The Hidden Mark

War College

In the best interest of preserving peace within Navarre, no more than three cadets carrying rebellion relics may be assigned to any squad of any quadrant.
- Addendum 5.2, Basgiath War College Code of Conduct

We are back in silent formation in the courtyard, squinting into the early sun, listening to the names of the seventy-one people who didn't make it through Conscription Day.

"Fred Weasley, Danika Fendyr." Captain Fitzgibbons reads from the death toll, flanked by two other scribes on the dais.

This morning, we are all in riders black, and there's a single silver four-pointed staton my collarbone, the mark of a first-year, and a Fourth Wing patch on my shoulder. We were issued standard uniforms yesterday, summer-weight tight-fitted tunics, pants, and accessories after Parapet was over, but not flight leathers. There's no point handing out the thicker, more protective combat uniforms when half of us won't be around for Threshing in October. The armored corsets Mira made for Violet and I aren't regulation, but it fits right in among the hundreds of modified uniforms around us.

My skin is agitated from wearing the armor all night like Mira suggested, and my back aches, but I resist the urge to adjust the wrap I managed to put on in the nonexistent privacy of my bunk in the first-year barracks before anyone else woke up. It's easy waking up early, having lived with Violet, who had to wake up early everyday for her training when she was aiming to enter the Scribes Quadrant.

There are a hundred and ten of us on the third floor of the dormitory building, our beds positioned in four neat rows in the open space. Jack Barlowe was put in the same dorms, but even if he wasn't, I'm not about to let any of them see my weaknesses. Not until I know who I can trust. Private rooms are like flight leathers- you don't get one until you survive Threshing.

After the last twenty-four hours  and one night in the third-floor barracks, I'm starting to really notice how this quadrant is a very strong mix of we-might-die-tomorrow hedonism and brutal efficiency in the name of the same reason.

"Jem Carstairs." Captain Fitzgibbons continues to read, and the scribes next to him shift their weight. "Elena Gilbert."

I am trying to to keep track, but after hearing Dylan's name, I lost count. This is the only memorial the names will get, the only time they'll be spoken of in the citadel. I know Liam is trying to commit each name to memory as well, but there's just too many for the both of us.

"Roran Garrowsson." Captain Fitzgibbons closes the scroll. "We commend their souls to Malek." The god of death.

There's no formal conclusion to the formation, no last minute moment of silence. The names on the scroll leave the dais with the scribes, and the quiet is broken as the squad leaders all turn and begin to address their squads.

"Second- and third- years, I'm assuming that you know where to go. First-years, you won't get another chance to eat until lunch, so you better have ate breakfast. Hopefully one of you has memorized your academic schedule when it was handed out yesterday." Our squad leader, Arya's, voice booms over us. "Stick together. I expect you all to be alive when we meet this afternoon in the sparring gym."

Fuck, I'd almost forgotten that we're sparring today. We only have gym twice a week, so as long as I can get through today's session unscathed, I'm in the clear for another couple of days. I hope Violet and I have gym together, I need to keep an eye on her. Once we both make it through today, I need to start her one-on-one training. She will learn to fight and survive the Gauntlet, Presentation, and Threshing if it's the last thing I do.