Kerauna Iumatar took the sheathed saber with trembling hands. Feeling its weight, she faltered for a half-beat on the stage, enraptured. In awe of the history she held, embodied in a symbol finally her own.

Remembering herself, she spared a harried nod of gratitude to Captain Tanhkmet before descending the other side of the graduation ceremony’s raised platform stage. But she couldn’t help but look back once she’d escaped from the terrifying focus of the assembled attendees. 

The pauldron of the Captain of the Imperial Guard’s plate armor glinted in the autumn sun, as he handed the next saber to the cadet-promote next in line. 

He’d been her personal hero since before she could remember. 

But she sighed, putting regrets out of mind, as she affixed the sheath of her new saber to her belt. Savoring the new feeling of its weight there, resting on her hip.

After three years as a cadet, she was at last a second lieutenant.

After the final salute to close out the ceremony and the dismantling of the raised podium, most of the former cadets nevertheless remained to intermingle on the Academy quad, reluctant to depart from their moment of triumph. And though Kera intermingled with no one, in passing she overheard enough to understand that her comrades spoke of their memories of the years past, recounting stories of their favorite sergeants or theory courses or hazing rituals. Alone in the crowd after taking her saber, she withdrew to the edge of the courtyard, hoping to avoid even the sideways glances of those gathering with their friends.

Her saber’s curved blade felt balanced to her trained arm when she drew it from its sheath, once apart enough from the others. The handle was wrapped in white silken fiber, over which swept the gold-inlay of the brass handguard. The insignia of the Patrol Corps of Setet were stamped into that guard and the pommel, the bezel shimmering as she turned it in the light. After looking over both sides of the blade, she gave it a few light strokes, and felt its blade whir, and waver.

Pride had otherwise eluded her during the day of graduation, but no longer. 

The noble history of the Empire had been made material, and awarded to her and her comrades. She’d read and re-read the many volumes of Campaigns and Conquests of Maxadin I as if they were holy scripture, and idolized their ancient champions and epic battles since her youth. But mere written word had just evoked the first sparks of her passion. A weight of that legacy realer than any secondhand account felt as if imparted upon her in the heft of the saber, itself. 

She vowed to herself then that she would do everything in her power to be worthy of it. 

Despite what she still struggled to overcome, she’d prove herself willing to answer the call of duty as any other officer of the Corps. 

But then she felt as though a hostile gaze had fallen upon her, and she looked across the crowd. 

After a moment, she spotted Pallas emerging from between two circles of excited new officers and heading her way. Eophon and Theodora, her lackeys, followed a step behind, as they had for years. Kera sheathed the saber resolving to appreciate it in even closer detail some other time.

“You two saw that, right? I could practically hear the rattling when she took it, she was trembling so bad,” said Pallas as she stopped in front of her, staring her down. “You’d think Captain Tanhkmet would know a weak link endangers everyone else.” 

She had an air of real indignation at the prospect of Kera’s achievement, as if it lessened her own promotion. 

“Why’d they really let you graduate? Were you just that good at telling some sob story? Was it pity? Or is it just because your mommy or daddy is someone important?”

The last bit stung, as Kera glared up at the taller woman. Kera’s mother had used her position to aid her acceptance into the Academy. Gaining admission would have been very difficult otherwise, if not impossible, given the meager martial utility of her vis.

‘How come you never try to provoke me without those two in tow?’ she imagined spitting back. ‘Are you scared of losing a fight to me one-on-one?’

It wouldn’t have been a bad retort. And she’d seen how Pallas had responded to others who’d used even an ounce of wit to stand up to her, in the past: how her face would twist, and she would so clearly struggle to maintain her composure when her wit came up short in forming a counter-reply. How she would have to strain in exertion to keep her fists unclenched, and at her sides.

But Kera saw the other two watching her. And though she wasn’t scared of a beating, amid the crowd of witnesses, still she felt her heart race, and her own voice freeze in her throat. At Pallas’ sharp words the attention of some other new officers had been drawn to the confrontation, too, making matters worse.

After another moment had passed, Kera found she could only stare down at the ground, her face burning red, and her hands trembling. 

Pallas snorted before she stalked off, almost in disgust, ramming past her shoulder as she went, and leaving her alone again in the vastness of the crowd.

* * *

The celebrations of the Nikalia carried on in the great city of Atum-Ra throughout the evening and deep into the night. 

As the shadows grew long, celebrants who’d confined themselves to the better-shaded parts of the outdoors during the day’s expanded their territory into the full streets and squares of the city. Soldiers who’d demonstrated their endurance and drill in the military parade watched in silence on shifts in alternating streets, ready to intervene to control a drunken riot if things got out of hand, but no such circumstances arose, and for the rest of the night the city was content with spirited but peaceful festivities.

