Chapter 7 Annalise
Chapter seven
Annalise
The stiffness in my muscles as I wake up before dawn is both a pain in the ass and all the motivation I need to get my butt out of bed so I can get a run in.
I shouldn’t feel this rough after combat class yesterday, but I do. Despite my high scores, I know my endurance has gone to shit after being stuck in a jail cell for the last few months, unable to work out while I healed from all of my injuries.
I quickly change into black workout leggings, my favorite black long-sleeve pullover with thumbholes, and my neon pink running shoes before pulling my long hair into a tight high ponytail and popping my earbuds in.
“Riding Solo” by Jason Derulo sets my warm-up pace as soon as my feet hit the dirt path to the left of my barracks. I’m hoping there won’t be any riders or dragons out this early as I decide to continue straight on the path instead of turning at the parade grounds.
Each step I take feels like it is taking a weight off me, and I can breathe a little bit deeper. There is no Scion, no sentencing, nothing. It is only me, the feeling of my shoes hitting the pavement one after the other, and the beats coming from my running playlist.
Emerging from the trees into a sprawling glen, the sun is barely breaking the horizon, sending soft pinks and yellows reflecting off the fog waiting to lift from the field. With every step I take, the fog seems to burst like small fireworks, releasing magic back into the world.
Not ready to head back, I veer left when the path comes to an end at the riding grounds and run until I hit the same forest that runs behind the Combat Arena; I’m just much further back. I choose to run parallel to the tree line, finding comfort in knowing exactly where it’ll lead me.
The dew-soaked grass starts to seep water into my shoes, and I make a mental note to find a waterproofing spray for them as soon as I get my first paycheck.
I notice several narrow dirt paths leading into the woods on my right, and while I wouldn’t dare run them in the dark, I’m not a complete idiot; they would be great to explore when I can get away for a run midday, preferably with Matt at my side, just in case.
Twenty minutes later, I am running across the courtyard when I run into the man himself, still wearing the same clothes he had on last night at dinner.
“And where have you been all night, Mattey?” I tease as I come up behind him and slow to a walk.
“Out with a new friend,” he winks.
“We’ve only been here three days! Where did you find the time to meet someone?”
A Bravo Company girl going for a walk gives him a full-body sweep with her eyes and actually licks her lips. Disgusting.
Matt leans down, voice low and mischievous. “You know, this whole ‘bad boy’ thing is really working in my favor.”
“You think people know already?”
“Lee, Lucas practically shouted when he mentioned us being sentenced here together.” He shoots me his infuriating smile, “Don’t worry, some guys like criminal chicks too.”
He hobbles a little when I push him. “Shut up. We’ve got twenty-five minutes to shower—gods know we both need one—and to get some coffee before we have to be at formation.
Caffeine is a must today if I’m going to have a chance pretending I understand anything in Battle Strategy this morning.
” I say with a hip bump. “Meet you back here in fifteen!”
Professor Calderon’s classroom is at the end of a long corridor on the first floor of the castle, and between my sore muscles and the reignited pain in my knee from running, I am thanking the gods that I don’t immediately have to climb three flights of stairs.
The walls in the corridor are lined with portraits of previous Scion deans, all in military uniform and looking like they’d never learned how to smile.
“Is it me, or are their eyes following us?” Sasha whispers like they’re listening.
“So creepy,” Matt mock cringes. “It’s like they’re placing their bets on who dies at Scion and who gets killed by Clowess.”
Sasha’s eyes go wide, and I elbow Matt to remind him of the gentle company we’re keeping these days.
Luckily, we’re stepping into the classroom before he has a chance to stick his foot further into his mouth.
We claim the last three seats that are open in the second row, and I barely have time to put my notebook down on the desk before the side door opens and Professor Calderon enters with a slamming door, as if we have already pissed him off simply by being here.
He doesn’t speak right away, standing there as he surveys us.
I get the sense he’s not assessing who’s the smartest, but who’s most likely to break under pressure—either at his hands, or by the Clowessian raiders if they ever get their hands on us.
After what feels like forever, he finally breaks the silence. “War is never fair; it’s not designed to be. And neither is this class.”
