Chapter 3
Chapter three
Annalise
Gravel crunches beneath the van's tires as we take the last switchback, and the massive iron gates of Scion Military Academy come into view.
As the Corrections Transportation Officer who's been driving us all day rolls down his window, a guard steps out of a small outbuilding.
His face is a map of scars and weathered skin, evidence of several battles fought in the unrelenting sun, and a peek into our futures.
“Names and orders?”
“Annalise Corvin and Matt Reyes. Conscripts to Charlie Company, reporting for intake,” our driver answers, passing him the required documents.
The guard's gaze flicks from our paperwork to us in the backseat, a clear look of disgust and a hint of surprise taking over his face for a split second.
With a wave of his hand, another guard steps out, unlatching the iron gates before us. He motions for our driver to follow the road to the left where a small parking lot has been carved into the side of the cliff in front of the castle.
After unloading the two duffel bags Matt and I were allowed to pack from home, our two pissy corrections officers give us a quick once-over and gruffly instruct us to start walking down the paved path cutting through the trees to the east of the castle.
Silently, they take up their spots at our fronts and backs, still under the illusion that we’ll try to run, no idea where to when we’re literally penned in here, but whatever.
The preppy recruits on the path around us give us a wide berth, stopping to stare and speculate…loudly. Not that it comes as a shock, most of these people have probably grown up surrounded by servants waiting on them hand and foot with the kind of money their families have.
While the King pays his military decently, the doors that open for the recruits who pass through Scion are incomparable.
Not only is the King’s favor earned for them and their families, but many will be gifted land, bonuses, and, if the rumors are to be believed, honored love matches from the King himself for the best of his soldiers.
Of course, only recruits from exceptionally affluent families who contribute to the King and his various needs are permitted to come here, though.
But, once again, Matt and I are the exception.
While our dads control most of South Hollow, neither of them has the kind of pull to land us here.
But, when our job placement test results came back telling us where we could best serve the King on the frontline, everyone was shocked to see that instead of a position, we were designated to come to Scion.
Following the crowd, we all follow the path left when we reach the end of the moss-covered stone building we’ve been walking behind. A series of buildings labeled Barracks E, D, and C, respectively, box us in as we make our way into a massive courtyard.
The weaving line of the Charlie Company recruits checking in today moves slowly toward a series of long, wooden tables set beneath another stone building’s massive overhang.
A large but simple wood-burned sign hangs above the building’s doors, indicating it’s the infirmary, as if the chemically sterile scent permeating the air could be coming from anywhere else.
Behind each table, officers in black uniforms sit like stuffy scribes, each with a thick roster book and a ballpoint pen, seeming to move with sharp, impatient ticks as they mark each recruit when they check in.
Glancing around our new, albeit forced, home, I spot the beginning of an obstacle course, which has me instantly bouncing on my toes with excitement.
When I was seven…before my mom walked out on us and my dad became the piece of shit he is now…
I was obsessed with the show Ninja Warriors and was determined to compete as soon as I was old enough to be cast. That spring, my dad spent two full weeks building an obstacle course for me in the woods behind our house.
Matt, not only my best friend but also my neighbor, tracked my time running the course and then raced to beat it nearly every day.
Despite his height and wingspan giving him an advantage, I’m still only five-foot-three as an adult after all, I’ve always been fast and was able to bounce around the platforms easier, so it was always an insanely close match.
What started as my “training” for the show turned into our favorite way to dodge chores: dishes, folding laundry, or whatever other task our parents threw at us that could be pushed off onto the loser. Victory meant freedom; defeat meant chores. We ran like our lives depended on it.
I grin at the memory and elbow Matt to show him. Balance beams, a rope climb, and what looks like…flame throwers? This is definitely not our broken and splintered course from home.
The smell of sulfur and smoke penetrates my nose as somewhere in the distance, something lets out a bone-shaking roar.
My heart skips a beat.
A dragon.
A real mother fucking dragon!
I’ve heard tales of them all my life, seen one or two fly over South Hollow each year, but I completely forgot they pair with riders at this academy.
“Name?” a woman with slicked-back hair pulled into a tight bun asks the girl in front of me, cutting through my reverence as she grabs her orders.
“Emily Tarlow,” she says, her tone is clipped and confident.
She’s taller than me by at least five inches, with a braid down her back, and shoulders looking like they were sculpted out of granite. The woman scans Emily’s paperwork, then stamps the file with a thud and passes her a large manila folder.
“Bravo Squad. Barracks A. Room 206. Class schedule is in the folder. Uniforms and course materials—two tables down. Dining’s on your own time.
First class bell tolls at 0730. Tomorrow you will report to the Parade Grounds at 0600 for your first formation.
After tomorrow, daily accountability formation is at 0645. ”
She doesn’t even glance up.
“Next.”
