was volatile, so such actions were likely par for the course with him.

  Getting into a brawl with someone much bigger than me is dumb though. No, wait! Getting into a brawl is dumb, full stop. This niss-shit is behind me, remember?

  Once twenty minutes were up, he left and went about his day, taking it easy.

  During lunch, Eamon noticed his discomfort eating, but Cillian dismissed the concern saying it was just his stomach acting up. He ate unhurriedly and genuinely tried to listen to conversations around him and even participate.

  Unsurprisingly though, many of them revolved around Keefe and Rory’s visible injuries. Keefe had a bandage around his right hand and Rory had a small one on his cheek. The prevalent theory was that they’d gotten into a fight. The fact that Keefe did his best to avoid Rory contributed to that.

  Cillian smiled. Caught Aoife and Sorcha looking at him. Stopped smiling. Right, did Aoife tell anyone?

  He didn’t know if it actually mattered. So what if people knew he’d gotten his arse kicked? The only one who could influence the situation was Keefe – if he was indeed a third-ringer – and he doubted the fella would testify. In any direction.

  Cillian finished his meal.

  The rest of Sunday was, thankfully, uneventful. He’d discovered that laughing and making his chest move uncontrollably in general hurt a lot, so mostly stayed in his room, reading and listening. He’d only made a single trip outside – to have dinner, get an ice pack, and ask for threads and a needle from the quartermaster, Mr. McCloskey, to mend his shirt. He was skint now, but, just like instructor Gehler had promised, the man was lenient at this time of year. So, with the personnel at least, Cillian had had some measure of luck today.

  Two minutes of crawling on the floor had come after, which was seriously uncomfortable, to find the missing button. Cillian reasoned that restoring his favorite shirt was worth a wee bit of suffering.

  Now it was finally time to sleep, and he lay in bed, gazing at the ceiling and contemplating what the next day would bring.

  First day of classes. Despite the somewhat rocky beginning, Cillian was excited. Wonder what surprises await me. Hopefully, not too many.

  In his eagerness and discomfort, sleep didn’t come easy, but he found it in the end.

  He dreamed of batfoxes battling gorillas.

  Cillian cheered for the foxes.

  It was supposed to be day one of the next surge, but the gleambout was late. The Everstorm stayed pale white, and no aether waves tore through the sky to paint it the brilliant indigo.

  Nothing notable there, come along.

  All surges usually lasted 52 days, but now and again one would get mischievous and resolve to prolong its stay even if barely any color remained.

  And the blue spell’s successor wasn’t the only one running behind schedule. The class was set to begin in 20 minutes, but Eamon was still absent from the dining hall.

  Is he just asleep, or did something happen?

  Cillian decided to go check on him. It wouldn’t do for his ally to lose a token for being late, or whatever the penalty was, on the first day no less.

  Climbing the staircase felt agonizing, the pain had seemingly grown worse overnight, but soon enough he was back on the third floor, knocking on Eamon’s door, two rooms to the right from his own.

  There was no answer. He knocked again, then called out, “Eamon? You awake?”

  A few seconds later, he heard some unidentifiable noises, followed by rapid, muffled thumps. The room’s occupant was scrambling. Cillian had a good sense to step away from the door, and not a moment later it swung open, revealing Eamon in all his early morning magnificence. In a word, the boy looked terrible.

  “You look terrible,” Cillian informed him.

  Eamon gave a tired laugh. “Aye, mornings do that to me.”

  “It’s probably 07:45 by now; you better hurry.”

  “I figured.” Eamon’s voice was lower than usual. “Thanks for waking me. I’m going to wash up real quick. Wait for me? Or have you even had breakfast yourself?”

  “I have, but I don’t think you’ve got time for that. I’ll wait here.”

  “You can come in.”

  “…Alright.”

  The room was a mess. Cillian himself liked to organize things in a way that often looked like a mess but was actually carefully arranged, like the desk in his own unit, initially placed next to the bed and lining the wall, now – turned around and stuffed into the corner, forming a triangle with the walls. He’d done it because this way, rather than looking at nothing, he would face the room, having a diagonal view of it. It gave him an illusion of free space. A room to think.

  Eamon’s quarters, on the other hand, were clearly just that – a mess. One bag was even open and overflowing with clothes as if its owner had given up in the middle of unpacking. There were also clothes on the desk and chair, and books on the floor. The books were arranged in a pile and not just scattered around haphazardly, at least. Cillian reasoned it was an impressive job of making the space feel personal in just two days if nothing else.

