Mess
Hall Tango – 11:50
The
Academy mess hall grinds along like a slaughterhouse draped in
civility. Long tables masquerade as polished oak, but the veneer is
thin, scarred by years of knives and elbows. Steam rises thick from
the serving line, carrying grease and spice, while fluorescent lights
buzz overhead like dying insects. Beneath the clatter of trays and
forced conversation, a thousand rivalries simmer, quiet, patient,
lethal.
Lucille
drifts through it all like a ghost that hasn’t yet learned it’s
dead. Cain walks beside her, taller, steadier, his tray piled high
enough for two. He matches her short stride without thinking, the way
he has since they were small, though even he senses the wire coiled
beneath her skin today, humming with violence.
She
loads her tray by rote: a square of cornbread gone cold at the edges,
pulled pork swimming in dark gravy, mashed sweet potatoes slick with
butter, collard greens bitter and overcooked, a fried catfish fillet
curling at the corners. Food for fuel, not pleasure. Calories counted
in survival, not savor.
Cain’s
tray is deliberate: smoked chicken breast dusted red with paprika,
roasted okra crisp and charred, cornbread still warm, green beans
glistening with butter. Chosen with care, enough to sustain, enough
to remember taste matters.
They
sit at an empty stretch near the wall. Lucille eats with mechanical
fury, fork scraping plate like she’s punishing the food for
existing. The scents cling heavy, sweet starch, fried batter, pork
fat, but they do nothing to warm the hollow under her ribs.
Cain
breaks first. He always does.
“Rough
mornin’?” Cain asks quietly.
Lucille
shrugs, eyes on her tray. “Tired.”
A
lie, thin as the steam curling between them.
He
doesn’t press. Tears into a roll instead, watching her bandaged
knuckles flex and tense. He fills the quiet with safe things: next
period’s field medicine, the instructor who loses his glasses
mid-lecture, whispers of surprise evaluations. Light topics, offered
like bandages over a wound he can’t see.
Her
answers come short, edged. But she listens. He knows she does.
Near
the end of the meal, when her assault on the plate slows, he tries
again, quieter.
“You
alright, Lucy?”
She
stiffens. Barely. “Told you I’m tired.”
Lie
number two, sharper.
Cain
nods like he believes it, but his eyes say different: I see you. I
know. Let me in.
Silence
settles, heavy, inevitable.
Then
the air shifts, sours.
Maelia
and Tiber stride in.
Lucille
doesn’t look up, but her shoulders draw tight as bowstrings. Cain
feels the change beside him like a blade sliding free.
Maelia’s
laugh rings out, high, crystalline, cruel. Tiber’s boots thud
heavier than necessary.
Lucille’s
spoon freezes halfway to her mouth.
Cain
sets his own down, soft, deliberate.
“Lucille—”
he starts.
Too
late.
Maelia
and Tiber drop their trays across the table with a clatter meant to
announce conquest. Maelia’s smile cuts clean. Tiber leans back,
smirk honed sharp.
“Well
now,” Maelia croons, voice bright as broken glass. “You two do
eat together an awful lot.” She tilts her head, smile
sharpening. “Folks might start thinkin’ Cain Aurellius has gone
soft on orphans.”
Lucille
chews mechanically, building walls bite by bite. Fork whites in her
grip.
Cain
tilts his head, calm masking storm. “Afternoon, Maelia.”
Tiber
leans forward, elbows wide. “Seriously? Domitian again?” He pops
a grape into his mouth. “You can do better than that, Aurellius.
She’s dead weight on your name.”
Lucille’s
breath snags. Fork trembles.
“She’s
better company than most,” Cain replies evenly.
Maelia
laughs, light and cruel. “Oh, don’t be dramatic. Orphans are
statistically—”
“Enough,
Maelia.” Cain’s voice cuts clean, cold iron beneath silk. “Sit
down, or walk away. Your choice.”
She
blinks, affronted. Tiber’s sneer deepens.
“Let’s
not pretend,” Tiber drawls. “If her folks wanted her, she
wouldn’t be Domitian trash. And if yours actually cared ’bout
your future, Cain, you’d cut her loose.” He smirks. “Right now
she’s just charity.”
Lucille
locks. Every muscle seizes. Teeth sink into her lip until copper
blooms.
“We’re
not—” Cain snaps, then reins it in, disgust sharp. “That’s
vile, Tiber. We’re family.”
Tiber
shrugs, lazy cruelty. “Exactly.”
Cain
sets his fork down, precise, controlled. The sound still cracks. “No
one knows what happened to her blood,” he says quietly. “You
don’t either. So stop spittin’ on things you don’t understand.”
His eyes harden. “You sound like spoiled children.”
Maelia
scoffs. Tiber rolls his eyes.
Lucille
shovels food faster, rage rising hot and ancient, fifteen years of
being unwanted, unclaimed, lesser. Skin prickles. Stomach knots. She
swallows fury with every bite, but it burns going down.
Maelia
picks at her cheese, oblivious. “You’re cruel,
Cain. Leadin’ her on like this.”
