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Chapter 10 - 9: WE'RE JUST UNLUCKY, BROTHER

"Have you all memorized the code of conduct by heart?"

The question struck the room. What had moments ago been a suffocating quiet now turned into a brittle tension that made every breath labored.

What Vellien meant sat plainly on the desks before them: the operational handbook. Dalen Rho had spent the morning combing through every line, explaining every term, drilling sense into clauses none of them would have cared to remember otherwise.

But archers were not scholars. Words did not cling to them the way arrows did to the string. However excellent they were—having endured the five grueling tests that earned them their place here—none had expected the Captain to begin the afternoon with a trial like this.

Soren's face barely shifted. In his mind, if he could loose shafts into living men without blinking, then answering a few questions should not trouble him. Books had always eluded him, and this kind of rigid expectation felt less like training and more like the whim of officers who loved to wield power through petty rules. Still, he was sure he had caught enough from the morning to meet whatever challenge this ill-tempered Captain might throw.

Vellien had not shifted his attention from Soren once. But when no answer came from the group, his gaze swept the stiff faces, and his expression darkened.

"Did Ignisant Rho not do his job, or what?"

The mention startled Dalen. He felt bound to answer, his words faltering. "I have conducted the session as per the training curricu—"

"I didn't ask you." Vellien cut him off without a glance, eyes fixed coldly on the ten silent faces. "What's wrong with all of you? Struck mute? Gone deaf?"

A single voice rose then, rough with controlled disdain. "Ignisant Rho has delivered the lecture, sir."

Soren.

Vellien's glare pinned him once more. "Then why did you keep your mouth shut when your instructor asked?"

"We weren't told it was expected of us to memorize everything in so short a time, sir," Soren said.

"Then what do you plan to do on the field?" Vellien snapped back. "Carry the book with you? You think this is still the Archer Corps, where you can stand in a line, loose a volley, and hide behind others?"

"No, sir," Soren replied simply. "This is the Ignis Corps. We've worked hard to be here."

The impassive expression Soren wore as he spoke those words only provoked Vellien further. "Then work harder. What you call hard work is nothing but slackness in my eyes." His tone turned into a growl as he addressed the whole group. "Listen well, bowmen. If you still think yourselves worthy of being Ignisants, then every word spoken in this course is to be taken into your blood the moment it strikes your ear. There is no room for mistakes in the Ignis Corps. Do you understand?"

Not a second passed before the reply. Ten voices rang at once. "Yes, sir!"

Soren's was among them, but his golden stare held steady against to the Captain's cold blue, the tension still crackling between them.

Vellien pressed on without a break. "Now I will ask, and I expect you to give me an answer. You hesitate—fifty laps around the Yard. You get it wrong—a hundred. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" All ten rang back.

"Good." Vellien lowered his tone, letting it stretch as his gaze drifted across the faces. It stopped on a brown-haired, green-eyed trainee. "You."

Aren Cael jolted. His back stiffened, his throat dried, and his words came out cracked. "Sir—Yes, sir."

"What is the number one principle when you are deployed for mission?" Vellien asked, watching every tremor in the boy's shoulders.

"Always—always deploy in pairs or trios, sir!" Aren shouted, his voice too loud, spilling panic.

Vellien's brow furrowed. "No need to shriek like that," he said flatly. His attention shifted without pause, pinning the blond Enari Heikka next. "You. Why is that?"

The sudden turn startled Enari, but he steadied his racing heart. "For accountability, sir. We ensure our partner doesn't defect, or mishandle the weapon. We also cover each other—one spots, one fires. And if our partner falls, sir, it's our task to recover the igniser before all else."

"Good." Vellien gave only a curt nod. "Trust your partner, but never loosen your vigilance."

He wasted no time. He turned next to the ash-blond Seppo standing beside Soren. "You," he called, then his gaze dropped to their name tags, catching the shared surname. A flicker of understanding passed in his narrowed eyes.