  Even more impressively, Eamon had cleaned up and dressed in under five minutes. He still looked haggard and seemed to lack his usual energy, but it didn’t stop him from walking briskly. Once on the stairs, Cillian had to ask him to hold his horses. The pain made it impossible to keep up.

  Eamon spotted the grimace. “What’s wrong with ya? Are you injured?”

  Cillian hesitated. “Aye, should’ve told you yesterday since it might concern you too. Err… Rory Raskopf, the gorilla, jumped me. My ribs are bruised, so I have–”

  “He what?!” Eamon switched from tiredness to anger in an instant.

  Cillian didn’t want to linger on the topic, just warn Eamon, but a look at the boy’s face made it clear that he wouldn’t be allowed to leave it at that.

  With a sigh, he elaborated, “About an hour after our lighthouse trip, Keefe knocked on my door…”

  A brief description of what had transpired followed while they made their way to the classroom.

  “Fucking arsehole!” By the end, his companion looked ready to commit murder. “And that Keefe fella too! I hope you don’t absolve him of the wrongdoing just because he looked guilty. Why would he have a problem with you in the first place? What did he expect? They have all the advantages but start crying the second something doesn’t go their way?!”

  Eamon continued ranting, offering and discarding various options on how to get back at them both. Cillian didn’t quite understand the explosiveness.

  Actually, maybe it’s a normal person’s reaction to violence, and I’m the one being weird.

  It’s not that he didn’t feel angry, he very much did, but he’d learned his lesson about flying off the handle the hard way yonks ago. Exercising restraint had been particularly difficult during the first couple of years or so. It was much easier these days. More natural.

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  Thankfully, by the time they arrived at their first lesson – Bestiary – Eamon had run out of steam. They were on time.

  Unlike the auditorium, the classroom was flat, but the desks weren’t arranged in simple lines – the entire room was split into two vertical halves separated by a narrow space in between. The desks on one half mostly faced the other but angled slightly toward the front wall as well. There were three rows on each side with every desk seating three people, and Cillian led them to the one situated in the top-right corner, furthest from the door. He generally preferred to have an overseer’s view, and the visibility wouldn’t be a problem since both the speaking podium and the projector were at the back of the chamber on a raised dais. Their instructor – Mr. Odhran Hass, Cillian recalled from the schedule – was already present, tending to the projector.

  To his surprise, it was an older model, a dead giveaway being a pipe, made from wood fiber and not usual copper, sticking up from the main body and then swirling to disappear into the wall. The apparatus itself looked like a black box with golden edges, more tall than wide, and, since it was clearly a limelight type, he knew there would be a quicklime candle secluded inside, heated up to produce strong illumination. And the stubby lens tube, pointing toward the front of the classroom, was connected to the box proper via a thin rectangular chamber, into which image panes were supposed to be inserted.

  All in all, the projector was pretty antique. In Lua, one could easily find newer models that used aether-powered illumination and therefore required no ventilation, so Cillian wondered why this old thing hadn’t been replaced.

  The room soon filled in, but nobody else joined them at their desk. Nuala sat with some girl he didn’t know.

  No signal preceded the start of class; instructor Hass simply locked the door, dialed down the rotary light controller, returned to the back of the room to stand behind the podium, and spoke, “I welcome you all to the first class of the year. As you should know, I’m Odhran Hass, but you will address me as instructor Hass or sir.” He paused so that everyone had a moment to register that the lecture had begun.

  “This is a course on beasts and carnivorous plants. I want to clarify that it won’t be your only class on these subjects. Hunting and cooking will also teach you invaluable lessons, but, in general, it will go like this: here you’ll learn about biology, habitats, behaviors, strengths and weaknesses, natural rivalries, effective approaches to killing – all manner of things, though mostly in theory.” The man was talking rapidly like he was in a hurry to cram them with information. “Your hunting instructors will later teach you to apply this knowledge in practice. They will teach you that there is a big difference between simply disposing of a beast and hunting it for the resources it can provide. And in the cooking classes, you’ll learn how best to de-aether and cook the meat, what vegetables can be prepared for human consumption at all, and why herbs are your best friends.”

