Convergence

Chapter 1

Seven forty. The parade ground hadn't heated up yet, but under the cap her head was already sweating. Aglaya stood in the front row, hair pulled back tight. Spine straight, chin lifted exactly as far as regulations required — not a centimeter more. Fingers clenched into fists at her sides so she wouldn't fix her belt for the hundredth time, wouldn't pick at the scab on her split knuckles. The starched collar chafed unpleasantly at the slightest movement. She breathed through her nose, slow, controlling it, unable to shake the feeling that she was being watched.

Svyatoslav stood in the second row, three heads down from her. Sweat had already started beading under his cap, but he didn't notice. His eyes kept finding the back of her head on their own, and the scar over his eyebrow burned like it had just been cut. His jaw clenched until his teeth ached. His mouth was dry, though he'd had water before the formation. In front of his eyes — her, standing over him back then, at the training camp, with a split lip, looking at him not with anger but with boredom, as if he weren't a person but a task to be closed out.

Aglaya couldn't see Svyatoslav, but she knew he was there somewhere. Yesterday, arriving, she'd caught his eye in the corridor by accident — and felt her split knuckles ache all over again. She'd been braced for him to try some kind of payback for the scar she'd left him. She prayed to a God she didn't believe in that it would happen without witnesses or cameras. A reprimand from her father over discipline was the last thing she needed.

"At ease—attention," came from the direction of the administration building.

The commandant came out unhurried, a man in his fifties, in a perfectly pressed uniform. He walked the ranks slowly, as if he had the whole morning to spare. Sometimes he stopped, straightened someone's cap without a word, studied faces. Reaching Aglaya, he let his gaze slide over her and moved on — nothing to fault, at least not in her appearance. She didn't even blink, only swallowed, quietly, without a sound. Her mouth was dry, and swallowing hurt. Somewhere behind her another strangled cough — someone else this time, on the left flank, it seemed. No one turned. The silence was so complete you could hear an old army truck sputter to life somewhere behind the building and idle. A first-year in the back row finally couldn't hold it and swallowed so hard it clicked in his throat. Someone nearby snorted quietly and caught themselves at once.

Svyatoslav didn't notice his own eyes sliding back to Aglaya. The muscle at his jaw jumped, and he forced himself to look at the back of the head in front of him. The muscles along his back ached with tension. He wanted to do push-ups — right here, a hundred of them, until his chest burned, until his pulse pounded in his ears, until his skull went empty.

The commandant finished his round and stopped in front of the formation. He took an old watch from his pocket, looked at it, put it away.

"Congratulations on the start of the year. Breakfast in twenty minutes — section sign-up sheets are posted at the entrance. Register by lunch. First class at nine. Group one, main hall. Group two, history. Group three, fundamentals of law. Full schedule for today is on the first floor of the academic building. I want group leaders in front of me tomorrow morning before breakfast with a plan for the month."

He raised his eyes, slowly, moving along the ranks.

"Right now your heads hurt, your uniforms are damp, you want to rip off your caps. That's normal. Mine sweated too, my first year. I didn't take it off. Neither will you, until you're told you can."

He paused.

"Remember: I'm not looking for someone to blame. I'm looking for whoever broke the rules. Those are two different things. Dismissed."

The formation didn't break at once — first everyone took a step forward, then a collective exhale, and people started talking, moving, someone already yanking off their cap and wiping their forehead. Aglaya unclenched her fingers, white from the strain.