Emily turns to leave but pauses as her eyes catch on me. She scans me over—slow and calculating like she’s trying to size up the competition, until her gaze finally meets mine.
Hard brown eyes, with a familiar judgmental glint I’ve seen a hundred times before, stare back at me.
The corner of her mouth quirks slightly, like she’s already filing me under not a threat, and I do my best not to let the immediate dismissal make me smile.
“Next,” the officer repeats with a clear air of annoyance. Emily moves, and I step forward, passing my orders to the woman behind the desk before she has to ask for them. My Corrections Transportation Officer stands silently, half a step behind me.
“Name?”
“Annalise Corvin,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray my sudden nerves.
The officer pauses. Her eyes flick up at me in obvious surprise. “Conscript?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
There’s a beat of silence, then she scribbles something at the top of my file that I can’t see and hands me my stamped folder.
“Echo Squad. Barracks E. Room 212,” she sighs, followed by the same curt orders she rattled off to Emily before me.
Matt steps up behind me and repeats almost the same conversation. A minute later, he’s holding a matching folder. Same squad, same barracks, different floor. We exchange a look.
“What are the odds?” he says with a grin.
I smile back but don’t answer, my full attention already shooting to the sky, where a series of roars are getting louder by the second.
Out of nowhere, a gust of wind causes everyone to stumble and folders to blow from the tables.
A dragon soars below the already low cloud cover above us, wings outstretched like sails, scales gleaming onyx in the sun. It’s massive, fast, and far too close for comfort as its shadow envelops us in darkness before it banks left and drops off the cliff edge.
As quickly as it appeared, it’s gone, vanished like it was a figment of our imagination.
Matt whistles low. “Please tell me I’m not the only one who just shit himself.”
“Right there with ya, Mattey,” I say, patting his chest as I take mindless steps toward the uniform line. “Pretty sure I forgot how to breathe for a second.”
Our Corrections Transportation Officers don't waste a second, gloating about us no longer being their problem as they turn toward the path we walked in on—probably off to get the beer they’ve been talking about having all day.
Once our uniforms and class supplies are in hand, Matt and I make our way back through the crowd to the first barracks building we passed when we got here.
“Meet at the dining hall at six for dinner? I want to try and take a quick nap,” he says as we climb the steep stone steps, worn smooth by the thousands of students who have used them day in and day out over the last few hundred years.
“Works for me,” I say, before splitting off when we reach my floor.
A long hallway stretches before me, lined with old wood and iron doors, their hinges groan as excited recruits bounce in and out of their friends' rooms and fill the air with chatter. It’s no surprise so many of them know each other; they grew up going to the same events hosted by the King at Kilkirk Castle, and have probably shared more gossip than a rag columnist.
I find my room about a third of the way down the hall and drop my bags to the ground to dig the key out of my intake envelope.
The room I step into is compact but clean.
Enough windows line the wall to let in a decent breeze as I fling them all open, hoping to quickly clear out the stuffiness clinging to the walls.
To my right sits a small but functional en-suite with a stand-up shower, a shelf to the left of the mirror that hangs above the sink, and a toilet directly in front of the door, as if it were added as an afterthought.
My bed rests beneath the windows, a two-drawer wooden nightstand tucked beside it. A tall, narrow armoire stands a few feet from the bottom of the bed, and a basic wooden desk and chair are pushed against the wall, closest to the door.
It’s tight, utilitarian, and maybe a little claustrophobic, but it’s home for the next year, and more importantly, it’s safe.
After tossing my bag on the bed, I start opening all of the armoires' doors and drawers and pull my stack of uniforms from the laundry bags to hang, the smell of starch and leather making my stomach flutter.
Once they've all been meticulously hung, I unpack the rest of my stuff, which goes depressingly fast. A few folded clothes put into drawers. A photo of Matt and me when we were kids, covered in mud after one of our obstacle course showdowns, goes on my nightstand. And a couple of books find their spot on my desk. That’s it.
Taking some time to look over what seems like a confusing schedule, I try to memorize which buildings and wings each of my classes will be in.
Core Class Schedule:
A Days- Monday/Wednesday/Friday
Combat Class – Combat Arena
Combat Med – Infirmary/Classroom
B Days – Tuesday/Thursday/Saturday
Strategy – Castle: Room 164
Environmental Tactics – Castle: Room 225
Starting Track Schedule:
M- Vanguard Training – Vanguard Building
T- Dragon Riding – Riding Field/Classroom
W- Arcane Healing – Infirmary/ Classroom
Th- Ghost Walking – Castle- Room 113
F- Spell Casting – Spell Casting Lab
I read it over and over, but I already know I’ll be referencing my schedule a lot over the next couple weeks.
My stomach growls loudly, echoing off the walls of my mostly empty room. Thankfully, it’s almost time to meet Matt for dinner, so I grab my phone and my map—because getting lost on day one would be beyond humiliating—and head out the door.