Page 156 of Shadows in Bloom

Scilla looked around, shrugging. “Well, I guess it’s still early.”

That wasn’t entirely true. The clock in Ravenna had swung eleven times already, and that meant that in only one hour, the games would begin, announcing the start of the new school year. If they kept the pace this slow, they’d barely have time to get ready.

“Look, more Novarians are making their way inside,” said Oreon.

It was true. In the Great Hall, more noble families made their appearance, their names being called out by the clerk, followed by a wave of the correct flag. After a polite bow, the family was guided toward the right corner, careful not to let their eyes roam and look at the others.

So much for the Alliance.

“Cosmo hasn’t arrived yet?” Astor asked. Around them, people applauded for yet another arrival. Judging by the black and silver attributes, they were of House Staljord. “You know what he’s like,” Oreon grumbled. “Late, per usual. He’ll be here, he’d better be. He volunteered for the throwing contest, and I’m not going to do that in his place.” Astor chuckled and started counting the Novarian families, but lost track when Scilla turned over her shoulder. “Fourteen novitiates,” she said, smiling knowingly. “Nearly complete.”

Time moved swiftly when families started to intermingle, introducing themselves and their children to other Novarian nobles. They were families who owned large plots of cultivated lands, held trading firms or manufactured clothes.

Cosmo finally made his appearance by climbing onto Astor’s back, much to his parent’s disapproval, and the two boys hugged each other and grinned, clasping Oreon by his shoulder to grab him into their bear hug. The ice was broken, or perhaps it was the inevitable rising of the tension that would escalate in the games that were about to start, less than an hour from now.

The academy might be a toxic place, but it was also an environment for them to be with friends. Most Novarian elite had been privately tutored over the past years, where they had been groomed into intelligent, polite noble youth. They were the country’s future, the next doctors, lawyers, teachers and politicians. They were the country’s next Leopard, the general to its superior fighting machine.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Alliance, we would like to start by giving you all a warm welcome to the fourth year of the existence of Academiae Scientia,” called the voice of the clerk, the announcement dimming the fleeting whispers. It was time. The clerk lifted the blood-red and gold flag in the air. “Present is House Novar!”

They cheered, their voices booming against the walls, flying for the high ceiling only to tumble back and around them in tinned echo. The clerk put their flag into the flag holder, a narrow, metallic pole that stood in front of the largest diamond-shaped window and held up the next one.

“House Akotan!” More cheers and patting on shoulders from the group that stood closest to them, in past and present…

“House Staljord!” The clerk called out. He’d barely finished the words when the northern people held up their black necklaces and let out a shout at the ceiling. Astor’s father let out a disapproving grunt that was met with equal clacks of tongues from their fellow countrymen. Those savages. The way they’d wrecked Novar’s glorious nature as they’d marched straight through it on their way south to aid their helpless troops.

The clerk put the Staljordan flag next to the Akotan one. It was a simple, black banner with a silver circle at the center surrounded by a four-pointed star that formed a clear contrast to Akotan’s bright blue and yellow one, the boat it carried in the middle still lost in the waves.

“House Gaeta!” The clerk called and the barbarians howled their barbarian greeting for the unwilling world to hear. Novarians had seen the brown flag with that obnoxious thick and yellow cross drawn inside too many times on the battlefield. Even today, with the war over and done with, the treaty signed and Nethyr to protect them all from history repeating itself, the Novarian’s glower was fierce, their hatred fresh, as they stared at the brown-clad Gaetans. They weren’t welcome here and this school year would be a duplication of last years’—their hoaxes mostly targeted toward their southern neighbours.

“House of Darmayar!” The clerk called out.

What followed was silence, as they all stared at the pine-coloured flag that portrayed a solar disk with rays ending in small human hands. Their corner was empty, the Great Hall apprehensive. With every dragging second, discomfort rose.

Astor’s stomach coiled treacherously, a feeling he hadn’t had for five years since he had been with his father close to the Great Pass, where the final battle had taken place. Those hours had felt like a lifetime as their weakened army had held the attacker, famine and the vast number of wounded soldiers heavily demotivating the once invincible Novarian soldiers. He had barely been eighteen.

Turning his gaze to his brother, whose blue stare tried to burn a hole in the massive doors, Astor willed his mind to stay with him, here and in the present. He didn’t miss how his father had his hand already on his sword, surely feeling the aggravating discomfort as they waited. He wasn’t the only one. Around them, more families hadn’t needed long to grab hold of their arms.

Then, a thundering sound as the doors of the Great Hall opened, the wooden panels being pushed aside with painfully slow execution. Around him, someone cursed something, the words immediately extinguished by a clacking tongue. Further behind him, standing against the wall, awaiting for his service to be requested, Melas gasped.

And then they all stared at the commotion at the door. In walked a formation of metal and pine green uniforms. Their steps matched perfectly, making their march effortless. As they approached, Astor couldn’t help but notice that the wooden bows they carried were beautifully designed. On their shoulders, which were protected by metal pads, they carried arrow holders, a basket of some sort that stored numerous pointy arms.

But somehow that wasn’t even the most wondrous about their appearance. Perhaps it was the peculiar piece of art to the uniform they carried, a weird combination of green and metal that curled into one and other, covering them from their neck down to their feet.

“Have you seen their hair?” Cosmo whispered.

Astor nodded, frowning. Their hair was a tumble of golden curls that flickered in the candle light. It made their skin even paler and their eyes stand out.

They stared right ahead, into the void, as they passed the waiting nations and kept a perfect pattern of two rows in their approach toward the waiting clerk, who stood staring at them with large, surprised eyes, his mouth agape. They stopped with a communal lift off their knees, the metallic sound followed by a silence that dragged through time.

“Welcome,” the clerk finally managed, voice void of his earlier boom, the flag still held in hand.

Someone barked an order, and in reply they thumbed their spears onto the ground and shifted slightly, offering way to four people as they came forward and to the head of their small formation. Three boys and a girl, Astor saw, as he too squinted his eyes in an attempt to see clearer. His stomach fluttered. They bowed to the clerk, much like everyone else had done, but somehow it looked so different, so much more graceful, their movements in line with the curve in their uniforms.

The bow seemed to go on forever, but at last they lifted their chins and stared right ahead. Astor’s heart pounded when he gazed their way. Black lines were drawn around their eyes, and it gave them a regal look, these students who were chosen to be their country’s novitiates.

And then one of them stared right at him, the tallest boy of their group. Green and black collided with his own blue irises, and it suddenly made his heart stutter. The moment passed long before his heart stopped thumping violently.

“We are honoured to be here,” the boy spoke Novarian, voice surprisingly loud, despite the throaty edge he had to it. As if he spoke through a megaphone. Then he bowed his head again, and the movement did something to Astor’s sanity.

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