He moves to the whiteboard in front of the room and begins writing without looking back at us: ‘History influences new strategies. Strategies win wars.’
“Or, in your current situation, it might help you survive long enough to graduate,” he adds as his marker thunks against the board to make the final period.
One glance at Sasha quickly writing, ‘might survive’ in the margins of her notebook and underlining it three times has me stifling a laugh.
For the next two hours, Calderon throws battles and theoretical situations at us like we’re under enemy fire.
It’s shocking how many of these ridiculous questions the recruits around us actually know the answers to; half seems like a foreign language to me. But I suppose many of them have been preparing to come here most of their lives to keep their good standing with the King.
By the time Calderon stops to take a breath, my hand is cramping, and even Sasha looks like she’s reconsidering ever coming to the academy in the first place.
Especially when every scenario he gives us seems to end the same way: families killed, towns burned to ash, and far too many questions unanswered.
All the while, Clowess hovers like a dark shadow at the edge of the map.
Calderon snatches the dry-erase pen up again like it personally offended him, and turns to face the board again, “There are four golden strategy rules…Scion’s foundation for every engagement, no matter the field, weapon, or enemy.”
He numbers them on the board as he speaks.
‘1. Know your enemy.’
“The war against Clowess has lasted over twenty years already. You had better believe we’re taking note of their battle strategies. We can strategize attacks and defenses with this information.”
‘2. Know yourself.’
“Your weaknesses will kill you faster than your enemies ever could.”
‘3. Adapt or die.’
“No plan survives first contact. Those who can’t adjust, don’t last.”
‘4. Win.’
“Win clean if you can. Win dirty if you must. But WIN.”
He turns back to us, eyes like flint. “If we cannot put an end to this war, make no mistake, Clowess will not stop at the border towns. They will conquer until they have the entire continent to themselves.
“Every day this war continues is another day our soldiers are dying. And every death is another chip from the shield protecting all of Thandroan.”
The room is silent, like everyone has forgotten how to breathe with the reminder that surviving Scion does not mean surviving the war. Countless lives are lost every day to the enemy’s dark practices.
After letting us sit with the weight of his words for a minute, Professor Calderon recounts more battle strategies that have proved successful in some of the battles along the border.
By the time the bell rings and we are dismissed, I have six pages of notes, half of which are in a shorthand that I’ll be lucky to be able to decipher tonight when I study.
Chairs scrape, whispers erupt, and we all scramble for the door.
“Do you think we should try to make flashcards on all of the types of battle formations to practice? Or do we cry and hope that was another side tangent that won’t actually be on our next test?” Matt asks, though he sounds much less defeated than I feel.
“Definitely flash cards,” I answer. “I don’t think we’ll ever be able to assume anything he says won’t be on a test. He’ll probably add things he never even talked about just to fuck with us.”
Splitting off for our second classes, I make my way up those three flights of stairs to my last official class of the day. Too afraid to not be able to pick my seat in Commander Varin’s class, I take the steps two at a time.
The third floor feels narrower than the rest, ominous somehow. The lights are lower, and the walls are lined with maps—topographical, magical, even one that looked like it had been painted in blood. A plaque beneath it read: Southern Ridgeland’s: 3rd Battalion, Final Stand.
Uplifting.
I walk through double doors made of reinforced wood and obsidian trim on the right side of the hall, and my jaw drops as I take in every single detail of the room.
Matt and Sasha’s description did not do it justice yesterday.
Far bigger than it would seem possible from the outside, the room is split into two sections—a standard classroom with long desks, and a series of illusions on rotation between pillars.
The first mimics a dense pine forest like the one surrounding Scion, enchanted with sounds of rustling leaves and bird calls.
Another is a mountainscape with at least four feet of snow blanketing the ground and a freezing wind so strong that I can practically feel it from here.
A simulated urban zone occupies the center of the room, complete with ruined buildings, collapsed alleys, and what looks like a sewer entrance.
Magic shimmers faintly at the edge of every scene, the only indication that they are, in fact, illusions and not some make-believe portal.