"What do you do if you discover your partner is a traitor—even if that partner is your own brother?"

The words froze Seppo where he stood. His skin prickled, hair bristling as though a storm had struck. He did not want to speak it, the weight of it pressing down, but the silence was worse. Lips tight with effort, he forced out the answer.

"...Execute at once, sir. If all evidence is clear."

Vellien's expression barely shifted. His reply landed heavy, laced with quiet contempt. "You hesitated. Fifty laps, after this session."

Seppo lowered his head. "Yes, sir."

Beside him, Soren's fists curled until the knuckles blanched, the fight kept tight at his sides.

Then the Captain's voice cut toward Soren. "Golden-eyed."

Soren lifted his chin, meeting the stare head-on. Waiting.

"What's the number one rule when operating an igniser?"

"Save Ignis rounds. Make every shot count, sir." Soren spoke without pause, stressing the last word like a challenge.

But Vellien was not finished. "Why?"

This time Soren froze. That part had never been in the guidelines. He was certain of it. He stole a glance at Dalen, still standing behind the Captain. Dalen's worried look told him enough—this was outside the handbook. But before he could draw breath to say so, Vellien's verdict fell.

"One hundred laps."

Soren only smirked, half-expecting it. His brother already bore his own sentence; better to run alongside him than let him carry it alone. His reply was firm, his tone stayed as lukewarm as his face.

"Yes, sir."

Satisfied, Vellien addressed the whole group. "Do you think Ignis rounds fly out of magic? You think there are only one hundred and twenty Ignisants for no reason?"

The response came back faltering, uneven, voices tripping over one another. "No... no, sir."

Hands clasped behind his back, Vellien strode the dais with deliberate steps, his eyes burning into each face as he spoke.

"Listen well, dirt-heads. An Ignis round flies because of what sits inside it. Pure, refined Ignium. Not the kind that lights your mother's house or signals retreat. No. The refined Ignium packed into one single round—" he drew the pause long, letting it weigh heavy, "—takes a wagon."

The words landed like stone. Ten faces went rigid at once. A wagon's worth of Ignium could light the capital streets for a week, yet that same measure would be expended in a single shot. The enormity of it all settled over them, the title of Ignisant no longer a badge of ambition but a burden of cost and consequence.

Vellien watched them, pleased by the growing realization on their faces. "So if you ever dare waste a single round," he continued, "you'll be sent back to whatever dung heap you crawled from. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" The answer rang out quickly, though the weight of it still sat thick in their throats.

"Good. Then understand this—none of you will be handling an igniser today. Not when you've proven yourselves so lacking," Vellien declared. "Sit down. Go through every line in that handbook until you can recite it in your sleep." His gaze snapped to Dalen. "See to it they don't leave until they can."

"Yes, sir," Dalen answered, stiff but subdued.

They exchanged a final salute. Then the Captain turned, boots striking hard toward the door. Just before crossing the threshold, he shot a glance back at the Bach brothers—lingering longest on the golden-eyed one.

"You two. Redeem yourselves."

Soren and Seppo inclined their heads, voices taut but even as they echoed the phrase of compliance. The door slid shut behind the Captain, sealing the room in stillness.

Dalen exhaled hard, holding back a groan. His day had just been stretched twice over. He returned to his seat with a weary slump and gestured for the trainees to begin. Pages opened in unison, heads bowed low, the room settling into silence broken only by the dry shuffle of paper.

By late afternoon the Training Center emptied, ten faces haggard from the strain of the day. Most dragged themselves toward the mess hall, but not the Bachs. Their debt remained. The brothers stepped into the Yard instead, coats flung aside, boots striking in relentless rhythm as they circled lap after lap. Dalen sat off to the side, yawning, one eye half-lidded on them.

The laps wore on. Seppo finished first, collapsing onto the dirt, chest heaving as he watched his younger brother carry on. Dalen had long stopped counting, his stomach gnawing with hunger, but he dared not abandon post.

