Page 49 of Wings of War

A single machine gun—similar to the type installed on the airships—stood at the far end, and it was the only weapon Fieran’s unit was going to be rotating through certifying on today.

Fieran adjusted the army-issue earplugs that were stuffed into his ears. They were, at least, similar to the elven ones he was used to wearing at AMPC, though this mass-produced version was clearly of inferior quality.

There was a stir at the far end of the row of guns. Then a cluster of generals and high-ranking officers came into view, causing everyone in their vicinity to snap to attention and salute.

As Fieran saluted, he resisted the urge to groan. Among those generals was his uncle Julien, his thick red-brown beard and hair lacking any gray, though a few lines etched around his eyes.

Next to Uncle Julien strode Dacha in his elven leather and metal armor, his twin swords sheathed across his back.

Uncle Julien and the other generals saluted the recruits. Uncle Julien, at least, didn’t search out Fieran in the crowd, though he must have been aware that Fieran was there. The less attention Fieran had drawn to him, the better, and Uncle Julien would know that, having once been a prince undergoing basic training himself.

“Fieran Laesornysh, step forward.”

So much for not drawing attention. Fieran gritted his teeth on his groan and stepped forward out of line, keeping his gaze just over the lieutenant’s head rather than look at Dacha or Uncle Julien.

“You have been placed on special assignment under General Laesornysh.”

Now everyone standing there—not just his unit—knew he was being given special treatment because of his dacha. If the sergeants didn’t make his life miserable once they were no longer under the gaze of Fieran’s powerful father and uncle, then the others in his unit—those he wasn’t friends with—would see to it that he received a bit of mild hazing.

Dacha nodded to Fieran, then strode past the machine gun, heading out into the bomb range.

Fieran followed, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder at his unit.

His dacha strolled into the bomb range, avoiding craters in the dirt, until they reached a spot marked with a green flag. Once there, his dacha turned, facing him.

This far from the others, they didn’t have to be General Laesornysh and a lowly recruit. A brief smile twitched across Dacha’s hard face as he swept a glance over Fieran. “Elontiri, sason. You are well?”

“Yes. Army life agrees with me.” Fieran resisted the urge to hug his dacha. The others would see that, even from so far away. He was already going to get enough teasing for having his dacha pull him aside in front of everyone.

Dacha stepped forward, as if he was going to give Fieran a hug anyway, before a slight breeze kicked up and he halted, his nose wrinkling in that way it did when Dacha was disgusted by something.

The breeze curled around Fieran, and he got a whiff of his own body odor. He sniffed his armpit, then grinned at his dacha. “You don’t have to say it. We’ve been out in the field for a week. I’m a little ripe.”

His dacha made a non-committal noise, as if he didn’t want to agree and say his son stank but he also didn’t want to lie.

“Probably best if we avoid hugging.” Fieran tilted his head to indicate the unit he’d left behind. “Besides, getting singled out like this won’t help my standing with the guys.”

“I am sorry for that, but you need this training far more than you need that.” Any hint of a smile faded from Dacha’s face as his eyes hardened. “Because of your magic, sason, you cannot simply be one of the lowly recruits. You will always be called upon to step forward and do more.”

If only Dacha’s words weren’t so true. Fieran might have spent the past six weeks pretending he was nothing more than a normal recruit, suppressing his magic and ignoring much of the training his dacha had given him over the years.

But no matter how much Fieran wanted to pretend otherwise, he wasn’t normal. He might grit his teeth at special treatment, but he couldn’t hide from the fact that he was special. He had special written all the way down to his bones, and he couldn’t escape that.

He also couldn’t escape the burden of having to live up to the destiny placed upon him thanks to his magic and parentage.

Fieran nodded, then met his dacha’s gaze. “I understand. So what’s this extra training?”

Dacha faced the line of artillery guns pointed at them. “How to use your magic in battle.”

Fieran swallowed and nodded.

Dacha had taught them how to incinerate bullets with their magic, but they stood off to the side while Mama fired at a target. It had felt more like a game, trying to incinerate the bullet before it hit the earthen berm. At the time, Fieran had realized only in the vaguest sense that the training was a precaution in case some crackpot assassin tried to shoot Fieran or his siblings.

But this felt far more real, standing there beside his dacha on the bomb range and staring down that intimidating line of guns, their barrels black and ominous. Despite his magic, Fieran shifted at the sheer vulnerability of standing there without so much as a helmet for protection.

Dacha reached into his pocket and pulled out two sets of the elven moss earplugs, handing one set to Fieran. “This will be loud.”

Fieran took the earplugs and swapped out his cheap, army-issue ones for the better earplugs from his dacha. Beside him, Dacha tucked his earplugs into his ears, then motioned, probably to someone watching by the line of guns, to indicate that they were ready.

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