The Firing Grounds stretched wide beneath the bright midday light, an open expanse lined with multiple firing lanes. Human-shaped targets stood in fixed poses along each track, staggered at varying distances—the nearest no closer than fifty meters, the furthest reaching three hundred fifty. At the far end, a fortified wall loomed, swallowing every round before it could wander farther. Twin observation towers flanked the range, silent, empty, watching.
The trainee Ignisants stood straight-backed, eyes fixed forward, jaws tight, as if locked into the posture itself.
Where Dalen Rho usually held court, the man had not disappeared so much as slipped into the background. He sat on a bench with a long, black igniser across his lap, his hands moving steadily along the barrel. A sharp alcohol tang rose from the liquid he poured into the cloth, every motion deliberate, mechanical.
Someone else had taken his place. platinum-haired, eyes cold, her face stripped bare of expression.
"Hi," she said shortly, her voice subdued but clear. "I'll be leading the demonstration today."
The trainees could hardly believe what they had just heard.
Only that morning they had filed into the Training Center for another round of theory with Dalen—ignisers, their workings, their parts, how to break them down, clean them, reassemble them. Nothing but dry instruction. Practice was promised for the afternoon.
Then, just before lunch, came the announcement: Captain Tressine himself would lead the live session. Panic had spread at once. They spent the meal bent over notes, shoving information into their heads, expecting a grilling that would strip them bare.
But no. Their effort had been wasted.
When they marched out to the Firing Grounds, they found Sina Clemens at the bench, waiting. A quiet exchange passed between her and the Captain, and in the next breath, Dalen Rho was relegated to the bench with his cleaning kit, while the platinum-haired young woman stepped forward, claiming the session as her own.
Her name had never appeared on the training schedule. They would have sworn to it. And yet here she was, making her declaration, while the Captain himself had been brushed aside.
Vellien Tressine, standing at the flank, looked just as startled as they were. In her short exchange with him, Sina had simply said she was leading the demonstration at the Marshal's request. She could be evasive, even flippant, but she would not invent such a thing. The Marshal had already burdened Vellien with the task of drawing her into the training program; if anything, he ought to be relieved that she had come on her own, sparing him the effort of coaxing her. With no grounds to object, he had to accept the sudden change.
As for Sina, her own presence surprised her almost as much. This was no whim, no stray decision made on a restless morning. It was deliberate, chosen. A direct response to a request. She had not woken and decided to involve herself in something she detested. No—earlier that very morning, she had stepped into Killian Denelle's office, pressing the old man for answers on another matter entirely.
"Was it all your plan?"
Sina pushed through the door without knocking. The Marshal's hapless aide stumbled in after her, his face an expression of a man already begging for forgiveness for failing to restrain the unruly, ill-mannered Ignisant now standing before his superior.
At his desk, the Marshal looked up with a calm, unreadable face. One brief wave of his hand dismissed the flustered aide.
"That's a cryptic way to begin a conversation," he said evenly, eyes already drifting back to the papers before him.
"Don't play coy with me, Marshal Denelle. You already knew Soren was one of the trainees?" She moved closer to the desk, her gaze fixed on him, searching for the faintest shift.
Killian gave her nothing. "The little boy has grown, hasn't he?" His tone was mild, as though they were speaking of the weather. His eyes never left the page.
"Answer my question." Both palms struck the desk, her body leaning in, her soft voice sharpened by the ice in her stare.
"Of course I didn't recognize him at first," Killian said at last, flicking the paper aside with a shrug. "But when the Shadow Corps reports reached me, I knew. The boy from Avendria had made it farther than I could ever have imagined."
Her brow arched. "And you think he's here just to pursue a career?"
"I think the boy has rare talent." Killian set the papers down and finally looked up at her, his gaze deliberate, unblinking. "Talent worth honing under the right hand."
Her eyes narrowed. "You want me to train him."
"Why not? You're the finest the Corps has seen since its founding." His words were casual, almost too casual, as he poured tea from the pot at his side.
