Collin stared at it, blinking. He reached for the sealed missive with reluctant fingers, already imagining fines or disciplinary hearings. “A summons? For me?”
The guard ignored the question. “Where is Aries of Chroma? Records show he resides here, in the former home of Jiah, now deeded to you. Is that correct?”
“Yes. But Aries is working at the forge today.” Collin’s brows drew together. Aries hadn’t missed a shift in weeks. “Is he being summoned too?”
Wordlessly, the guard extended a second envelope. “Give this to him,” he said curtly, and turned on his heel without another word.
The guard strolled across the yard. He didn’t so much as glance down when he trampled a blooming patch of love-in-idleness near the fence—and didn’t bother to close the gate behind him.
Collin returned to the table and stared at the envelope as if it might bite. His eyes lingered on the golden seal—Lord Montigo’s crest glinting in the lamplight—then noted the inscription beneath it:Collin of Chroma, penned in an elegant, deliberate script.
As if the paper might uncoil and strike if handled too hastily, he drew the missive out with measured care. Unfolding it, he read:
27th of April, Year 501
Recipient: Collin of Chroma
You are hereby summoned by decree of Lord Montigo’s Royal Guard. All individuals residing in the territories of Crimisa, of age in the last three years, are required to answer this summons.
You are to present yourself in Chroma’s main square at noon on April 30th, Year 501. Bring this letter, your primary weapon of choice, and any additional arms in your possession.
Attendance is mandatory. Any individual who is late or fails to appear will face imprisonment or a fine at the discretion of the chief steward.
—Lord Montigo’s Royal Guard
The flickering candlelight on the table did little to warm the mood as Collin and Aries sat down to dinner.
“Why do you think we’ve been summoned?” Collin asked, voice low. The tightness in his chest had lingered for hours and still refused to budge.
Aries didn’t answer right away. He was staring at his summons again—creased and soft at the edges from being handled too much. “I wish I knew,” he said finally, eyes scanning the paper as if a hidden message might suddenly reveal itself.
Collin picked at his bread without appetite. “Very generous of them,” he muttered. “Two days’ notice. Makes you feel real special.”
Aries dunked his bread into the thick gravy with a frustrated sigh. “They could’ve warned us a week ahead. Or, you know, at all.” He tossed the missive to the side and reached for another heap of beans smothered in melted goat cheese. “Maybe they’re short on guards. Though I haven’t heard anything.”
“That’s not how they’ve done it before. They usually just assign roles after graduation, right? Quietly. No summons. No spectacle.”
“They assigned Nic and me once. We said no. Got shuffled somewhere else instead.” Aries sounded too nonchalant. It wasn’t reassuring.
The tightness in Collin’s chest spread to his stomach. The whole thing felt... off. His spoon stilled in his bowl of creamy soup. He wasn’t sure if the queasiness creeping up his throat was nerves or just another round of over rich goat’s milk.
Arion had returned from White Wood with two nanny goats and their kids in tow. Too much milk, too little use. Permits and taxes were a hassle, so instead he gave the stuff away—buckets of it. Collin and Aries were doing their best to not let it go to waste, but every meal now reeked of sour cheese and goat’s cream. The novelty had curdled.
“Maybe no one wants to be a guard anymore,” Aries said, chewing loudly through a slice of roast pheasant. “They’re running out of volunteers.”
Collin forced a laugh. It came out thin. “Hope I’m not what they’re looking for.”
Aries groaned and dropped his fork. “They already tried sticking me once. Doubt I’ll get out of it again.”
Collin lifted the bowl in a mock toast. “To boots that leak and roofs that don’t—” And then drained the soup in a single gulp like it was medicine. Or a shield.
He thumped the empty bowl onto the table. God... He shouldn’t have finished it. His stomach lurched. “Remind me to tell Arion—no more goat’s milk,” he said, voice muffled by the napkin he pressed to his mouth.
Collin and Aries reached the square twenty minutes early, boots crunching over gravel. The crowd had already begun to form, a nervous thrumming of bodies and whispers. They stood in line until a weary-looking steward took their letters and checked off their names with a charcoal-smeared thumb.
Collin tucked Lumen under his arm and glanced around, as if the crowd knew something he didn’t—and no one planned to tell him.
Dragonfly sat alone on a stone bench, her posture rigid, weapons resting across her lap. She looked like a statue posed for judgment—still, silent, bracing for a sentence.