  Eamon audibly yawned. There were quite a few sleepy heads in attendance. And the muted warm light, shining on the pastel green walls and acacia desks, together with the column emanated by the projector, only enhanced the languorous ambiance. Cillian had to resist an urge to yawn himself. It felt weird sitting in a classroom again after the excitement of the last couple of days.

  “I think you can guess the topic of our first lesson,” instructor Hass said while sliding an image pane into the hollow bisecting the projection chamber.

  A picture of a batfox appeared on the front wall. Alive and snarling. And very big. But, having now met the real thing, Cillian wasn’t impressed.

  “Batfoxes. I will address the myths first. And what I’m about to say you can generally project onto other species as well. There are a few examples of myths being close to the truth, but they are exceedingly rare.” He sounded a little frustrated. “Batfoxes are not some sort of perverted evolution of extinct foxes, nor do they procreate with razorbats. As far as we know–”

  A blond fella at the front snorted. “You don’t say? How would it even–?”

  “Quiet!” the man interrupted the interrupter. “If you have something meaningful to contribute, you’re free to do so. Otherwise, unless addressed, stay silent.”

  When there were no further ‘clever’ remarks, he continued, “As far as we know, batfoxes can only come from other batfoxes. Unlike many other species, there’s never been a confirmed occurrence of a batfox being formed purely from aether. And they cannot fly. Most they are capable of is a controlled gradual descent from a ridge or a tree.”

  The man sighed. “Rumors and myths are unavoidable, but as representatives of Foerstner Group, it’s your responsibility not to contribute to the public’s ignorance. A myth could be useful if it inadvertently teaches laypeople correct procedures, but, unfortunately, there are many more that turn common men stupidly brave, making them decide that they can handle certain beasts on their own, thus stirring up even more trouble.”

  Instructor Hass slid the pane further, and the first image was replaced with another – a baby batfox, next to an adult one, next to a human outline. “That’s all I’m going to say on the matter. Now we’ll address their physical appearance and usual habitats…”

  An interesting lecture commenced, and Cillian found himself engrossed in it. True, there was a rake-load of details he’d already read or heard about, but also a lot of new facts, nuances, and even statistics supposedly known only to Foerstner.

  What he’d known mostly concerned the mundane – batfoxes’ excellent eyesight, their ability to easily climb any tree, a habit of randomly shifting back and forth for no discernible reason, and their general lack of stamina.

  And what he hadn’t known ranged from curiosities, like the fact that a batfox’s tail was always a shade of orange darker or lighter than its body, never the same, to truly vital behavioral information. For example, adult batfoxes apparently had a tendency to bury themselves into the ground in their “liquid” forms when recovering from heavy magic use and then leap from there if presented with prey. Cillian didn’t like the sound of that.

  The man then moved on to enlightening the rapturous audience about the species’ unique aetheric ability. By that time there were no more lethargic faces behind the desks.

  Changing the firmness and elasticity of their bodies wasn’t everything the batfoxes were capable of. Similar to many other beasts, older specimens developed a higher level of attunement to the aether, which allowed them to do more than younger members of the species. More magic, that was.

  Batfox’s second-level ability was pure shaper type or, in other words, a localized control over the environment. Specifically, it allowed them to morph the air in a sphere around their bodies into a thick, water-like substance, which didn’t make things float but did make breathing impossible and movement sluggish and awkward. Naturally, the creatures themselves were unaffected. The closer you got the thicker the substance grew. The range varied, but the largest reported to date was around 11 meters.

  Needless to say, getting close to an old batfox without a companion was most inadvisable.

  “There is a famous illustration depicting a chevalier valiantly charging a bubbled-up batfox, swinging his companion’s torn-off leg as a makeshift weapon. Impressive looking, no doubt. The company sued the illustrator for harmful propaganda. Never do that,” were instructor Hass’ exact words.

  After that, the lecture soon came to an end, and, before sending them all with the wind, the man declared that there would be no assignments in his class; the only way to earn tokens was by doing well on knowledge tests and hunts.

  “And you can also lose tokens if you fail particularly badly. There would be no warnings for the tests, so be prepared, always. Real life never waits for a convenient moment.”

  The students packed their bags and poured out of the room.

  “Well, that was enlightening,” Eamon commented on the way to their next class, succinctly named ‘Aether’. “They should’ve called that course ‘A million reasons not to become a chevalier’. Hope I’ll never meet me one of those things again.” The boy shuddered exaggeratedly.

