“Firth.”

…

“Firth.”

…

“Firth!”

My eyes quickly shot open at what I assumed was the third call of my name, only to see my platoon leader hovering over me. He had the same look my mother gave me when I slept in past noon—disappointed. And slightly miffed. Shea outstretched an arm, his hand looming over my face momentarily. Was he going to slap me? Or grab me by the head and yank me out for sleeping in?

None of the above.

Instead, I was greeted with a swift flick! Right on my forehead.

“Ow.” I groaned, rolling over and begrudgingly getting up. I reached for my white shirt, still stained and crumpled on the floor, tossing it on. The fabric was rather itchy today, and it hung limply on my body, already deteriorating from constant activity and sea salt.

Shea seemed to have the same disgusted reaction as I did. By the shake of his head, and by the way his mouth twitched, I could tell he was prepared to scold me for my poor choice in attire, my inability to pack.

“No soldier in my infantry will be ill-equipped for the dangers ahead. We fight in close combat, we travel far into cold, rocky trenches. That,” he pointed to my tunic, “offers no protection.”

With a sharper-than-intended movement, Shea tossed a sack of items onto my bed. I stared at the bundle for a moment, then back to him, then back to the bundle, before shaking it out. Three articles of clothing fell into my hands: a gray-blue, quilted jacket, buttoned with circular bronze pieces that would cover me from shoulder to waist. Next was a yellow tunic, similar to his own, with intricate, golden clasps running up the back, made to be fitted and layered either above or beneath my armor. Lastly, a sturdy belt fashioned from braided kelp and, by the feel of it, tanned shark-leather—soft to the touch, durable, and made from the same species as my lower half. This was the kind of gear seasoned warriors would wear into battle. It was… expensive. And quite the gift for a lowly foot soldier like myself.

“Thank you.” I mumbled, my eyes still glued to the objects before me, their craftsmanship rivaling that of my father’s old uniform. I stripped my skin of my decrepit, old rag, instead layering up with my newfound commodities. Tunic first, then jacket, then belt, clasped tight and tied sturdily. Everything fit just right, hugging my form snugly, protecting me from the icy currents that flitted through the cracks in the barrack’s stone walls. I couldn’t help but feel like a real soldier. Like someone that mattered. Like someone with a purpose bigger than themself.

“You’re welcome.” Shea replied, but he wasn’t done. “Now, Ridire. You were supposed to report at dawn, not at the crack of six. If I weren’t here, you’d still be floating in your bunk, no?”

“I’m sorry, I—”

 “Hush. Just this once, I’ll take the blame. Kept you out too late with that little crafting Quest.” Shea put a finger to my lips, shushing me mid-explanation. “But… no breakfast.”

“No breakfast?!”

As I echoed his words, Shea pursed his lips, staring at me with an attempt at… sternness? But I could tell he was struggling to enforce this discipline, struggling to give me some kind of consequence for disobeying the very simple task of getting up on time. Part of me wanted to just agree with him, give him the satisfaction of being a well-respected disciplinarian. But I wanted breakfast. And it wasn’t my fault he was so soft on his soldiers. I mean, I shouldn’t even be able to get up late in the first place, let alone question the penalty I was receiving for it!

“Fine… breakfast is allowed. Not eating would hurt your ability to digest today’s training correctly.” Shea conceded, turning back to the other platoon members, who had all, unbeknownst to me, been standing in my doorway, watching me sleep. “Everyone gets an extra hour of free time while Firth gorges himself.”

I hoped my platoon mates would appreciate the kind gesture I had accidentally bestowed upon them.

Once at the mess hall, I tried everything there was to offer, attempting to enjoy my morning despite the briny air reeking of salt and dead fish, and despite everything tasting bland. Plain. Terrible. As I strove to swallow down the mushy, cold seaweed porridge, I stifled a gag, my eyes flicking over to the infantryman on kitchen duty today, hoping they hadn’t caught my reaction. Immediately, I recognized the cook as one of the people I had been hauled here with. Not Rory, but the other one. The small one, with a strange demeanor and giant eyes. Iessaí, was it?

I tried to ask, but he didn’t answer. Suppose he was aggravated that I got here so late, forcing him to serve me during his break.