The barracks of the Academy, as well, were taken over in celebration. Freshly-commissioned junior officers hosted the party to commemorate their graduation, and a blind eye was turned to the otherwise prohibited consumption of drink on Academy grounds. Those in charge of discipline had been once newly promoted cadets themselves, and thought it appropriate to afford the young blood the same night of carousing they’d enjoyed years ago, as was tradition.

Contrasted against the cool dry air outdoors, the warm and humid barracks was all the more enveloping, like being swallowed and digested. Kera felt it twice over, sitting near a door that swung open more than once a minute with the arrival or departure of partygoers. She nursed a cup of bitter wine alone, crowded on a bench between two separate intoxicated conversations on either her side.

She’d felt compelled to attend, and was even a little proud of herself that she had. But by then, more than anything, she wanted to leave. As the night drew on, her simmering fear worsened that people were staring at her, and pitying her state of solitude amid the evening. Or that they had noticed her visible anxiety itself, and were pitying her for that.

It wasn’t long before she found it hard to breathe. Trembling, she downed a larger draught of wine.

After a minute, her confidence rallied. Inspired, she resolved to experience the party to its end.

Then, after another moment, she realized that she was going to need more wine.

She stood, then weathered a head rush, seeing the sheer volume of others packed into that place. A few huddled groups played games, all involving drinking in some way or another. 

More than a few pairs were holding each other in some embrace, or even pressing their faces together. She watched one such pair out of purely anthropological interest, before half of the couple noticed her attention and stared back, and Kera’s stomach twisted as she remembered herself.

It was no easy task to wade through the mess. But after a good thirty seconds of ‘excuse mes’ and ‘sorries,’ and at last stepping over a prone young officer, Kera found the amphorae lined along the back wall.

She recognized again a familiar voice, though, just as she began to refill her cup. A tenor and tone that at once put her on guard.

Pallas sat on a reclining sofa fifteen feet away, next to her lackey Theodora, though her male companion was nowhere to be found. Winestains were dribbled all over the velvet cushions around her, and Kera noted her nearness to the alcohol repository. Theo, for her part, looked even more uncomfortable than usual by her side.

Kera took a sip of her new drink, which seemed to taste less sour than her last. Pallas was sitting across from a folia, she saw. One of her former roommate Fabian’s close friends. 

And she was coming on to him quite with aggressive determination. The folia lacked strength enough to squirm away despite his disinterest, so very drunk as he seemed himself. 

Fabian sat not three feet away from Pallas, engaged in some conversation with other partygoers, nowhere close to as drunk as Pallas or her victim. At first, it seemed as if Fabian was merely oblivious to what was going on. But as Kera continued to observe, she saw him throw a subtle glance back across his shoulder with nervous indecision, before returning to his conversation.

The cowardice of the betrayal struck her. She’d thought Fabian better.

She waited to see if anyone else was going to intervene, in any way at all. After hesitating, Theo brushed Pallas’ shoulder to get her attention for one reason or another, but Pallas swatted her away. Kera held out some final hope as Fabian stood, but it turned to righteous and indignant anger as he instead disappeared elsewhere into the folds of the party.

The miseries she’d endured those past few years swirled through her head, as she caught the corners of Pallas’ wolfish smile she knew all too well. She grit her teeth.

Kera almost even thought she was about to do the right thing, herself.

But then she saw that side of the barrack once more, and just how many other officers were lounging nearby Pallas. And thought of just how much attention she'd bring to herself, if she went over to stand up for the poor fellow. 

The aftertaste of the wine was like vomit in the back of her throat, and she could think of little else but how much she hated herself.

Pallas half-turned away from the young man. She held up both his cup of wine and her own, rapping them against a nearby partygoer as if demanding they be refilled. But But she either failed to get their attention, or was perhaps deliberately ignored. Lumbering to her feet with a scowl, she started pushing her way toward the amphorae herself.

Before Kera knew what she was doing, she’d finished her wine again, and was striding along the edges of the crowds toward the folia lying alone on the sofa, half-conscious.

The amphorae weren’t far, and Pallas didn’t much respect queues. She had no more than a few seconds.

“Are you feeling alright?” she asked the young man, leaning over the sofa.

His head lolled toward her with glassy eyes. He reply was an inaudible murmur.

“You seem in a bad way… can I help you to a friend? He could look after you, bring you some water…”

She pointed at Fabian’s circle. The folia nodded, but continued to mumble less than full words.

Kera couldn’t wait for something more concrete. Stepping around the sofa, she began trying to lift the young man to his feet. If only he could walk a few steps, she could help him to the custody of Fabian’s group, and so make them unavoidably responsible for his well-being that night.

Straining, she managed to pull him into a position at least sitting upright on the sofa. But then floundered in her final effort to bring him the rest of the way to his feet. Her cheeks burned pink at the thought that someone might be watching her pathetic struggle.

