“Look,” Darren began, with as much irritation-free politeness as he could muster. It wasn’t much. “I didn’t come here to socialize with commoners and learn about their feelings. I came here to be a mage. So, if you don’t mind, I’ve got more pressing affairs than listening to you apologize for your own incompetence.”
Darren pushed past me as I stood, dumbfounded. Any initial guilt I had felt earlier was gone. I wasn’t sure exactly how I had expected the apology to transpire, but certainly not the way it had. Even the highborn children back home hadn’t treated me with as much hostility.
There was nothing modest about this prince, this non-heir. Ella was right: there was no way I would want someone like that on the throne wearing a crown and a mage’s robes. What had compelled the masters to make such a blatant exception?
You’ve never had one before because nobody was good enough! That’s what Darren had yelled at Ella and me. Was that why Master Barclae had decided to make the distinction between an heir and someone who was second-in-line to the throne? Because Darren had shown exceptional talent?
If he chooses Combat, I’ll wipe that arrogant sneer off his face the first chance I get, I decided. How exceptional can a non-heir be, really? He wasn’t even good enough to be first-born and get a throne. It was a cruel thought, one that didn’t even play out logically, but I welcomed it all the same. I hope you lose out on an apprenticeship to many, many commoners.
Arriving at the large wood-paneled building that served as the Academy’s armory, I found Alex and Ella at the back of a crowd facing its doors. The two of them were chummier than before, and I began to wonder if introducing my brother to Ella had been a mistake. If she fell for him, I would lose the one friend I had gained since coming here. I’d certainly lost enough back home.
Joining the two, I noticed that Ella seemed to be more entertained than enamored. I held onto the hope it would last.
“Welcome first-years,” a booming voice roared.
Immediately everyone stopped talking and looked to the entryway of the armory.
Out stepped the most intimidating man I had ever seen. Extremely tall with bulging muscle, the man seemed to crunch the ground with each step that he took. His hair was cut short, and his eyes were an almost disconcerting green. His dark skin was glistening, and he had several white scar lines that reached down across his arms.
The man wore the livery of a knight, not a mage.
Was there some sort of mistake?
“No, I am not one of your masters here,” the man boomed, registering the crowd’s shock.
“But don’t you be getting any ideas. I will still be involved in every step of your development this year. I served on the King’s Regiment for twenty years, and the last ten I have spent training young mages here alongside Master Cedric.” I noticed a thin, wiry man in red robes that had stepped out behind him. “I am Sir Piers, and I will be leading you in the physical conditioning needed for your factions.”
“I thought we were to be sorcerers, not pages!” someone hissed behind me.
A chortle of quiet voices voiced the same irritation.
Sir Piers heard them and glowered. Instantaneous silence.
“Many of you might wonder what use I am to your precious studies. Can I have a volunteer please?” No one moved. “I have my pick then,” he announced almost gleefully, dragging forward one of the boys that had been whispering behind me. The boy was shaking, and I really couldn’t blame him. Sir Piers was a big man and clearly enjoyed scaring his charges.
“Now, what is your name?”
“Ralph.”
“Well, Ralph, it’s your lucky day. Which faction do you want to end up in?”
“Combat,” Ralph squeaked.
“Yes, always with you first-years.” The man laughed.
“Now,” Piers continued. “Show me what you can do.”
“It’s n-not much,” Ralph stammered, snatching a twig off the ground. He began to stare at it intensely, and I knew almost instantly what he was going to do. Seconds later, the familiar sprout of tiny flames encompassed his stick.
Great, I thought darkly. Ralph didn’t even need to hurt himself to get it burning. A twelve-year-old showed more promise than me.
“Now,” Piers said after the twig had turned to ash, “I want you to run a mile—the course of the stadium’s circumference.”
Ralph’s face fell.
“What are you waiting for?” Piers barked.
Ralph took off like a jackrabbit, but about two minutes into the run, his pace slowed. I could sense his discomfort. None of us had dressed with a strenuous workout in mind. I was still wearing my dress.
For the next seven minutes, poor Ralph ran around the track huffing and puffing as the rest of the class watched, careful to avoid meeting eyes with Piers and becoming his next “volunteer” victim.
Eventually, a sweaty, shaking Ralph returned to take his spot in front of Piers.
“Light fire to another stick,” Piers ordered him.
“I—” Ralph choked, “—need… a moment…”
“NOW!”