  Cillian gave him a puzzled look. “You do know that dealing with batfoxes and other beasts is part of the job, don’t you?”

  Eamon rolled his eyes. “Not necessarily. I know that’s what chevaliers are most known for. Extermination. But there are many other roles they can play.”

  “Aiming to be a diplomat then?”

  Eamon shook his head. “A diplomat wouldn’t be bad, methinks. Meeting new people, going to civilized places? Not a bad life, ye? And I can be very diplomatic. But what I really want is treasure hunting.”

  “Hmm. It still involves traversing wilderness and encountering beasts.”

  “It does, but a treasure hunter never travels alone and acts more as a scout than a muscle in his party.” Eamon sighed wistfully. “But such assignments are rare, like proper rare, maybe one or two per cohort. Or so I’ve heard.”

  “Meaning you just have to rank high enough so you get to choose? Sounds like a plan.”

  Eamon laughed. “Aye, just a couple of simple steps, and it’s done. Easy, innit?”

  Unsurprisingly, the “Aether” class, which began after 15 minutes of rest, was all about the nefarious substance. It always fascinated Cillian how one thing could be the foundation of human civilization, the source of so many breathtaking inventions, but, at the same time, make beasts go mad and attack humans indiscriminately and also turn their very bodies poisonous. There was some irony in that.

  Their instructor – a stern man called Phelim Schwenke – similarly to the previous class, began by outlining what they would and would not learn under his tutelage. It turned out that “Aether” was mostly concerned with aether pertaining to its industrial uses, as opposed to its effects on flora, fauna, and the plane at large.

  They would kick off by studying different theories of humanity’s origin and our relation to the aether, then push on to aether extraction, processing, and containment. But the bulk of their time would be dedicated to the final topic – aether burning – since chevaliers had to deal with it directly on a regular basis.

  “The course will take half a year. There will be an exam at the end covering the first four topics, but your understanding of aether burning will be tested in a different way, which we’ll talk about later. In today’s class, we’ll discuss the origin theories.” Instructor Schwenke eyed the less than attentive audience, their enthusiasm racked up during ‘Bestiary’ markedly diminished. “You should know this, so let me ask you: us, humans, how did we come to be here and what role did aether play in it? There are two broad categories most theories fall into. What are they?”

  Oscar raised his hand before anyone else.

  “Yes?”

  “It was our world, then the niss came and brought the aether with them. Or it was their world filled with aether, and we came, by our own will or not. Many believe the niss used magic to somehow transport us here.”

  “And why is that? Why do all prominent theories suggest that humans and the niss couldn’t have originated from the same world? We are both here now, aren’t we?”

  It was Shauna who answered this time, without waiting to be invited. “Because we don’t have magic, don’t even have elanroots, but everyone else does! Everyone else draws aether, especially the niss. We can’t even put too much of the stuff inside or we die. So it is believed that our species simply couldn’t have evolved in the same environment.”

  Another boy raised a hand and, after receiving the man’s nod, added, “There’s also a lot of evidence that the world used to be different. For example, ancient texts talking about planets and stars and the Sun. And our ancestors evidently believed in it, to the point that we now use the measurements of time that make sense in the context of the knowledge from those tomes but not in the world as it is. Which suggests that either our world got altered at some point, by aether or otherwise, or this was never our world to begin with, and we came from elsewhere.”

  “Or it might suggest that our ancestors were simply wrong. If we came from someplace else, how did we do it? If the niss came instead, how did they do it? And how does one move between worlds? Aether magic?” Instructor Schwenke clearly didn’t expect them to reply. “To be frank, the precise answers to these questions are less important than the process of actively searching for them to begin with.”

  He poured himself a glass of water from a decanter and pressed on, “You might disagree with me, naturally, but I would be perfectly content if we never figured out the truth at all. It’s because analyzing our history and the role the aether played in it has already resulted in several breakthroughs in aether application. Extraction, processing, burning – all of these discoveries came from the experiments we undertook in order to figure out the connection, the hows and the whys. I know you all aspire to become chevaliers, but I implore you to be researchers at heart as well. By design, chevaliers are often the first to interact with new phenomena, so it’s possible that one day you’d find yourself…”

  The man kept waxing lyrical about the benefits of always taking time to explore and ask questions instead of mindlessly obliterating every obstacle. During the speech, his face shifted from stern to impassioned, and Cillian decided it was safe to tune him out. Maybe it was wrong to do so, but he really didn’t like talking about matters when there was so little information to go by. Unless he was unaware of a recent, major development, it was all just speculation. He knew the theories; none of them provided sufficient explanations in his opinion. He would return to the man’s wavelength once they started discussing practical things.

