“Next.”

Lisŗa approached and handed her acceptance letter. The recruiter grabbed it, crinkling the paper in his hand as he read. He was a man with a deep set brow, producing a permanent glare. Lisŗa swallowed. The recruiter jotted something down on his big leather book. The paper was handed back along with an assignment ticket.

“Don’t hide who you are,” he said. “It’ll help.”

“Okay.” Lisŗa didn’t know what that entailed. She tucked the letter back in her bag and followed the cordon into the temporary barracks. When she was freed from the line of fresh blood entering the encampment, she took in her surroundings.

Tent flaps waved in the wind here on the hill. She welcomed the brief chill after climbing all this way. Below her, marred by distance, the city stretched out into the horizon. The streets were a mash of overlapping, circular grids. Buildings were reduced to tiny, red-roofed blocks. Near the horizon, the basilica of the Order jutted into the heavens, a pure white standard imposed into the city’s center. But it was too far away. She could only see a blurry white.

Lisŗa checked her assignment ticket. West wing, column sixteen, number twenty-three. She began walking. The tents formed long, spaced corridors. Hundreds of people walked between them. Young men and women in all manner of attire. Soon they’d all amalgamate and shed whatever customary garb they had come with, exchanging it with Falerian uniform. A shadow fell over her vision and when she raised her head she had already bumped into the sudden obstruction in front of her. She fell onto her rear. The contents of her bag jostled as it fell onto the ground.

“Sorry about that, my lady,” the man said. He quickly extended a hand and pulled her back to her feet. “I should have been looking where I was going.”

“No worries,” Lisŗa replied. She slung her bag back over her shoulder.

The man was about her age, but it was impossible to be precise. Sharp, violet eyes. Tall stature. His clothes were half a size too small, accentuating the toned musculature underneath. Swept back, blonde hair covered the top of his head, whose sides were shaven. All in all, a good looking man if she were inclined to notice such things.

“Where are you headed?” He asked.

“West wing.”

“Well, of course, that’s the ladies’ side.”

“Yes. Yes it is.”

“Then I look forward to meeting you in the field. Good day.”

“Likewise,” She said with a wide smile.

The moment her expression wasn’t visible she returned to utter neutrality. That man took her for a fool. His friends were close by, waiting cross-armed around a corner pretending to be unaffiliated. But she had caught their subtle peering. The man had walked into her deliberately. She waited until she had found her column before turning the corner. In the area between tents, she patted herself down. Something foreign rested inside her jacket’s left pocket. She clasped it between two fingers.

It was a small, folded up packet. Unfolding it revealed grounded up leaves. She dropped it immediately.

“Goddamn cunts,” she said through her teeth.

She hurried to her tent.

Its occupants stopped chatting at her entry. Twenty pairs of eyes fell upon her. Lisŗa smiled briefly and walked to her personal bed. The mattress was just wide enough for one, and barely fit Lisŗa head to toe. She wasn’t much taller than average. She did appreciate the thin veil separating each bed from another. An iota of privacy was better than none.

As she unpacked, someone swept the veil aside and entered her space on the other side of the bed. Lisŗa looked up. The stranger had brown, pixieish hair, unbefitting of a face one might find transcribed onto canvas and hung on a foyer. A round face, but worn tightly without the inertia of fat. Eyes like amethysts pronounced mild annoyance as the stranger crossed her arms.

“Your jacket,” she said.

“Pardon?” Lisŗa asked.

The stranger walked around the bed and swept flecks of plant dust off Lisŗa’s jacket.

“You shouldn’t bring tetralichen into the pre-assessment camp, even if you’re just planning on joining the Karavane and not the military.”

“No- no! It’s not mine. It’s- There were these dumb boys. They-”

She rolled her eyes. “The Celeris brothers.”

“Who?” Lisŗa asked.

“Avoid them. It’d do you good. Anyways, I’m Chessie Peruliana.” The woman extended her hand.

Lisŗa shook it. “Lisŗa.”

“Well, Lisŗa Aldrenborn. Looks like you owe me.”

“How do you figure? And how do you know-”

“If the groundskeeper or the sergeant or anyone with authority finds leaf on you, you’re screwed. And there goes all that money you probably spent years saving up to get in here. I’d also keep your head down. Those two innocent little jades in your skull out you as an Aldrenite.” Chessie started to leave. “I like them though. They’re pretty.”

The veil closed.

Lisŗa was oddly pleased. When she was finished unpacking she laid on her bed, thinking. After a while she realized the reason she was happy was because she had just made a friend, even if it was in a weird Falerian way. Something did bother her, however. She did not realize submitting to recruitment took money. That explained the number of rich-looking kids with well-to-do family names. She had not paid a single halycite. It didn’t make sense. Did that nosy archbishop pay it for her? But sponsorships would come with an announcement.

When night came, Lisŗa couldn’t sleep. Her fortune didn’t seem to add up, and she dreaded the idea of owing someone she couldn’t face.

--

Jorge was bleeding out. The darkness was encroaching. He had never known a feeling so real, visceral, as if his emptying blood vessels were replaced with the essence of dark. As if death itself could breathe, and as he neared it, he could hear its whispers growing louder and more clearly. He wandered closer, and the darkness was banished. Death was a being of pure light. It sat next to his Soul and sang to him, bearing in its hands four sparks shaped like dogs curled into a ball. Flames leapt from those idle embers.

“The wolves?”

Death nodded. Its palm closed around the sparks, forming a fist. Before Jorge could react, the fist slammed into his chest. He screamed.

Jorge sat upright, sputtering. His hands gripped the earth by his sides, clutching handfuls of grass. He looked around him frantically. The clearing surrounded him. Insects of all sizes buzzed around the wolf’s corpse several feet away. The sight of the rotting body reminded him to check his own. His stomach and chest was covered in fresh scars. He felt the wounds threaten to tear at the slightest wrong movement.

The flora wall parted to the entrance of the deer. Its wounds had been sealed as well. It plodded towards him and nudged his head. A green glow emanated from its inner antlers. Jorge felt something grip his insides, as though his flesh were drapes that were too far apart for the day. His wounds felt better.

“That’s… magic,” he breathed. “You can do magic?”

The deer finished the session and turned away. It looked spent. Jorge pulled himself upright.

“You don’t need to do whatever that was anymore. I’m fine now.” He felt fine, if a little hungry. Better than fine, actually. He picked up his hatchet and made his way back to the camp. There, he ate his entire reserve of edible berries and mushrooms and drank what must have been a gallon of water. It wasn’t enough.

Protein. He hadn’t eaten meat in days. His instincts have been very pushy about adding it to his menu. But where? The wolves did not look appetizing, or edible, crawling with bugs. Who knew what those things secreted on the carcass. If he wanted meat he needed to hunt and he needed to prepare it quickly.

Jorge needed a way to store water. He couldn’t run back to the river every time he got thirsty if he were to hunt. Perhaps there was a use for the wolves.

He walked back to the site where a wolf corpse laid. It was teaming with life. Maggot looking worms and flies and ants he had mistaken for small mice from a distance. Cringing, he hacked into its lower stomach. He held his breath as he worked. Eventually he found the bladder and tore it out. It was rank. Then he worked on the skin. It took quite a few attempts before he could cleanly remove the hide without ruining it.

He bound the organs together with a bit of vine and returned to his home. The sun was past its prime. He covered the bundle with dirt to cover up the smell and decided to deal with it in the morning. Sleep evaded him until deep into the night. He had seen something while he was bleeding out. It wasn’t a near-death experience; it was real. And he couldn’t remember what.