The moon was full and bright in the cloudless sky. Fletcher shivered and pulled at his uniform's collar; it was the only clothing that hadn't been taken away for cleaning. Still, he had to wear something; it was freezing in the room and the tattered blanket on his bed did little to keep him warm. He leaned out of the glassless window and into the cold night air, thinking on the day.
The elf had remained in her room, which had suited Fletcher just fine. The rest of the group had been cheerful during lunch and dinner, eager for tomorrow and what wonders it would bring. Fletcher found that he enjoyed the company of the others, although the tension between Atlas and Othello left a strained undertone to the otherwise cheerful evening. He was particularly drawn to Seraph, whose clear charisma and knack for storytelling had everyone hanging on to his every word. Rory's happy-go-lucky attitude had also endeared him to Fletcher, and although her efforts at salvaging his uniform had been in vain, he had found Genevieve to be a kind person with a dry sense of humour.
It was strange to know that they would all be risking their lives in the hot jungles of the south in just a few years. Although Fletcher tried to avoid thinking about it, the others were eager for battle. Genevieve was the only one who did not openly flaunt her wish to fight, although she spoke of the orcs with a dark fury that belied tragic experience.
Fletcher knew he should go to sleep, yet he felt too exhilarated to do so. Even the usually lazy Ignatius had caught his mood, playfully chasing his tail in the darkness of the room.
Fletcher held out his candle for Ignatius to light, then went out into the common room. As he entered, he saw a fading light in the stairwell, with the sound of hasty footsteps echoing from below.
'Come on, Ignatius, looks like we aren't the only ones who can't sleep,' Fletcher said. If it was going to be a restless night, he might as well have company.
The corridors were eerie at night, the chill draughts of air whistling through the arrow slits that peppered the outside of the castle. Fletcher's candle flame flickered with each gust, until he had to cup it with one hand to keep it from going out.
'I could do with one of those flying lights right now, don't you think, Ignatius?' he whispered.
The shadows shifted unnaturally as he moved down the corridor, the dark slits of every suit of armour staring at him as he walked past.
It seemed strange that whoever was ahead was moving so quickly, their pace closer to a jog than a midnight stroll. Fletcher hurried to keep up, his curiosity getting the better of him. Even when he reached the atrium, all he saw was the dim light and a swish of cloth as a figure darted out through the main entrance.
The courtyard was silent as a grave and twice as eerie when Fletcher set foot outside, but there was no sign of the mysterious person. He walked to the drawbridge and peered out at the road, looking for the candlelight. As he stared into the wavering gloom, he began to hear the steady clop of hoofbeats on the ground, coming towards the castle.
Fletcher darted into a small room built into the drawbridge's gatehouse, blowing out the candle and pressing himself against the cold stone wall. Whoever it was, Fletcher didn't want their first impression of him to be that of someone who liked to sneak around in the dead of night.
He quelled Ignatius's excitement, impressing on him the need for silence with a stern thought. He remembered what happened the last time he had been in a cold stone room, hiding in the dark. At that memory, the imp responded with agreement and even a hint of what felt like regret. Fletcher smiled and scratched Ignatius's chin. The imp understood more than he thought!
The chirr of spinning wheels and the crack of whips announced the arrival of carriages, rumbling as they crossed the old drawbridge. Fletcher peered through a chink in the stone of the room, hugging his arms to his chest for warmth. Was it the nobles? Perhaps one of the teachers was arriving early?
There were two carriages, both ornately decorated with golden trimming and lit by crackling torches. Two men rode on top of each, wearing dark, brass-buttoned suits and peaked caps that put Fletcher in mind of the Pinkertons' uniforms. All of them carried heavy blunderbusses in their hands, ready to blast buckshot into anyone who ambushed their convoy. Precious cargo indeed.
The doors opened and several figures got out, wearing perfectly tailored versions of the Vocans uniform. In the dim glow of the torches it was hard to see their faces, but the one closest stepped in clear view.
'Oh, dear,' he said to the others in a posh, drawling voice. 'I knew this place had gone to the dogs, but I didn't think it was going to be this bad.'
'Did you see the state of it, Tarquin?' said a girl from the shadows. 'It's a wonder we made it over the drawbridge.'
Tarquin was a handsome boy with chiselled cheekbones and angelic blond hair that fell in curls down to the nape of his neck. Yet his blue-grey eyes seemed to Fletcher as hard and cruel as any he had seen before.
'This is what happens when you let the riffraff in,' Tarquin stated with a contemptuous sneer. 'Standards are slipping. I'm sure when Father was here this place was twice what it is now.'
'Still, at least the commoners can be given the commissions we don't want,' the girl said, out of Fletcher's sight.
'Yes, well, that is the silver lining,' Tarquin said in a bored sounding voice. 'The commoners can have the criminals and, if, heaven forbid, they allow dwarves to serve as officers, then they can command the half-men too. Keep everyone in their rightful place, that's the way to do it.'
A girl stepped out from the gloom and stood beside him, squinting at the tall castle in front of them. She could have been Tarquin's twin, with razor sharp cheekbones and cherubic hair curled in delicate blonde ringlets.
'This is a disgrace. How can every noble child in Hominum be forced to live here for two years?' she asked out loud, tucking an errant strand behind her ear.
'Dear sister, this is why we are here. The Forsyths have not set foot in Vocans since father graduated. We are going to show this place how real nobles are meant to be treated,' Tarquin replied. 'Speaking of which, where are the servants? Be a dear and fetch them for us, would you, Isadora?' he joked, pushing his sister towards the entrance.
'Ugh! I'd rather have my head shaved than spend one second in the servants' quarters,' she spat.
With those words the side door opened and Mayweather, Jeffrey and several other servants stumbled out, many still rubbing sleep from their eyes.
'My apologies for our lateness, my lord,' Mayweather said in a humble voice. 'We had thought you would be arriving in the morning when you did not arrive before the eleventh bell.'
'Yes, well, we decided that Corcillum's drinking houses were a far more enticing place to be tonight than this . . . establishment,' Tarquin said icily, then pointed at Jeffrey. 'You, boy, take my bags up to my quarters and be careful with them. The contents are worth more than you'll make in your lifetime.'
Jeffrey hastened to obey, giving the golden-haired nobles an awkward bow as he passed them.
'Let me show you to your quarters, my lord. Follow me, both of you,' Mayweather said, waddling up the steps as the servants unloaded the carriages. Fletcher caught a glimpse of the two nobles following Mayweather, then his view was obscured as the carriages wheeled around and thundered out of the courtyard.
Soon Fletcher was alone again, filled with disgust at what he had just witnessed. He had always pictured nobles as generous and fair, leading their own men to fight in the war and giving up their adolescent children to serve as battlemages. He knew that many of the nobility of fighting age risked their lives every day on the front lines, leaving their families at home. But he had found these spoiled brats to be the complete opposite of what he had expected. He hoped that not all the noble-born novices would be like the two specimens he had just encountered.
Fletcher waited a few minutes, then snuck out of the gatehouse, making his way back to the main entrance in the shadows of the courtyard walls. Just before he stepped into the moonlight, he heard a creak from the drawbridge behind him.
He spun round to see a figure just before it vanished out of sight, running down the road. A figure with long red hair.
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