Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Annalise
One second, I am blissed out in a haze of warm sheets and lingering thoughts of Aiden’s soft lips on mine, and the next, someone is knocking on my door like I stole their money, and they’re going to break it down if I don’t open fast enough.
Groaning as I cross the small room and open the door. The only man I could possibly handle seeing right now stands there, coffee in hand.
“Tell me it’s Sunday. Lie to me, please,” I beg Matt.
“Sorry, Lee, it’s Monday, and we have our first Vanguard class today.”
I retreat to the bathroom to get ready while Matt makes himself comfortable, like always.
I’m brushing my teeth fifteen minutes later when there is another knock at the door.
“Can you get that?” I ask, with toothpaste foam dripping from the side of my mouth.
He snorts as he swings the door open, letting Sasha in to join us.
“We’ve got thirty minutes before formation, and I desperately need breakfast. You ready?”
Another week of training, bruises, drills, and whatever hell the instructors have in store for us is about to begin; who wouldn’t be ready for that?
With a nod, I grab my bag, throw it over my shoulder, and lock my door on my way out.
“Kline?”
“Here, Sir.”
“Platt?
“Here, Sir.”
The way every squad is required to take attendance and turn it in to the Commander each morning makes me laugh.
It’s like being back in elementary school with the teachers taking morning attendance and asking if we’re eating hot or cold lunch to report to the cafeteria—if only they were taking our lunch orders here too.
Do they think students who volunteered for the Kings’ favor are running away in the middle of the night and forsaking their posh lives?
Up until now, only Bravo Company recruit names have been called and not immediately accounted for, but I have no doubt that will be changing for Charlie Company far too soon.
And on that happy thought, we’re dismissed.
The morning passes without anything disastrous happening.
In Combat Class, we go over the basics of wielding swords and pair up with partners to practice. Apparently, sharp swords that leave a few students bleeding are a gentle introduction to the mercurial blades that we’ll start working with next class.
Mercurial Blades are just one of the many weapons that all Vanguard, Riders, and presumably Ghost Walkers are required to master. With their ability to shift form in less than a second—dagger to sword, sword to whip, etc.—they are the spelled version of a Swiss Army Knife’s versatility.
Combat Medicine drags on forever as usual. Healer Alric lectures us on how blood flows and what that means for field IV’s, head injuries, and how fast we can expect our patients to die if any of their major arteries are severed.
By the time lunch ends, recruits are buzzing with rumors of what we should expect on day one in Vanguard. So far, I’ve heard everything from basic fighting formation practice to live rounds being fired over our heads while we crawl through mud.
One particularly dramatic guy even claims his sister's company had to dig their own trenches on their first day and were forced to sleep in them every night for a week. While I wouldn’t put anything past the instructors here, that seems a bit far-fetched on our first day, since it would scare people away from the track.
On second thought, that kind of survival-of-the-fittest testing would be perfect for getting rid of the recruits from the get-go.
As the frontline fighters, masters of shield formations and devastating with spell-enhanced weaponry, the Vanguard fight alongside the infantry but operate as a single, coordinated force.
When the fighting hits the ground, it’s the Vanguard who commands the line.
Maybe I’ll pack a few protein bars, just in case.
Sasha, Matt, and I regroup outside the barracks after picking up our Vanguard gear issued to us on the first day. Packs are slung over our shoulders, water canteens are clipped to our belts, and the sheaths strapped to our thighs are filled with two standard daggers.
By the time we reach the Vanguard Training Building, where our weekly classes will be held, two dozen recruits from our company are already standing in small groups talking in front of the building, and a cluster of Bravo Company recruits are waiting by stacks of weight plates.
I should have known he would be here.
Arms crossed, already watching my every step, is Lucas. He smiles as I recognize him, leaning toward one of the recruits beside him and saying something under his breath. The guy snorts, glancing my way.
Luckily, a sharp whistle cuts across the glen before I have a chance to spiral at what this will mean for me.
Turning in the direction the noise had come from, we watch two figures emerge from the tree line to our left, striding with the kind of confidence that only comes from years of surviving this life.
Both wear uniforms similar to ours, but where we only have Velcro name tags and our company patch, their name tags and rank insignia are sewn into their chest and right sleeve, respectively, along with their instructor patches on their left sleeve.
“Charlie Company, into formation!” one of the instructors yells.
We scramble into line, shoulder to shoulder, boots thudding into place.
The instructor who called us to formation paces in front of us like he’s inspecting livestock. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and with his sleeves rolled up, you can see faded tick-mark tattoos shrouding his arms to the point his naturally pale skin can barely be seen.
The woman standing next to him is short but fit, with twin dark braids pulled tightly back. While his experience shows on his skin, her eyes tell you she’s seen more than anyone should have to.
“Listen up. I am Captain Kael, and this is Captain Renwick,” the woman says, stepping forward, hands clasped behind her back.
“While your combat class will focus on hand-to-hand combat forms, blade fighting, and reflex training, we will give you a crash course on what it means to be Vanguard. Over the next two classes we have you, we will judge how well you can shoot both standard and spell-enhanced weapons, and how well you follow orders.”
She gestures behind her.