"Listen well, Marshal Denelle." She leaned closer still, her voice dropping to a whisper edged in warning. "There's no way I'm taking Soren as my partner. Whatever you're scheming, abandon it."
"I never mentioned partnership," he said, unruffled, still pouring. "I only suggest the boy might flourish with your guidance. If he proves himself, he'll be an asset to the Corps. And perhaps, one day, to Nivara."
Before his hand could reach the cup, Sina seized it, dragging it away with a sharp sneer. "Sounds like a fine investment. But I must refuse. I've no time for such things. His basic training will take weeks, won't it? I won't wait. I'm leaving next week."
Killian folded his arms on the desk, gaze lingering on the stolen cup with a hint of regret. His tone, however, stayed calm. "That would be a shame. But perhaps you could still join a session or two? You've little else on your plate while you're here, do you?"
She set the cup down hard, dismay flashing across her face. "How do you know I don't?"
The Marshal remained unbothered, reclaiming the cup at a slow, steady pace. "Come to the Firing Grounds, early afternoon. The boys will have a live session. Show them the ignisers. They look up to you. Inspire them."
Contempt shadowed her features. "Fine." She straightened abruptly. "Just one demonstration."
Her heels struck the floor like a storm as she left, unwilling to linger—fearing that if she did, the Marshal would draw still more from her.
Behind her, Killian settled back in his chair, the tea warm in his hands, each sip as satisfying as the quiet victory it crowned.
And that was how Sina found herself at the Firing Grounds that afternoon.
The demonstration, though, was nothing like she had pictured. Ten pairs of fresh, untested eyes followed her every motion, and somehow their gaze felt heavier than a hundred guests at a palace banquet. Maybe it was because the palace had always been familiar, a place she could navigate blindfolded. Years of her tutors' sharp eyes—and her parents' sharper ones—had numbed her to scrutiny. But this was different. This wasn't performance. This was instruction. Responsibility. The quiet weight of being answerable for someone beyond herself.
From where she stood, her eyes met Soren's for a fleeting, unspoken instant. A faint smile had rested on his lips since the moment he entered with his group, and it showed no sign of fading. Reluctantly, she let her gaze fall, fixing on the stone beneath her boots while she waited for Dalen to finish cleaning and checking the igniser. The guilt of discarding the tin of soup he had brought her the evening before still clung, heavy and unresolved.
Soon Dalen finished wiping the barrel and, with the same deliberate care, handed a small packet to Sina and one to each trainee. Inside, along with the monocular they already knew, were earplugs and a pair of slim goggles. Their eyes lingered on the kit until Sina began to put hers on, and they fell into the awkward mimicry of trainees: goggles first, then the plugs.
Dalen passed her the igniser with the same careful motion, as though it might wake at any sudden move. She accepted it with both hands, drawing in a slow, steady breath before she began.
"This is the standard igniser," Sina said, lifting the igniser for the group to see. "The Florette Pattern, from the Prime House of Florette, as you've doubtless heard. No shots for you today—just watch."
To the trainees' fresh eyes, the igniser seemed longer, heavier, more intimidating up close. Its stock was a dark walnut core clad in blackened laminate, the barrel heavy-profile, just as black. The buttplate was leather-padded, felt-backed like the grip, the receiver a slim length of matte metal with iron sights fixed along its spine. Intricate floral engravings in shimmering gold traversed the walnut stock and the barrel, marking it unmistakably a Nivaran possession. Against the black of her uniform, the weapon seemed less an object than an extension of herself.
"This is how you load and how you check the chamber." Her fingers worked the bolt lever, withdrawing it fully and tapping the empty chamber for emphasis. "The feed-box holds six rounds. I'm only showing you one today."
The trainees watched her as if memorizing scripture, though their gazes clung to the Ignis round slid into the tray—that small, terrible treasure whose value they now understood. Then they followed her to the farthest lane, the one that stretched three hundred fifty meters. At that distance the wooden silhouette at the end was little more than a speck. From their Archer days they trusted a hundred meters; anything beyond felt like guesswork.
