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CHAPTER TWO. ✷ don't look down.
HONESTLY, PARAPET MIGHT JUST BE THE EASIEST THING YOU'LL GO THROUGH THIS YEAR.
— RECOVERED CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN LIEUTENANT COLONEL CYPRUS BARREGAIN AND NIAMH BARREGAIN
Niamh's body is tense as she fiddles with the dagger strapped to her thigh, tracing circles around the end of it hoping the cold metal will calm her rabid nerves. It's conscription day and she's stood in a tight line that slowly inches up, up, up to the stone bridge that's called parapet. She mumbles under her breath, convincing herself that it's no different than crossing the fallen log that stretches across a large ditch near her house. Of course, if she fell from the tree, she wouldn't immediately plummet to her death and offer her soul to Malek.
Over the past twenty minutes, she's spotted several family members bid their candidates goodbye. Whether it be mothers, sisters, or even lovers. Niamh, however, arrived alone. Her father stayed back in Elsum, not even having the courtesy to make the carriage ride over with her. Her brother is no doubt on the other side of the bridge, loathing the fact that he has to welcome every new cadet that makes it across, and her mother is probably watching him do so with a satisfied smile.
Rian's always been hard to control. While she and Cyprus usually found themselves abiding by their parent's rules, more or less, Rian was a wild card. There was no telling what he would or wouldn't do. No amount of scolding or punishments could tame him. For his sake, Niamh hopes he's changed during his time at Basgiath.
She tries to control her breathing. Seven seconds in. Seven seconds out. She keeps replaying the words on the letter Cyprus wrote her a few days earlier. Focus on something in the distance, and don't look away. That was his biggest piece of advice. He claims it's what got him across. Something about tearing the focus away from your mind and filling it with something else. The only thing you need to care about is your footing. One in front of the other. Slow and controlled, delicate movements. It's hard for her to imagine her brother being delicate about anything.
The person in front of her is a shorter man with red hair. He's got a lanky build with elbows that stick out too far for his arms. He'll either fall or die later in the year, Niamh thinks to herself. He's wearing something similar to her: a long black sleeve and tight pants. His don't look as breathable as hers do. She didn't bother wearing any sort of leather, she's not a rider yet. She also wears her hair in a braid, tied off by a red ribbon—something he, of course, does not have. She found it to be a rather clever way of keeping her family close to her while also conforming to the dress code. While black might be the color of riders, red is the color of Berragains.