“Hey!”

The single furious syllable punched through the party’s noise like a gunshot.

The folia dropped back to the sofa as she whirled. Towering over her already, Pallas shoved her backward.

“Saw your chance while I was gone?” she spat. “Who the fuck even are you, you fucking… thing?”

Kera staggered back, and Pallas shoved her again. Through some miracle she didn’t lose her balance until she tripped over the body of the prone officer she’d navigated past a minute earlier. She scrambled back to her feet, but Pallas was upon her, ready to grab her by her uniform’s collar.

“You think you can take from me? You think you can? You lowborn—”

Pallas’ slurred tirade halted as she, like Kera, realized the relative silence that had fallen over all those around them.

Further away down the hall, the party continued uninterrupted. But everyone within that wing of the barrack had frozen in time, staring at the two of them.

Kera clenched her eyes shut. The huge and furious trained soldier standing above her was almost a refuge, compared to the focused attention of so many of her peers.

Pallas took another long moment to consider everything herself. 

“Why don’t… we… go outside,” said Pallas through her teeth, as if sporting. “Wouldn’t want to ruin the mood, would we?”

Some part of Kera knew she should stay indoors, where Pallas couldn’t hurt her without countless witnesses. 

But each heartbeat shook her whole chest, and if she remained there perceived by so many for even five seconds longer she was sure she would faint.

So she answered Pallas with a weak nod. Without hesitation, the other woman shoved her toward the door.

Kera’s body was warm with energy of one kind or another and so she felt no colder at the threshold of barracks. Pallas’ strong arm forced her out, before she could linger there on the edge of safety.

Kera stumbled out into the darkness before whirling again to face her assailant. A single dim lamp lit the courtyard, and only through its meager flickering could she see Pallas lumbering toward her. Backing her up, edging them both out of earshot of anyone who could’ve still been listening. In the bare and monotone light Pallas seemed to grow taller with each step, all the more imposing, as she fixed her with a vacant stare. Shrouded on all sides but one by the dark, it was as if she and Kera were the only beings in existence. 

But Kera’s stress had lesssend as she became certain they were alone. Her fight-or-flight response quieted, if still primed. Ready, almost, to take the beating she was about to receive.

“So… what are you going to do? You want to prove something?“ Kera probed. She didn't know if it was the right thing to say, but the absence of noise itself had felt dangerous.

Pallas smirked, her head swaying from side to side.

“I think we both know… I don’t have anything to prove… to you.”

The woman was arrogant, but Kera had to admit that a fair fight between them would be no contest. 

“Here’s what I want: I don’t have any issue with you. Really, I don’t.” Pallas grinned like they were old friends. She was a decent actor, but the fury still burned red-hot in her half-dilated pupils enough to keep the expression utterly unconvincing. “I don’t want much. I just want to get back to the party, have a good time—“

“That’s what you call it?”

Kera almost couldn’t believe what she’d just said, given the cirucmstances. But it was so much harder to remain silent, when she so clearly had the truth on her side, and alcohol in her veins. And when there was no one else to hear her voice quaver as she spoke.

Pallas’ lazy smile had frozen. The silence returned, twice as dangerous.

“You don’t know when to shut up, do you?” 

The wind blew, and neither of them felt it. 

But despite the almost palpable aura of wrath Pallas shed, Kera still found herself left with an ounce of almost suicidal conviction. 

“I just think you should know, that he didn’t want any part of you. Obviously, you couldn’t tell.” 

“You wanna know what we’re gonna do?” Pallas snarled. “We’re gonna – we’re gonna–”

Then her fist was sailing through the air.

The surprise of the attack would have caught Kera off guard, if not for the exaggerated, intoxicated drawing-back that telegraphed it. Kera blocked with a raised arm, but the blow still knocked her paces back. However clumsy, Pallas’ drunken roil still gave it gale-force strength.

She followed up with a hook from her other fist. But it was not as surprising as the first, and Kera dodged it entirely with a step backward, even as daggers of pain still lingered in her forearm from the first deflection. The missed swing’s savage power cut through the night, shoving the air aside.

Pallas took some time to regroup, after the failure of her opening volley. Kera edged backward, braced in her defensive stance.

She knew a sober Pallas would’ve ascertained her clear advantage without a second thought, and moved in to press the attack. But Pallas was in fact very not sober, and quite surprised that her first two strikes had been so ineffectual. She’d expected to finish the job in those first seconds, and so took a few more in labored recalculation.

Kera, on the other hand, had already determined the most plausible route of escape.

Adrenaline clarity triumphed over her own light haze of drink. There were two exits to the courtyard. One led into the city proper, and one into the corridors of the Academy’s arcade breezeways. Realizing her one potential advantage, Kera lunged toward those long hallways of reddish-brown stone, Before Pallas could reorient herself back onto the offensive.