Sina shouldered the weapon—butt snug against her chest, right hand on the grip. Her left hand cradled the igniser as she settled into stance: right foot back, left foot angled out, shoulders square, a small lean forward.
"Rest your cheek on the stock. Line your eye with the sights. Back sight to front sight—focus on the front post. Let the rest of the world blur."
When her aim steadied, she whispered, "Breathe in. Let half out, hold. That's when you take the shot. Steady pressure—don't yank. Just press."
CRACK.
The report tore through the range and chased itself along the lane like a rolling thunder. Even with plugs in their ears, a few shoulders jumped at the violence of it. Smoke curled from the muzzle, white and sharp. The trainees blinked through the haze, then lifted their monoculars. Through the crystal they saw it: one clean, merciless hole burned straight through the wooden silhouette's head, its rim blackened, edges faintly aglow, as though the wood had been struck by living flame.
One wagon's worth of Ignium had vanished in that single shot. A few of the men swallowed hard; none had seen the weapon unleashed before—only heard the whispers passed through the barracks. And the accuracy at that range struck just as deep. It wasn't mere rumor that Sina Clemens carried the highest kill count of all Ignisants—perhaps of the entire Nivaran Army.
Sina eased the igniser from her shoulder and worked the chamber open. A casing spun free, flashing silver as it caught the bright, unforgiving light of the early afternoon.
"Alright, I'm done here," she said offhandedly, already turning from the lane toward the two men who had been watching in silence all along.
The igniser slipped back into Dalen's hands. She hadn't the slightest intention of lingering. She didn't know the curriculum, and more importantly, she didn't want her hands in this business any further. One demonstration meant exactly that—just one.
"The rest is yours, Captain Tressine," she said.
Vellien gave her only a nod. The thought of pressing Sina into one-on-one training still weighed in his chest, but he kept it to himself. Her showing up at all had already exceeded every expectation; best to take it slow. And besides, the rest of the day's lesson was nothing but handling drills—working the bolt, safety procedures, carry positions—simple mechanics without a single Ignis round. Their first time touching an igniser wouldn't end with them firing one, not while yesterday's session still left him simmering with displeasure.
"Of course, Clemens," Vellien said, his tone flat, face unreadable as he moved toward the line. "I'll take it from here."
Sina felt relief at that, though the ten young men did not. At the Captain's words they snapped back into formation, hands locked at their sides, their brows faintly pinched with tension. She paid them little mind, just tugging the earplugs out, sliding off the goggles, and setting both neatly back where they belonged.
Then her eyes drifted lazily over the line of faces. She'd scanned them once before, in the Yard, and again when they'd filed into the Firing Grounds. But once she had taken the lead, she'd been too preoccupied with herself to notice anyone closely. Now, freed from the role, her Ignisant instincts stirred—faces were worth recording. If these young men survived the training, they'd be her peers. Better not to walk blind past a peer in the Compound halls.
Aside from Soren, she caught other familiar faces—three from the mess hall table where she had come to seek him. The brown-haired one with Cael stitched on his tag had a curious, almost comic look, and more than once she'd felt his furtive green eyes sweep over her head to toe. The blond-haired, blue-eyed Heikka beside him had been there too—quieter, though his face carried a certain sharp brightness. And then there was the ash-blond one, also at the table that day. Her gaze dropped to his tag, and when it did, her eyes widened slightly.
Soren has a brother?
He'd never mentioned it. But then, she'd never truly known that much about Soren at all. Only the other day had she even learned his last name was Bach. For two brothers to end up in the Ignis Corps—well, it wasn't forbidden. Just unheard of. This one looked older, so she assumed elder brother. Yet as she studied him more closely, another thought crept in.
Wait.
Soren's hair was jet black, his eyes golden. This one—ash-blond, hazel-eyed. Soren's skin was olive-warm; his, pale as snow, only faintly weathered by years of soldiering. And beyond that, their features: the eyes' shape, the nose's length, the jaw's breadth, the line of cheekbone—
They don't look alike at all.