  Unfortunately, it never happened, and the lecture carried on in the same vein, with instructor Schwenke systematically introducing and then dismantling several widespread genesis theories. Cillian spent his time doing breathing exercises and recalling facts about batfoxes, mentally separating the truth from what he now knew was nonsense. At the moment it was all mashed together in his head.

  Eamon and Nuala, who sat with them this time, were clearly bored out of their minds too, because they alternated between chatting and doodling something the entire time. After their first class, this one felt underwhelming.

  They only resumed paying attention once instructor Schwenke mentioned assignments.

  The first one was something they’d already been told about – recharging the lighthouses. Although, they wouldn’t get an opportunity to do it for a few weeks yet.

  Another assignment was long-term and would be used to judge their understanding of burning – making a crude aether-powered motor. They would be provided with most but not all necessary parts, but the construction stage would be completely unassisted. The “procure it yourself” list of components included a suitable elanroot.

  That should be interesting.

  Eamon seemed excited about the engineering parts of the upcoming project, while Nuala gave no indication of caring one way or another – she was already gathering her things to abscond.

  They had two practical classes left today, and now it was the gym’s turn. The cooking workshop was scheduled for before dinner.

  Cillian wouldn’t normally be daunted by the prospect of performing physical activity, but in his current state there wasn’t much he could actually do. Yesterday, when he’d come for his evening ice pack and asked nurse Whelan what he should tell their gym instructors, she replied that injuries happened often and there was nothing to worry about. Unhelpful.

  He was mostly concerned about falling behind in terms of tokens, even more than at present, and making a bad first impression on the instructors, Rory Gehler and Aisling Haertel. He knew that in a class of 48 there would be those who received more of their personal attention, benefited more from their training, and he aimed to be one of those lucky few.

  A mix of both worries materialized in practice. Instructor Gehler didn’t seem particularly scornful when Cillian approached after changing into the gym uniform. But the man also informed him that they would be awarded tokens for meeting certain requirements in a diverse set of exercises, and, given his inability to participate, he wouldn’t earn any until he got better.

  Cillian was frustrated. Did that arsehole deliberately deal me a rib injury, instead of a simple black eye or something?

  Realistically though, there was nothing to be done about it now, other than what instructor Gehler had directed him to – go to the pool and try walking first, followed by light swimming if the body permitted.

  There was a list of things to attempt – an actual list, scratched on a board next to the pool – to aid recovery in case of various injuries, like back pain, torn ligaments, and so on. Rib bruising wasn’t on the list, but Cillian had been told to simply experiment with activities, and that as long as he only experienced ache, it was fine. Sharp pain was obviously not.

  And that’s what he did. The pool was in a separate space and was as small as advertised – a single, 25-meter-long lane, which could comfortably accommodate no more than three people. Being separated from the others, Cillian couldn’t see what they were doing, but he heard instructor Haertel’s introduction speech – again, briefly describing the program – well enough.

  Physical conditioning first. Eight weeks were usually dedicated to bringing everyone to the required fitness level. It went without saying that there were always those who could and would embark onto the next stage earlier. Getting ahead of the competition was rewarded by the company.

  The said next stage involved combat.

  As a general rule, you never fight a beast in close quarters. You shoot it and shoot it again. If necessary, engage with your companion or entrap it first, then shoot it.

  But chevaliers, like Eamon had correctly observed, weren’t limited to beast extermination; they also dealt with humans. There were many situations when the “shoot first, ask questions later” policy could be detrimental to achieving one’s goal, that was, doing whatever the company assigned you to do. Besides, despite the common people’s belief to the contrary, chevaliers only had special rights when dealing with monsters. One couldn’t just put a bullet or an arrow between the ears of another human unless specifically authorized to do so.

  For these and other reasons, they would be taught proper footwork, breakfalls, basic defense, including knife defense, basic strikes, grappling, standing and on the ground, takedowns – you name it. Achieving proficiency was essential for one’s future wellbeing.

