Cursed magic. Cut. Maim. Bleed. Kill. August repeated this mantra in his head with each swing of his sword as he hacked away at the wooden training dummy in front of him. The metal of the blade flashed in the dying light as he brought it back down. Cursed magic. A chunk from the shoulder broke off and flew to the right, hitting the gate of the horse stable closest to him. A frustrated whinny answered from the shadows, but he paid no heed. Cut. Another chunk from the other shoulder came loose. Maim. Another hit. Bleed. He thrust his sword forward, puncturing the cloth pouch placed in a small cavity carved out of the dummy’s chest where the heart would have been. The pungent smell of iron filled the air around him as pig’s blood burst forth from the pouch, gushing down the wooden chest. Kill. August gave the blade one final twist, cutting bits of the cloth free. He withdrew the blade, grabbed a clean cloth from his belt and wiped the metal. Then, with one last swing, August decapitated the dummy, the head spinning off into the far reaches of the barn.
His chest heaved with labored breaths, as he watched the blood drip off the dummy and soak into the straw-lined, dirt floor. With ruthless swings of a cold heart, blood will run freely, just as the Queen requested. Cursed magic. Cut. Maim. Bleed. Kill.
The mantra was taught to August on his first day of training. It kept soldiers focused as they learned how to fight an enemy they have not yet met, but also helped nurture a hatred of something they did not completely understand. Magic had been gone from the city of Varis for fifteen years. Still, it had become a teeming darkness in the shadows of the large wall circling the city. Most of these soldiers, August included, were too young when it disappeared to miss it in its absent or to even know how to begin to describe it. Therefore, when the Queen set out to build her army, she was able to mold it in her ideal vision. All she had to do was separate the men from anyone they cared about, to train them ruthlessly, to break them down completely, so that she can build them back up in her vision—with only a mantra to keep them going.
The mantra was meant to fuel a hatred for magic users, but to August, it meant something different. August came to the army with his own hatred, which kept him apart from the others. He hated the Queen for what she had done to his family, tearing a father away while the rest were on the verge of starvation, forcing a young August to grown up too soon. He hated that he had to steal to survive. He hated that she kept hidden away so many things that could help her kingdom. He hated that she had taken him away from his family. With no compassion in her heart, the Queen watched on as her city suffered.
He would like nothing more than to run a sword through her black, festering heart, but instead he was forced under her command, if only to keep his own head on his shoulders. Such a binding contract. An ultimatum, with his signature at the bottom. Those condemning words: Going against this decree would result in the accused, August Blackwell, to receive the original sentence for treason against the Crown.
Shaking the thoughts of the gallows from his head, August went to retrieve the dummy’s head. He found it in the back corner beside a bucket of horse feed. To atone for his actions earlier, August tucked the dummy’s head under one arm before scooping up a handful of feed in the other. A forced huff of air came from the horse he had disturbed as August approached the pen. He dumped the feed into a shallow bucket strapped to the edge to the pen, dipping his head once to the horse before walking back to the front of the barn. The pig’s blood had already turned a rusty color against the pale wood of the dummy’s body. August took out the head once more, holding it up to the same level of where it was once placed on the wooden shoulders.
“I don’t think you could’ve been anymore ruthless in killing that man.”
A smirk already beginning to quirk up the corner of his mouth. August turned knowing who was standing behind him. “I’m sure I could’ve thought of a more gruesome way.”
Ronan was leaning against the doorway of the opened barn, his chestnut hair a blazing red in the dying sun. He uncrossed his arms and took a few steps toward August, hand on the pommel of his own sword strapped at his waist, his fingers stroking the worn leather grip as if it were an adored pet. He wore the same black tunic, trousers, and simple jacket as August, which were lightweight and breathable, meant for training.
A smile slashed across Ronan’s sharp features. “Was the decapitation truly necessary?” He nodded to the head still in August’s hands.
“Can’t be too sure,” August said, letting the head drop at his feet. He sheathed his discarded sword, before wiping his sleeve across his forehead.
Ronan wrinkled his nose, looking off to the horse stables. “I will never understand how you can run through the drills in here. The stench is bordering on unbearable.”
August shook his head. “Why become a soldier if you turn your nose up against the common smell of horses?”
“Didn’t have much choice in the matter of joining the army, did I?”
That comment silenced them both. This new war was costly on all fronts, but the resource that it seemed to burn through the most was people. When the numbers diminished too quickly eight years ago, the Queen had begun recruitment at a younger age, while also starting a random draw—still allowing the rich to rig the system by buying their way out—to select a group of children each year for conscription. There were still a handful of volunteers, those much too prideful in their own skills to be turned away from a suicide mission. In most cases, at the unripen age of ten, the Queen rounded up those chosen and brought them to the castle to begin training. It was her army being brought from the ground up, at the cost of the children’s youth and the destruction of their innocence.