An iron grip found purchase on the left sleeve of Kera’s uniform’s jacket before she’d slipped by. In pure reflex to the sudden resistance slowing her flight, she twisted and pulled with desperate vigor, pouring every last ounce into ripping the sleeve from the woman’s hold. Before Pallas could readjust her grip, the sleeve tore off at the shoulder.

Kera didn’t look back, bursting into a blind sprint toward the hallways. The heavy bounds of Pallas’ long strides thundered after her, so close behind that Kera expected another vice grip to pull her down at any moment.

But then Kera had crossed the courtyard. Slamming into the solid stone wall of the adjacent hall, she then shoved herself away, scrambling back up to speed down its length.

Her one slim hope had been for Pallas to drunkenly trip before the much more athletic woman could catch up. But before more than a few strides she heard again the heavy strides closing the distance. However much drink had dulled Pallas’ already meager wit, it’d clearly done almost nothing to weaken her physical ability.

Kera dodged around a second corner, then swerved again around a third. Sudden changes in direction were all that kept her still just out of reach. But after just a handful of seconds of the hardest sprinting Kera had done in her life, she turned a final bend into a long straightaway.

Panicking in the instant before Pallas rounded the corner after her, she seized the handle of nearest classroom door, threw it open, and dashed inside.

It was a classroom for the teaching of military geography. Maps of the southern desert and western mountains lined its walls, but Kera wasted no time inspecting her final redoubt. She spun back to the door she’d slammed shut, hearing Pallas stumble past for a moment, then reverse to grasp its handle herself.

Kera fell into the door to shove it closed the rest of the way, so that she might lock the bolt. But Pallas had already had her grip around the edge, the tips of her fingers wrapping around to the interior.

There was no other way out of the classroom. And so cornered adrenaline strength found Kera once more. 

She raised one leg, and pushed against a desk behind her, then threw all of her weight into a final kick. Her boot impacted right beside its knob, providing her maximum leverage.

That time, it was Pallas who was caught off guard. 

The woman wasn’t the brightest tactician even on the best of days, and it was certainly not her best of days. She’d only expected her quarry to evade, and was in no position to use her superior strength to resist a surprise counterattack. The door slammed shut on her fingers with a sickening crunch of snapping bone.

For a moment, in the night’s sudden stillness Kera heard only her immediate shuttering of the door’s bolt, and a sharp inhalation of breath from across the threshold. Another beat of complete silence lingered afterward, before the final release of a blood-curdling howl.

Kera looked down. The partial lengths of two fingers, bloody and paling, lay on the stone floor.

Pallas’ howl trailed away into a gasp after taxing the last dregs of her breath. A deeper, more focused and hateful groan followed afterward. That droning continued through her next few gasps, interrupted only when she stopped to scream various obscenities through the door.

Amid the horrible din, Kera heard a few steps on the other side of the wall. At first she thought that Pallas was giving up, perhaps setting off in search of bandages for her hand. But then the door shook with the sudden thudding impact of another kick thrown against it from the outside, the old wood reverberating in place as the iron hinges creaked.

Kera jumped. But the wood didn’t splinter even as the frame shuddered, and the bolt held in place.

Kera backed herself into the very furthest corner of the room, but the impacts grew weaker. Pallas’ emitted one last impotent howl of frustration, before settling on a more subdued drone of pain and self-pity. Then at long last, then, she heard the other woman slump down against the wall outside.

Kera fell to her knees. The two severed fingertips sat unmoving in their small crimson puddle.

She was safe. She was alone. 

As the woman across the door wailed, Kera counted down backwards from ten. When she reached one, indeed, she felt the slightest bit less afraid.

Had she just beaten Pallas in a fight?

Kera slowly started to consider what had just occurred.

She’d grievously injured a fellow officer of the corps. 

She’d face severe punishment, for one. Her career in the patrol corps might be over before it even began. Her lifelong dream, forfeit in a single night. 

But for some reason those worries just washed over her, then melted away. As though she’d just expended all her capacity for anxiety, at least for a short while.

Pained moans continued emanating from the hallway. Kera couldn’t resist a sudden, odd, but definite pity for the young woman on the other side of the door.

But then she heard Pallas call her dead father something unspeakable.

All building sentiment empathy was at once snuffed out, like a candle in the night’s chill wind.

The many ways Pallas had mistreated her and her classmates over the years came rushing back with a vengeance, as she stalked back over to the small pool of blood by the door.

Her boot rose and fell, as she stomped down hard. Once, then repeatedly, crushing and twisting the hardened rubber sole into finger-flesh and knucklebones, mashing the two severed fingers into a pulp. 

Destroying them so far beyond recognition that they wouldn’t be able to be reattached by the most capable surgeons in the empire.