  But for now – warm up, followed by running laps, doing squat jumps, and lateral lunges. Then mountain climbers, box jumps, and various strength-oriented, body-weight exercises.

  Cillian was feeling a wee mollified. There were students in worse shape than him, surely, so they would be doing catching up instead of leaving him in the dust. But he absolutely couldn’t afford another injury and couldn’t afford to let this one hinder him for long. So he diligently trudged in the water.

  Walking and the measured breaststroke both felt fine, but the front crawl was an instant no-go. He also had to stop frequently, as per instructor Gehler’s recommendation not to let his breathing become too intense. He was mostly left alone, other than the man checking up on him twice, and he entertained himself by imagining what exercises the copious grunts and squawks jabbing from the main chamber corresponded to.

  It was a tedious hour and a half.

  Once the class concluded and after taking a quick shower, Cillian stood outside the gym, waiting for Aoife. Eamon slouched against the wall nearby, muttering uncharitable things about his choices in life and generally looking miserable. They waited and waited and waited some more. Cillian had only just begun wondering if it was possible that Aoife had already left when she finally came out, Sorcha and Moira in tow.

  “Aoife.”

  The cailin in question stopped and looked up. “Cillian?” She then nodded to Eamon and turned back to him. “Is something the matter?”

  “Do you have a few minutes to talk about yesterday’s… stuff? I want to elaborate on some things you mentioned. After lunch?”

  Sorcha snorted. “Stuff, huh? You mean your threesome with Rory and Keefe? I heard it was rough.”

  A sudden hoot of laughter echoed through the hallway, then Eamon put a fist to his mouth and said, “Sorry.” He giggled. “Did you forget to mention some spicy details to me, Cillian?“ And kept giggling. ”Now I can’t help but picture it.”

  “Sorcha.” Aoife’s voice was disapproving. “I didn’t tell you so you could make fun of Cillian. He was hurt. All three of them were.”

  “But it’s so funny.” The brunette smiled. “Rory glares so much, Keefe clearly avoids them both, while Cillian just seems oblivious. It’s a perfect love triangle.”

  “Sorcha!”

  Cillian rubbed his forehead. “I’m just going to pretend I’ve heard nothing. So, Aoife?”

  “Hm? Oh, sure, we can talk. But how are you? You weren’t at the gym. Is your injury that serious?”

  “I was at the gym, in the recovery pool. The injury’s fine, just a bruise.”

  “So what happened?” It was Sorcha again, her tone solemn now. Why was she talking so much all of a sudden? “I know what Aoife saw, just the aftermath, but I’m curious about the exact… steps.” She winked, the seriousness hadn’t lasted long. “Were you on top or–?”

  “Alright, good talk.” Cillian started marching away. “Where will I find you, Aoife?”

  “Umm, either the rec room or repository, most likely.”

  “Great. See you.” He wanted to fly up the stairs but had to slow down on account of his protesting ribs.

  Cillian could clearly hear Eamon’s voice joining Sorcha’s in merry laughter behind his back.

  “Wait, Kil!” A few seconds later, his treacherous ally easily caught up with him, still exuding mirth.

  Bleedin’ ribs hurt more than ever now.

  “You won’t repeat this threesome tosh to anyone, right?” Cillian asked.

  Eamon made a “my lips are zipped” gesture, which didn’t quite work due to the broad smile he failed to suppress.

  “Course not, sham. You can count on me discretion.”

  Cillian couldn’t escape the talk of his tryst with Keefe and Rory for the remainder of the day. Even though most students didn’t know him, the trio stood out by virtue of being injured. The guys in the locker room had seen his bruised chest and put two and two together. He just hoped that the gossip wouldn’t last.

  Thanks, Eamon. And Sorcha, I guess.

  Keefe refused to look at him, and Rory… Cillian wished the gorilla followed the other boy’s example. How could someone glower so much was beyond him.

  A couple of second-years showing up for dinner had helped with redirecting attention. Unfortunately, all the duo had done was collect the pre-prepared trays with food on a trolley and wheel it away. They’d uttered not a single word.

  Someone had said that they weren’t allowed to answer any questions from the first-years and had been encouraged not to speak to anyone at all. If there was any truth to that, Cillian didn’t know.

  His talk with Aoife had ended up being a little dissatisfying. She’d told him that Raskopfs were major players, particularly in the Firearms division of the company, and that Rory’s uncle was on the Board of Directors. The gorilla choosing to go the chevalier route had come as a surprise to many since there was no love lost between the Firearms and the Companion. The two often competed for the same resources.