Above them, the sky shifted from blue to orange to blood-red, then bruised purple. Still Soren ran. Only when the last light drained from the horizon did he stagger across his hundredth lap and crumple to the ground, body spent.

"Congratulations," Dalen drawled. "You made it." Rising stiffly from his seat, he trudged over to where Soren lay flat, staring up at the night sky. "I don't know what you did to earn the Captain's ire, younger Bach, but you're in for serious trouble."

Seppo approached quietly, brows knit, his expression grim as he looked down at his younger brother. He said nothing, only crouched nearby, silent in his worry.

Soren could barely manage air, words torn to ragged gasps. "Thank... you... sir."

Dalen sighed, rubbing at his jaw. "Alright. Catch your breath. But not too long, or the mess hall will be cleared out. I've no mind to starve for your sake." With a half-hearted wave, he turned and left, steps dragging toward his long-delayed dinner.

Seppo lowered himself onto the packed earth beside his brother, the night air tinged with the faint scent of birch bark. His gaze lingered on the pale trunks hemming the Yard, then flicked down to Soren, still sprawled breathless on the ground. His sigh came deep, almost weary.

"What aren't you telling me?"

Soren tilted his head, golden eyes meeting Seppo's hazel ones for a flicker before slipping away again toward the sky. "What?" His breath still came jagged.

Seppo studied him closely. "Don't do what on me, brother. What happened between you and that Captain? Does it have to do with that Ignisant woman from yesterday?"

Seppo had noticed it—subtle, but there. The change in his brother's face after leaving that conversation. A strange blend of joy pressed against worry, shadows and light crowding together. He'd nearly asked outright more than once, but Soren was skilled at burying what he didn't want spoken. After the unsettling clash with the Captain this afternoon, though, Seppo felt he had to.

A faint, tired smirk curled across Soren's lips. "We're just unlucky, brother. Stuck with that peevish man now." He pressed himself upright, joints stiff, then gave Seppo's back a light pat. "Come on. We'll starve if we sit here longer."

Seppo let the silence linger, then sighed, conceding. He was long used to his younger brother's way of pressing secrets down, leaving them like stones beneath the riverbed—always there, never turned. He rose and followed.

The mess hall offered little beyond routine: the same bread coarse with barley, the same meat and vegetable soup. Yet exhaustion turned the plain fare into sustenance enough. They ate in silence; by then, few remained in the hall.

When Soren left with his plate, Seppo thought little of it—until he returned with a linen-wrapped parcel in his hand.

"What's that?" Seppo asked, standing, ready to leave.

"Food," Soren answered simply, lifting the bundle.

Seppo frowned. "You're that hungry? You know we can't bring food back."

"Who said it's for me?" Soren's smirk was quieter this time, tinged with something Seppo couldn't read. "Go on ahead, brother. I've somewhere to be first."

Suspicion tugged at Seppo's face. Where could Soren possibly go, here, at this hour? His brother had grown restless since their arrival at the Ignis Compound, his steps no longer following their familiar rhythm. Still, Seppo only gave a reluctant nod.

"Don't be late."

Seppo left the hall, his tall frame vanishing into the dim-lit corridor.

Only then did Soren slip his hand into his pocket, fingers brushing the edge of a scarlet scrap. His lips tightened, then curved faintly.

He had noticed it earlier at the wash basin. On the cork board above, where the weekly menus and official notices always hung, a fresh pin caught his eye. Scarlet paper. It hadn't been there earlier at lunch. The marking on it was plain—one large circle, another smaller circle within, and a cross inside that. To most, meaningless. To him, unmistakable.

His chest had clenched, his breath caught, before softening into a smile.

The same spot.

No one else could have left it. No one else would have written to him in this way.

The linen bundle tucked beneath his arm, he stepped from the mess hall. Its lights dimmed to dark behind him as his boots carried him into the Compound's shadowed quiet, toward the secluded place where they had last spoken—before the Captain's arrival had cut their words short.

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