Sigh.

I quickly finished up my meal, inhaling the rest of my bowl forcefully, before swimming over to where my team was currently gathered. Shea stood at the front of the gate, dressed and ready to perform. His golden scales shimmered under the faint light filtering in from above, his long, yellow tunic was cinched tightly with a bronze belt, and his tail, covered in the armored plates of a coconut crab, was flicking back and forth impatiently, awaiting my arrival.

“Ridire’s here! So… SWIM!” He barked, his voice loud, taut and commanding. Instantly, the platoon launched forward into the water.

I was left in a cloud of bubbles, but quickly followed suit, trying my best to keep up and adapt. Where we were going, I had no idea. But we were going there fast. I could see Shea in the front, playing line-leader, his tail moving in rhythm with his long arms, his form practiced and well-leveled. Occasionally, he glanced back to correct a recruit’s posture, offer a sharp word of advice, or clue the faster members in on the location of our final destination.

Reaching him—swimming next to him—was a pointless endeavor. Shea was far too fast, far too skilled. I lagged behind, finding myself only a few feet in front of our smallest recruit, much to my dismay. I hated my newfound self-consciousness. A few days ago, I wouldn’t have cared about how fast I was, or how far I could kick my tail without collapsing. But now? Now I did. And this sort of awareness was borderline painful.

I needed to get better.

“Ridire!” Shea suddenly appeared beside me, his body upside-down as he swam on his back, keeping perfect pace with my movements. I could tell he was giving me a once-over by the way his eyes fixated on the stiff motion of my hammerhead tail.

“Bet you feel a little faster now, hm?” He said with a soft grin.

“Oh,” I looked down at my tail, noticing that it was, in fact, moving faster. And the extra exertion wasn’t causing me any more lethargy than usual. “I suppose I do.”

“It’s because your swim skill leveled up,” He added, clearly proud of himself for accidentally orchestrating the boost.

Hmph. I didn’t like that he was taking credit for it, but I couldn’t deny it was somewhat warranted. Regardless, I didn’t say anything in response, only offered a curt nod. Swimming was hard enough, and swimming while talking wasn’t doing me any favors.

But…

Shea remained, continuing to float by my side. I could tell he was eager to make conversation. Strange. For a brief moment, I wondered if Shea had taken a liking to me—if he had seen something special in me, something that made him want to be, well, friends.

But I quickly pushed those thoughts away. Why in the world would that be the case? Why would my platoon leader want to be friends with me? His weakest soldier, his most novice player. Someone who can’t even get up on time.

“Did you like the Side Quest you went on yesterday?” Shea asked. He was excited, but my silence was dampening it.

“Um,” I replied, “yes, I did. I could do without the foraging, but the crafting was nice.”

“And you’re still thinking about magic?”

“Mhm,” I muttered, hoping that would be the end of the conversation. Gah, why did he decide to try and connect with me now?! A stitch in my side was forming, and I really didn’t want to collapse during our first lap.

“Yeah? You’re sure you want to try it?”

“Yes.”

“You want to train?”

“Yep.”

“Train under me?”

I glanced at my platoon leader, only to catch his eager eyes. Wow. He was… really thrilled about the idea I was going to seriously consider magic. I suppose it was a bit more uncommon to be a sorcerer, let alone find one.

“Yes.” I humored him, unsure of what to do.

“Ridire, you don’t even know how much fun we’re going to have.” Shea said with a grin. “I’m all for taking it slow and figuring out what you want, but I really hope you end up taking my path. Just imagine it–two Seaspell Casters, sanctioned so close to one another? We could spar for hours, bounce XP off of one another until we reached Level 10,000!”

Before I could reply, the platoon reached Shea’s terminus. It was a central gathering point within an underwater clearing, dotted with sunken ships and coral outcroppings. The area felt ancient, its remains holding what I assumed to be dark histories for the Overworlders. But, for us, it was simply a training spot with lots of places to move and dodge.

Today’s drill was supposed to be a simple cardio session—nothing special, nothing dangerous, thanks to the influx of new soldiers, myself included. But, as I scanned the horizon, my instincts kicked in. I could feel a faint vibration, a flicker of movement.

Something was wrong.