  The fella himself was something of a thug, which Cillian had already gotten a taste of firsthand, and didn’t have many friends. By her own admission, Aoife didn’t know him all that well and was only aware of his proclivities because everyone in the core kept an eye on everyone else.

  Overall, he hadn’t learned anything terribly valuable, other than some vague rumors that Rory might be out of favor with his esteemed uncle, but nothing confirmed. Nothing immediately usable.

  Cillian still hadn’t decided how to proceed. After lengthy consideration, he’d dismissed the impulse to ambush the guy in retaliation. Tempting as it was, there was no reason to sacrifice all the progress he’d made working on his temperament. Being mindful, not going anywhere alone, and biding his time seemed like the best course of action so far. An opportunity for some underhanded payback would present itself. Surely, the gorilla wouldn’t be able to resist acting a dick toward a member of the staff again, at which point the academy might decide to ignore the wee little Cillian exacting revenge.

  Even though he didn’t want another physical clash, he wasn’t a big enough person to just let the matter drop. He’d been bleedin’ robbed!

  The skywalker was long powered down for the day, and now, in the gloom, Cillian found himself sitting on top of the mansard roof of the dormitory. The steep, dusky tiles had been tricky – not to mention painful – to navigate, but the dormer windows puncturing the lower slope and the limestone chimneys poking out from the upper had made the climb just about feasible.

  The sentries manning the towers had to have seen him, but no one had come to reprimand him as yet. Hopefully, they’re all too busy playing cards or napping.

  It was unwise of him to engage in any sort of strenuous activity, Cillian knew, but he honestly couldn’t bare another day glued to the ground. So the boy had manfully greeted his teeth and endured the discomfort. Besides, no one had ever accused him of being wise.

  Cillian wasn’t much impressed with the view the vantage point afforded since the surrounding walls loomed taller still. Not by much but enough to prevent him from getting a good look at the settlement. He could see the pylons of smoke backlit by the scattering light from the buildings and lanterns, and that was about it. The dirty plumes spewing out of the chimney next to which he was perching didn’t help either.

  But that was down Nullside. Heavenward of his position some activity was happening inside the perimeter. Rattling the entire way, a pair of cages were being rolled out of the yawning maw of the slaughterhouse. The amber glow spilling from the wide gate succeeded in creating oblong shadows but did nothing to betray the contents of the metal caskets; they were completely solid.

  Not that one had to be a detective to deduce what was locked up inside. The big giveaway was the accompanying students. And if that wasn’t enough of a clue, a bear’s paw etched on every face of both cages dispelled any other notions. The second-years’ exodus had begun.

  According to Eamon, who’d gotten the information from some inring kid, their seniors would be shipped off to the designated assignment posts one by one as they heal. In two weeks, none should be left on the premises. Cillian wondered if he’d get a chance to pry some crucial advice from one of them. Unfortunately, both yesterday and earlier today when he’d visited the infirmary, nurse Whelan kept him in the antechamber and didn’t allow him to get even a glimpse of any injured cadets. And the iron gate leading down to the fourth underground level was firmly shut.

  Actually, why are they coming out of the slaughterhouse? Is there another way down? And why does the staff not want us talking to them?

  The side gate slid open, and the carts were pushed to meet the lone truck reversing through it.

  Cillian watched the guards load the cages and the students say their heartfelt goodbyes to the escorting instructors. Headmaster Gorman’s bald head was distinct. He noted with wry amusement that the second-years weren’t about to receive cargo treatment – the farewells out of the way, they both climbed into the cabin. Their trip to the station would be comfortable, no doubt. Behold the benefit of no longer being considered useless by the academy!

  “Hey, you!” A raucous call made Cillian turn around and look down at the yard. A flashlight poked another hole in the dimness. “What are you doing up there?!”

  And that’s my cue to leave.

  “Nothing, chief! Just on the lookout for enemies of the company!” he shouted back.

  “Don’t get smart on me! How did you even get there? Come down this instant!”

  “Aye-aye!”

  Cillian threw one last look at the truck slinking away, carrying a couple of future chevaliers with it.

  ”Go n-éirí an bóthar leat.”

  Good luck on your journey.

  Then, under the watcher’s disapproving gaze, the boy clambered his way to the ground.