“You should get some sleep.” Larel knew of Vhalla’s imminent collapse just by the tone of her voice.
“Tomorrow’s the last day.” After the dream, her emotions were like an avalanche rushing toward the edge of a cliff. Vhalla was hopeless to do anything other than ride it out. She’d been hopeless at everything since her trial five days ago.
“It is, and Major Reale will only work you harder.” Larel’s voice was an extension of her resolve, as immovable as a mountain. She was the only grounding rock Vhalla had left.
“What’s the point?” Vhalla whispered through quivering lips. “I’m dead the moment we see real combat.” Originally, Vhalla had fantasized about what she would meet in the North—the war-torn land where she was commanded to march as a conscripted soldier of the Empire. But dreams and guilt had worn at her resolve until only a husk remained.
“You are not,” Larel insisted.
“I can barely do anything!” Her voice was pathetic, even to her own ears. But Vhalla was beyond caring. She’d summoned a false strength to make it through her trial, but it was gone now.
“Hush,” Larel ordered. The matter was no longer up for discussion. “You must sleep.”
Vhalla pressed her lips together. “Will you wake me?” she asked finally.
“I will,” Larel responded, as she did every night.
“I don’t know how I’ll sleep without you on the march,” Vhalla murmured softly.
“Don’t worry about that now, just rest.”
Larel kissed Vhalla’s knuckles softly, and Vhalla finally relented, closing her eyes.
Sleep was short, but it happened. Larel only woke Vhalla once more. It was an improvement from the previous four nights.
In the daylight Larel had the courtesy not to say anything about Vhalla’s night terrors. With the arrival of dawn, she departed Vhalla’s room quietly, leaving the Eastern woman to dress and prepare for the day.
Vhalla’s whole body felt stiff and sore, which made dressing take twice as long as normal. She rolled her shoulders and tilted her head from side to side as she shrugged on her black robe. Her reflection caught her attention: dark brown eyes flecked with gold were set upon a gaunt face and accentuated by dark circles. Even the usual yellowish, Eastern tan of her skin had turned ashen. Vhalla raised a hand to her short hair, remembering the afternoon following her verdict when she’d cut it all off.
“I hate it,” Vhalla declared, not sure if she was speaking to her hair or her reflection as a whole.
Her feet carried her against the stream of people heading toward the kitchens. She wasn’t hungry. Vhalla didn’t think she’d manage a bite today. She had one day left before she’d march away from everything she had ever known. Her normally small appetite had shriveled to a rock hard pit.
She entered the training rooms of the Tower, which encompassed the center of an entire level. The circular room was lined with a low outer wall that acted as a barrier for spectators and waiting trainees.
A woman already stood in the room behind a high desk.
“Major,” Vhalla called as she entered.
“Yarl.” Major Reale was a Southern woman who was built out of steel and was just as warm. A metal eyepatch had been melted directly onto her bone, covering her left eye. “You’re early.”
“I can’t stay away,” Vhalla retorted with a sarcastic tone, a tone that was beginning to permanently slip between her words. Vhalla didn’t know where it came from, and she was too tired to care.
“Well, you’re not working with me today.” The major glanced up only briefly before returning to marking up the papers on the desk.
“I’m not?” Vhalla didn’t know where else she’d go. She couldn’t leave the Tower per the Senate’s orders. She was still property of the crown until she saw the war in the North to its conclusion—or she died.
“The minister wants to see you.”
Vhalla knew a dismissal when she heard it, and Major Reale wasn’t exactly the friendliest of women to be around.
With breakfast underway, the Tower hallway was empty. Most of the residents packed into the kitchens a few levels up. As she passed the mess hall, the noise washed over her, but Vhalla was too numb to hear it.
Past her room and almost at the top of the Tower was the Minister of Sorcery’s office and quarters. All other doors held a name plaque on their fronts bearing the resident’s name. But the one before her had the symbol of the Tower of Sorcerers cast in silver, a dragon curling in on itself split in two: the Broken Moon.
Her eyes drifted upward.