Cain’s
gaze snaps to her. “Leadin’ her how, exactly?”
Tiber
smiles slow. “Makin’ her think she’ll matter after graduation.”
He tilts his head. “She won’t. She’s a stray. A project. House
Aurellius isn’t gonna stain itself for a Domitian.”
The
words land like blows.
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Lucille’s
fork bends in her grip.
Something
inside Lucille fractures clean.
She
surges to her feet so fast the bench screeches across stone, tray
slamming the table with a crack that echoes like gunfire. Cain
startles beside her, fork clattering from his fingers. Heads snap
around, dozens of eyes pinning her in place.
Her
chest heaves, ragged. Voice comes low, trembling with something feral
scraped raw. “You stink.”
Maelia
blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You
heard me,” Lucille rasps. “Both of you.” Her voice shakes, ugly
and honest. “You stink like rot. Like sickness. Can’t stand
breathin’ the same air.”
The
hall quiets further, conversations dying mid-word.
Cain
sucks in air. “Lucy—”
But
she moves already.
Boots
hammer polished floor as she storms toward disposal, empty tray
crashing onto the stack, metal ringing sharp, drawing more stares.
Students shrink back as she passes, sensing the wounded danger
radiating off her like heat from a forge.
“Lucille!”
Cain calls, voice cracking. He bolts after, weaving through bodies.
“Wait, damn it, wait!”
Her
shoulders hunch tight, fists clenched until knuckles bleach beneath
bandages. Head down, she barrels on, every step a pulse of fury,
grief, terror barely leashed.
Cain
skids to a halt midway, jaw locking. Rage flares hot in his eyes. He
wheels back toward the table.
He
turns back, fury stripped bare. “You two,” Cain says, voice low
and lethal, “are pathetic.” A step closer. “Cruel.” Another.
“Arrogant.” His lip curls. “And too damn stupid to hear how
ugly you sound.”
Maelia
gasps, hand to chest. Tiber half-rises, face twisting.
Cain
doesn’t wait. He snatches his tray, shoves it aside with a clatter,
and stalks after Lucille, predator chasing the only thing that
matters. He won’t let their poison swallow her. Not alone. Not
again.
The
Halls of the Central Wing – Continuous
The
corridor yawns wide, vaulted ceilings soaring into shadow, faded
banners stirring in cold drafts that snake through the stone like
ghosts. The press of students thins; chatter fades to a dull murmur
swallowed by marble. Cain spots her ahead, small, hunched, fists
knotted at her sides, walking like every step expects a knife between
the shoulder blades.
“Lucille!”
His voice bounces sharp off the walls. Boots hammer faster, closing
the gap. Fingers close gentle but firm around her elbow, halting her
without force.
She
freezes, chin tucked, breath shallow and quick. Cain steps in front,
blocking escape, forcing her eyes up. His gaze holds, steady, warm,
unyielding. For one breath the vast hall shrinks to just them.
“I’m
sorry,” Cain says, low and sincere. “For every word they threw at
you. None of it’s true. Not a damn bit.”
Her
arm slips free, not angry, just brittle, breaking. “It
is true,” she whispers. “Everyone says it. Always have.”
Her
voice splinters. “I’m bad luck, Cain. Why would a prince waste
his time on trash like me?”
He
studies her too long, seeing the belief carved deep. He
steps closer. “I don’t give a damn what they think. Not Maelia.
Not Tiber. Not any of ’em.”
Her
shoulders curl tighter, bracing. He softens further. “We’ve
been side by side since we were five,” he continues, softer. “You
dragged me outta that river twice before we even hit twelve.” A
faint, fond breath. “You train harder than anyone I know. You’re
the only person here who never lies to me.” His voice firms. “I
can’t picture anyone else beside me. Not now. Not ever.”
Her
eyes flick up, testing, hunting for deceit. The storm inside her
quivers, eases a fraction.
“We’ll
be soldiers together,” he adds, a small honest smile breaking
through. “Maybe legends, if we’re stubborn enough. The kind they
carve into these walls.”
Lucille
swallows hard. Her jaw locks. Breath snags. The rage doesn’t
vanish, it buckles, folds, leaves a raw hollow space for something
fragile.
“Cain…”
Her voice cracks. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep takin’
this.”
His
brow creases. “Lu—”
“It’s
worse every year,” she presses on, jagged. “When we were little,
they just ignored me. Like dirt on their boots.”
Her breath
shudders. “Now they look at me like they want me gone.” A fist to
her chest. “I train harder. I study. I keep my head down. And they
still hate me, just for a name I never chose.”
Cain
edges closer, hand hovering, giving her room to bolt. She doesn’t.
“They
don’t hate you,” Cain says quietly. “They hate what
they think you are.” His tone hardens, certain. “And they’re
wrong.” A beat. “You ain’t cursed, Lucy. You’re the strongest
person I know.”
Her
eyes squeeze shut. She trembles, just enough.
“You
don’t gotta carry this alone,” he says. “And you won’t.” A
promise, steady as stone. “I’m here. Always.”
