Page 28 of Veiled

Turning in the direction the noise had come from, we watch two figures emerge from the tree line to our left, striding with the kind of confidence that only comes from years of surviving this life. Both wear uniforms similar to ours, but where we only have Velcro name tags and our company patch, their name tags and rank insignia are sewn into their chest and right sleeve, respectively, along with their instructor patches on their left sleeve.

“Charlie Company, into formation!” one of the instructors yells.

We scramble into line, shoulder to shoulder, boots thudding into place.

The instructor who called us to formation paces in front of us like he’s inspecting livestock. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and with his sleeves rolled up, you can see faded tick-mark tattoos shrouding his arms to the point his naturally pale skin can barely be seen.

The woman standing next to him is short but fit, with twin dark braids pulled tightly back. While his experience shows on his skin, her eyes tell you she’s seen more than anyone should have to.

“Listen up. I am Captain Kael, and this is Captain Renwick,” the woman says, stepping forward, hands clasped behind her back. “While your combat class will focus on hand-to-hand combat forms, blade fighting, and reflex training, we will give you a crash course on what it means to be Vanguard. Over the next two classes we have you, we will judge how well you can shoot both standard and spell-enhanced weapons, and how well you follow orders.”

She gestures behind her.

“Take a close look at the Bravo Company recruits standing before you.”

I try to skip over Lucas in line, but his eyes are still locked on me, his lip curled up like I’m a pile of shit that he just stepped in.

“These recruits are already on track to become Vanguard and will serve as assisting instructors for this class. They’ll help teach, demonstrate, and evaluate you over the next month. If they give you an order, follow it.”

The Bravo recruits behind her look far too pleased with that announcement.

Renwick gives a faint grin. “Think of them as mentors—if your mentors were also grading your every mistake, reporting back to command, and could beat your ass in under ten seconds.”

I barely hear Matt mutter under his breath, “Mentors. Right. Fat fucking chance with him here.”

“Today,” Kael continues, raising her voice slightly, “you’ll get a preview of what it means to work as a unit. Grab a pair of weight plates—forty pounds total—and load them into your packs. Then grab an unloaded rifle from the crate.”

A few recruits hesitate.

“Now, recruits!” she snaps.

The weight plates are cold and rough, each one stamped with the Academy crest. I slide mine down into the pack's plate sleeves and pull the straps tight. The rifle isn’t unfamiliar; we’d handled them back home, but it feels different here. Heavier. More real.

“Company, line up!” One of Lucas’s buddies calls out after shouldering his rifle. We move fast, creating two rows, two people wide. The remaining Bravo recruits take positions surrounding our new running formation.

Professor Renwick steps forward one last time. “Today’s first objective is simple: an orientation run. Five miles through the forest. You’ll move as a unit; you’ll finish as a unit.”

Kael’s eyes sweep over us, cold and unreadable. “This isn’t about speed. It’s about discipline. Formation. Endurance. Teamwork. Bravo sets the pace. You keep up. If you fall out, you remediate on Sunday.”

Lucas shifts so that he’s directly next to me.

His voice drops, pitched low so only I can hear, “Hope you’ve been training.”

I ignore him. In all the years he’s spent tormenting me, he never took the time to really learn anything about me.

Matt nudges me, smiling, and probably thinking the same thing I am. “Most out of breath when we get back buys lunch on Sunday?”

“Aww, you want to buy me lunch this weekend. You’re so sweet,” I say, extra sweet and sugary.

“Move out!” Lucas barks, followed by a shrill blow of his whistle.

And we do.

The course starts deceptively easy: flat ground, an even dirt trail winding through the outer perimeter of the field. But within two minutes, roots jut up from the soil like traps, low-hanging branches sway with the wind, and the trail turns slick with scattered pine needles and loose dirt.

Lucas runs close on my right…too close. Every time I adjust my stride, he mirrors it, crowding my space. Once, his elbow clips my arm—not hard enough to draw attention, but deliberate. My pack shifts slightly, throwing off my balance.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “Wouldn’t want you getting marked down on your first event.”