“Take a close look at the Bravo Company recruits standing before you.”
I try to skip over Lucas in line, but his eyes are still locked on me, his lip curled up like I’m a pile of shit that he just stepped in.
“These recruits are already on track to become Vanguard and will serve as assisting instructors for this class. They’ll help teach, demonstrate, and evaluate you over the next month. If they give you an order, follow it.”
The Bravo recruits behind her look far too pleased with that announcement.
Renwick gives a faint grin. “Think of them as mentors—if your mentors were also grading your every mistake, reporting back to command, and could beat your ass in under ten seconds.”
I barely hear Matt mutter under his breath, “Mentors. Right. Fat fucking chance with him here.”
“Today,” Kael continues, raising her voice slightly, “you’ll get a preview of what it means to work as a unit. Grab a pair of weight plates—forty pounds total—and load them into your packs. Then grab an unloaded rifle from the crate.”
A few recruits hesitate.
“Now, recruits!” she snaps.
The weight plates are cold and rough, each one stamped with the Academy crest. I slide mine down into the pack's plate sleeves and pull the straps tight. The rifle isn’t unfamiliar; we’d handled them back home, but it feels different here. Heavier. More real.
“Company, line up!” One of Lucas’s buddies calls out after shouldering his rifle. We move fast, creating two rows, two people wide. The remaining Bravo recruits take positions surrounding our new running formation.
Professor Renwick steps forward one last time. “Today’s first objective is simple: an orientation run. Five miles through the forest. You’ll move as a unit; you’ll finish as a unit.”
Kael’s eyes sweep over us, cold and unreadable. “This isn’t about speed. It’s about discipline. Formation. Endurance. Teamwork. Bravo sets the pace. You keep up. If you fall out, you remediate on Sunday.”
Lucas shifts so that he’s directly next to me.
His voice drops, pitched low so only I can hear, “Hope you’ve been training.”
I ignore him. In all the years he’s spent tormenting me, he never took the time to really learn anything about me.
Matt nudges me, smiling, and probably thinking the same thing I am. “Most out of breath when we get back buys lunch on Sunday?”
“Aww, you want to buy me lunch this weekend. You’re so sweet,” I say, extra sweet and sugary.
“Move out!” Lucas barks, followed by a shrill blow of his whistle.
And we do.
The course starts deceptively easy: flat ground, an even dirt trail winding through the outer perimeter of the field. But within two minutes, roots jut up from the soil like traps, low-hanging branches sway with the wind, and the trail turns slick with scattered pine needles and loose dirt.
Lucas runs close on my right…too close. Every time I adjust my stride, he mirrors it, crowding my space. Once, his elbow clips my arm—not hard enough to draw attention, but deliberate. My pack shifts slightly, throwing off my balance.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “Wouldn’t want you getting marked down on your first event.”
I grit my teeth and bite my tongue.
The deeper we get into the woods, the less light that makes it through to us, despite it being early afternoon. I hear someone behind me slip and fall with a thud and a curse, followed by a clearly embarrassed call of “I’m okay!” giving me a much-needed moment of comic relief.
Our Bravo guides keep their pace steady, mechanical, and somehow in sync despite being spread out around us.
The rest of us? We’re like a drunken stampede barreling through the forest. The sound of boots hitting the earth around me comes in an uneven tempo, while the coughs, panting, and dragging of feet would give away our location long before we could ever sneak up on an enemy.
Before I know what’s happening, the girl running in front of me has lost her balance on the slope of the hill, sending a spray of dirt into my face and mouth. I spit, blink, and repeatedly try to clear my eyes as I grab her arm and haul her upright.
Lucas laughs softly behind me.
“Thanks,” she gasps.
My lungs burn as the trail turns uphill. Sweat trickles down my spine, my legs screaming as Bravo’s pace never falters.
Another Bravo recruit runs a few people behind Matt, yelling for what must be the thousandth time, “Stay tight! Keep formation!”
Easier said than done when everyone here has wildly different conditioning—and one of them is actively trying to make me eat dirt.
By the time we crest the hill, nearly half our class has fallen out—some injured, some simply unprepared. My legs are on fire, but I push harder.
Lucas edges closer as I cross the finish line, his boot catching the back of mine—just enough to make me stumble.
I recover, barely.
“Oops,” he says, not sorry at all.
“Real nice, but you’re going to have to try harder than that, asshole.”
“Do I? Okay. You’ve now earned yourself remediation on Sunday.”
Matt’s right there, shoulder-checking Lucas with a force that’ll leave his shoulder sore if he doesn’t take something soon. “You piece of—”
I grab his arm, pulling him back, “He’s not worth it, Mattey.”
Not waiting for him to respond, I turn with Matt toward Sasha, who is walking toward us, looking absolutely miserable with dirt smeared across her face. The last glimpse I got of her, she was literally crawling back in the direction of the Vanguard building, and we weren’t even a mile into the run.
“I knew you were crazy, but the fact that you do this for fun might qualify you to be institutionalized!” Sasha says, finally free of her pack.
“Still better than Combat Medicine,” I say as we walk toward the shooting range. “Now who wants a protein bar?"