Every year, hundreds die within the walls of Basgiath War College. It's no surprise that many are those who choose the Riders Quadrant. Dragons do not tolerate much, but neither do the ruthless gryphons on the outside of the wards.
At least...
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・・・ ・・・ ・・・
It's another two days of boring Basgiath necessities: reading another set of not-so-ancient tomes Jesinia snuck me on her Saturday shift when the guard was asleep; trying desperately to explain Lucerish grammar to Sawyer who still doesn't have much of a grasp on Navarrian grammar anyhow; the list goes on. Though, notably, no weapon's class on Monday morning since we finished our bow unit, which gave me ample reading time. My only small reprieve since I was once again denied Xaden's company is the book of old Tyrrish poems and festival songs—still written in Tyrrish!—Imogen was able to get for me from the Archives. It pisses me off I had to ask her to get it for me, because, unfortunately, it's not weird if she wants something in Tyrrish.
Dark and early—far too early to be anything remotely resembling the word 'bright'—Imogen and I are making our way down the six flight of stairs from the vault door to the Threshing field. Like most days, we're the first two students to arrive, and like every day, Imogen is grumbling about not being able to sleep in anymore like I'm the one who signed her name under mine. The Matthews offer a flick of their hands in acknowledgment before resuming their light conversation.
I furrow my brows at the small wooden table next to them. It's the same one they had on the turret tops on Conscription Day, some light and flimsy thing. It's bowing under the little weight of the few odd weapons scattered across it, one of which is that miniature-crossbow device Xaden had been toying with a few weeks ago.
It's only a few more minutes before everyone is here and the Matthews have finished their conversation. Denis isn't last today; Joyce is. I think Rhiannon had made a comment about a squad leader meeting happening this morning that could definitely explain that. "Good morning, cadets!" the Captain barks with a grin on her face. "I hope your day off was good." I roll my shoulders. I personally would've preferred being down here, but I think I'm alone in that regard considering the tire on my peers' faces. This class is the only semblance of a distraction from the ache in my chest I don't want to acknowledge.
"As per Cadet Gallagher's request, we'll be learning javelin as our next unit instead of transitioning straight into the longbow." I look over at Elva quickly, giving her a grin and a light smack on the shoulder when she pinches a smile she can't keep down. This little class has almost started feeling like a second squad, and I'd really hate to see any of them die, especially Elva. She reminds me so much of Sloane—and, frankly, every other first-year terrified for their life that I wish I could protect.
"Unfortunately," she continues, "Central Issue wasn't able to take the order of seven javelins, and the shipment of them from Samara hasn't finished yet." Even just hearing the outpost's name makes my heart patter a bit harder. "So we'll take today as one of our request days, which we usually sprinkle throughout the course anyway. We've brought a couple of non-standard options, and of course, feel free to ask about anything that has piqued your interest."