He
tilts his head, seeking her gaze again. “You’re
Lucille Domitian,” he finishes. “And one day every last one of
’em’s gonna choke wishin’ they’d treated you better.”
The
hall blurs, banners, whispers, cold stone fading to grey. Something
loosens in her chest, fragile relief threading through the ache.
Cain
squeezes her shoulder once more, nods down the corridor. “Come
on,” Cain says, gentler now. “Korvin don’t wait.”
A
ghost of breath escapes her, almost laughter. He smiles, relieved,
and slides his fingers through hers, warm, certain, a promise. He
tugs gently. “Let’s go.”
Her
steps match his without thought. She glances at their joined hands,
the subtle press when bodies crowd too close, the quiet shield he’s
always been. Something stirs warm and confusing beneath her ribs. She
shoves it down deep with the anger, the hurt, the loneliness.
“Almost
there,” he adds with a boyish grin. “Try and keep up.”
She
nods, grip tightening instinctive.
Hand
in hand they move through the river of uniforms, two against the
weight of cruelty and rumor. Something quiet has shifted in her,
irrevocable. A small ember of trust takes root beneath ash and scar.
For
now, it is enough.
Period
5: Advanced Weapons Practicum – 13:00
The
period bell tolls heavy, like a heartbeat from the Academy’s iron
core. Cain squeezes Lucille’s hand once more before they step
inside.
The
room bites colder than the rest, not air, but intent. Desks align
with surgical precision. At the front, Korvin’s station looms dark
and empty. Holographic boards flicker ghostly blue. The far wall
stands bare, stone etched with faint grid scars, a silent altar to
discipline. Weapons hang racked beneath recessed lights: blunted
swords, weighted polearms, shock-staves, paired daggers, exotic
blades from distant wars. The air reeks of oil, steel, and the thin
metallic taste of fear.
Cain
guides her to their usual seats, back third, shadowed enough to
breathe. She sits, shoulders drawn, but her breath evens. He watches
without seeming to.
The
room fills. Seraphine settles behind Lucille, hair pinned merciless.
Dacien and Caius whisper venom, still chewing lunch’s drama. Rhen
Tiberion ducks through the door like a siege engine, blocking light
before settling.
Then
silence falls like a blade.
Varian
Korvin enters.
No
stride, no sound, just presence stretching across the floor. Uniform
black with silver trim, sleeves rolled, one sheathed practice blade
in hand. Silence doesn’t follow him; it arrives ahead.
He
walks the aisles slow, gaze dissecting, reading bone, muscle, intent.
Lucille’s
spine locks. Cain swallows.
“Good
afternoon,” Korvin says, voice soft, surgical. “I am Instructor
Varian Korvin. This is Advanced Weapons Practicum.” A pause.
Silence deepens. “You will learn weapons of war. Not ceremony. Not
pride. Survival.”
He
sets the blade down with a click like a round chambered.
“No
wood. Blunted steel only. Anything lighter lies about weight, reach,
and death.” A beat. “You will adapt. You will not waste my time.”
His
eyes linger on Lucille, long enough to catalog the fresh blood
darkening her bandages.
“Rise.”
They
obey as one.
“Formation.
Left.”
Bodies
flow, some graceful, some trembling. Cain’s shoulder brushes hers,
anchor.
Korvin
stations himself by the racks, hands clasped behind like a resting
predator.
“Swords,”
he says. “One-handed. Standard issue.”
Steel
passes hand to hand. He watches every grip.
Lucille
takes hers steady, blood seeping anew. Korvin notes it, neither pity
nor praise.
“Lines.
Offensive.”
He
prowls, correcting with lethal economy: nudge an elbow, tilt a wrist,
murmur that cuts deeper than bark. Stops behind Lucille.
She
stills inside, breath measured.
He
stops behind Lucille.
“Your
form,” Korvin says quietly, “is not textbook.”
She
adjusts, settles into the stance earned in isolation and pain.
A
breath. “…Effective.”
Whispers
ripple. Cain’s eyes widen. Seraphine’s jaw sets hard.
“Cease.”
Blades
rack. Polearms distribute, long, unforgiving.
Lucille
steps in. Seraphine crowds close behind. It comes subtle: a polearm
hook disguised as clumsiness, a trip meant to humiliate.
Lucille
stumbles, catches balance, recovers silent. Cain’s head snaps. Eyes
flash warning. Smirks flicker around them.
Korvin’s
voice slices clean: “Domitian.”
She
meets his gaze, world narrowing to cold assessment.
“You
lost your footing,” Korvin says. “Again.”
No
excuse forms. “Yes, Instructor.”
“Correct
it.”
He
moves on.
Lucille
resets, precise, lethal, untouchable beneath Seraphine’s glare.
Korvin
watches. Silent. Weighing.
She
has been seen.
Not
praised. Not spared.
But
marked.
In
this room, that is everything.
Grand,
shadowed academy corridors, vaulted stone, banners, isolation.
Intimate
moment of comfort between young survivors.
Cold,
precise weapons training hall, racks of blunted steel, unforgiving
light.
Korvin’s
quiet, predatory authority over the class.
