“Besides, the Castle of Nigh will not fall, because we will not fail in our mission. Just this morning, a unit returned from the Shadowthorn having narrowed in on Qaeus’ position. Soon the Primordial will be slain, the Blight destroyed, and the castle salvaged.” Alphonse clasps his hands behind his back, a vision of arrogance and aristocracy. “Any other questions before we begin?”
I’ve pushed my way to the front of the group before I’ve even realized my feet are moving. “Let us help,” I say. “Last night…we were treated like we were useless, but we could help. Either defending the east wing or by going into the Shadowthorn. Let us fight.”
“As much as I’d love to send you, especially, to an early death, it would be negligent to assign recruits to two of the most crucial Crusader stations. The castle must remain defended by the most experienced among us, lest it fall, and only Crusaders are assigned shadowsteel and necro-ink in order to enter the Blighted zone.
“However, due to our heightened need for actual trained Crusaders, and given that the Magistrate himself has taken an interest in the recent scourges here, your training will be accelerated. Starting today, recruits will be expected for physical training thrice daily: before breakfast, before lunch, and before dinner. No exceptions.”
Quiet groans rise from the group. Training twice daily has already pushed our bodies to our limits. I wake up sore, I stumble through my day sore, and I plummet to my cot sore. I’m tempted to tell him that he’s demanding too much, but the hard line of his eyes suggests that if anyone should disagree, he will cut them down where they stand.
Lest he see the disagreement in my eyes, I avert my gaze to the dirt.
“There is good news yet, though,” he continues. “In addition to an accelerated training protocol, the commanders and myself have decided to commence your training with shadowsteel.”
I look back up as he takes a wide sidestep, revealing a rack of glistening silver weapons behind him. The shiniest silver I’ve ever seen gleams, even from the dark shadows cast over us from the tall castle. Blades that are curved, blades that are straight, blades that are short and long, and even some that aren’t blades at all. An arsenal of pikes, halberds, longswords, claymores, rapiers, and every other type of weapon imaginable are presented to us like a feast.
Everyone is antsy on their toes, but no one is brave enough to approach the selection without explicit instruction.
“Güthric,” Alphonse calls out. “You may come select your weapon.”
The large man grunts, a devious smile splitting his face as he pushes through the recruits to make his way to the collection. I don’t think anyone is surprised when he pulls out the largest, heaviest mace I’ve ever seen.
Turning to face us, he grips the wooden handle and swings the spiked shadowsteel ball overhead to slam it into the ground with a thunderous crack. He pulls it back up, eyes it approvingly, and rests his new weapon over his shoulder before returning to the group.
One by one, Alphonse calls his recruits up and they select a weapon. Dimitri is called shortly after Güthric and selects a broadsword for himself, a blade that complements his sturdy stature and dependable personality and seems to suggest he should’ve been wielding one all his life.
Silver’s called a few recruits after him, pulling from the pile a long pole with a scythe-like blade that curves at the end, sharp enough to eviscerate any of the monstrosities we may face in the Shadowthorn.
Fox and Sai both select shortswords, though where Sai’s is straight and heavy, Fox’s has a slight curve to it, a sleekness that suits her beautifully. Maxwell grabs a lance, jabbing the air with the pointed end like he’s trying to clear cobwebs.
My hands ball into fists at my sides, as one by one everyone goes up, except me.
“I guess that just leaves you,” Alphonse says when I’m the last one left. He examines his own shadowsteel sword, a light and thin blade that is nearly invisible until it catches the light, and gestures to the remaining collection of weapons. “Hopefully, you’ll find something of interest among the scraps.”
Hatred bubbles inside me, hot and full of rancor. I’m so tired of his mistreatment, so tired of him acting like he’s better than me when he’s not. I’d rather crack him in his jaw than go up and grab my weapon. Thanks to my brother, I already have shadowsteel anyway, so it’s not like I need another.
Then again, a dagger is hardly a great weapon to hold when facing a demon scourge. Its best asset is that it can be used in a tight space, if I’ve been tackled and pinned by a demon, and have no other range of motion but to slip my hand to my waist and rip my blade out.
But if I were facing multiple demons—dozens, even—I’d want more than a dagger to defend myself with. I’d wanted more than a dagger the day I faced the demon that’d killed my parents. I’d wanted every shadowsteel weapon known to mankind at my disposal.
Dimitri nudges my ribs, pulling me away from my hateful memories.
“Go on,” he mutters out the side of his mouth.
I do as he suggests and step forward. The wooden apparatus that had just moments earlier been overflowing with weapons is now sparse. My options are limited. A half-dozen daggers remain, and it’s no wonder considering we are only given one shadowsteel weapon, and as I’ve already said, a dagger is only handy in a few, specific instances. I need something more than a dagger at my disposal, something with range.
I glance over the remaining broadsword twice my size, aware just by looking at it that I wouldn’t even be able to lift it, let alone wield it in a fight. A spear remains, a weapon that would be light to carry, but one with limited applications in a fight. Stab or throw. Stabbing is limited to only those I’d be facing head-on, and throwing anything that I could use in a fight seems absolutely reckless and counterproductive.
The thick, shining club tempts me little, as well. Without an actual blade to slice into the demons, the only way I’d kill one with a blunted weapon would be to bludgeon them to death. I’m not sure I have the muscle, nor the stomach, for such a strategy.
But my eyes fix on one of the weapons I haven’t even noticed until now. A battle-axe leans against the back of the container, a few broad swords resting on top of it and blocking most of it from view. The only reason I even notice it is because of the black skull, stark against the rest of the silver, pressed beside the blade of the axe. It is truly demonic by nature, a carving from bone then singed in fire until it blackened. There is nothing but hatred and malice in the carving’s hollow eyes. Four horns stem from the top of its skull, and two more curve down like tusks.
I recognize the depiction immediately as the fallen Primordial Khunas. I might not have even recognized it if it weren’t for my trip to the library, the day I stumbled onto the tome of the deaths of the Primordials. The book had said Khunas was beheaded by a double-blade axe, and my recollection sends a thrilling chill down my spine, one that has me shoving the other swords aside so that I can pull the axe out and bring it closer.
Whereas the other recruits took their time in examining the ancient Arcathainian etchings of their blades, running a finger over them to test their sharpness, and looking for any chinks in the shadowsteel, I glance over the axe quickly.
Instead I stare at the black skull, my thumb tracing idly over the horns. When I pull my finger back, I find no sign of soot or ashes there and confirm what I already suspected was true: the bone was not singed by fire; it was already black to its very core.