August avoided it for three years, until he was caught stealing from the Royal Treasury and brought to trial. His case was a special one. The Crown Prince pardoned him, but on one condition: August was to be enlisted into training for Her Majesty’s Royal Army. The irony of being forced to fight for the one he hated the most was still a constant thought in his mind. Even though his case was not the same as Ronan’s, he knew what it was like to fight for a cause where the justification of it was still unknown.
“If you really want to know,” August said, trying to lighten the mood, “I come in here because it’s quiet.”
“Quiet? You call this quiet?” Right on cue, the horse closest to August—the very same one he tried to bribe with food—whinnied, while another further down stomped its hooves. They both fell into a fit of laughter.
“Alright,” Ronan said, wiping his eyes. “I won’t question your madness. Believe it or not, I came down here for a reason. You received a summons. Captain Ravard wants a word with you.”
“Ah, messenger boy now, are you?” August smirked, grabbing his jacket off a peg and walking to meet Ronan by the door.
They made their way up the dirt path, as it meandered over the green expanse of lawn in front of the castle. Queen Violet Evensnow’s castle stood dauntingly at the top of the incline. Four spires of gray stone rose from each corner, but the main focal point was the twisted mass of glass and stone spiraling up from the center, like a tornado threatening to swallow the world whole. In the setting sun, the blue tinted glass was inflamed, a red glow pulsing deep within its core. August had heard of the crystal containing pure magic—an element believed to beat with its own life—on display in the throne room, but August had yet to see it in person.
Even if he still had the entire floor-plan of the castle committed to memory, it was not where they were headed this evening. Instead, August and Ronan waded their way through its massive shadow, only to be shrouded in another. Looking up, August took in one of the five towers that surrounded the castle.
The Towers were equally imposing as the castle. Taller in structure, but less intricate in design, they were constructed out of stone, and three hundred feet tall. What goes on inside most of the Towers are unknown to the common people, but from his capture and draft into the military, August had come to know what four of the five Towers were. The first two, situated in the front of the castle, but off to their respected sides, were the Guard and Military Towers.
The Guard Tower controlled the security of the castle’s grounds and stood as a home base for the governing enforcement of the Financial District. It was also dubbed the Gilded Garden by those of the Lower District and located on the other side of the castle gates. A few lower ranking guards enforced the Lower District, located on the other side of two massive hills accessible by cobbled roads tunneled through them.
The Military Tower was the headquarters for generals and captains, a meeting place to talk strategy before sending troops to destroy magic camps outside of Varis’s wall. All members of the military—present in Varis at any given time—also had sleeping quarters in the Tower and rooms for training. It had been August’s home for the past six years.
At the back of the castle stood the other three Towers: the Governing Tower, the Royal Legion, and the one August had yet to discover. The last Tower stood farther back than the others seemingly cast in constant shadow. It was also intricately locked, something August had discovered when trying to pick, but found it impossible even though he considered himself quite the expert. August tried to stake out through an entire night once, hoping to catch someone coming or going, but observed nothing besides a flock of fat pigeons laying waste to the top of the Tower.
The last two Towers were less mysterious. The Governing Tower, a downright bore, full of meeting halls, offices, and courtrooms. It housed a general committee that was loyal to the Queen and whom she would bounce ideas off of, but held no true power. The only things they could do without the Queen present was to hold trials for criminals of the crown. That Tower was where August was sentenced to his current fate.
The Royal Legion’s Tower still held his interest. The Legion was a special force who protected the Queen herself. They were the ones in charge of security in the Throne Room and the Queen’s quarters. No ordinary soldier or guard could ever be seen as an equal to one of the legionnaires, even a soldier of high ranking and of superior skill stood no chance. The Royal Legion was made up of Immunes—labeled such for they were immune to magic attacks. They had other specific skills as well, but those still alluded August. He admitted to becoming a bit envious at always being turned away whenever he would approach the Tower’s entrance. He only wanted to know what made them so special.
“Well, here we are,” Ronan said, shaking August from his thoughts. Indeed, they had made it to a heavy wooden door with iron trimmings and a hefty handle. A golden banner was drilled in the middle of the door, with the name Captain Fergus Ravard stamped in scripted lettering.
Ronan slapped August on the shoulder, the force sending him forward a step. August whipped back, ready to throw a punch, only to see Ronan heading to the stairs, waving a hand in the air and calling back, “I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”
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