The special holding cells aren't what I expect. Clean stone walls, a proper cot with blankets, even a small window—barred, of course—letting in streams of daylight. I've slept in mercenary camps far worse than this.

  "This is what they call punishment?" Anja's voice echoes from the cell beside mine. We're separated by thick iron bars rather than solid walls, not much for privacy. "I've stayed in inns with fewer amenities." she says joyfully.

  I grunt in response, sitting on the edge of my cot, examining the tattoo on my arm. It's settled now, no longer writhing beneath my skin, but I can feel its restlessness, maybe I should caress it.

  "Not much for conversation, are you?" She leans against the bars between us. "That's fine. I can talk enough for both of us." Anja's lips curl upwards at an alarming degree.

  And she does. For three days.

  "The roast duck at Haversmith's in the Lower Quarter—absolute perfection."

  No idea where that is.

  "Crispy skin, meat falling off the bone, with this cherry reduction that's just..." She kisses her fingertips. "Divine. Though nothing beats my mother's sp?tzle with brown butter and sage."

  I try to tune her out, focusing instead on planning my escape, but her boisterous voice cuts through my concentration like a well-honed blade.

  "So where were you before getting captured?" she asks on the second day, while describing in excruciating detail the mechanics of some steam-powered contraption that she liked to work on. "You've got that mercenary look about you." She says passively, testing the waters.

  I consider ignoring her, but there's something disarming about her directness.

  "Captain Maya's company," I answer curtly.

  "Maya the Merciless?" Her eyebrows shoot up. "Heard she once took out an entire squad of knights single-handedly."

  "It was three knights. And she had help."

  "Still impressive." She studies me. "How'd you end up with her lot?" A curious look on her eyes.

  The question edges too close to the memories I keep locked away. "She found me. Trained me. Now I'm here."

  "And before that?"

  Before that…

  The ruby eyes that fixated on me, the feeling of dread, helplessness. A disgusting feeling. One that I trained out of me, one that I bled to get rid of.

  The woman that haunts my dreams, in that spotless dress, that laid waste to a graveyard of my tribesmen.

  Camilla.

  I snap back to the present, where a girl with raven-black hair observes me. Quite the contrast to the sorceress.

  My jaw tightens. "There is no before that." I say bluntly.

  She nods, seeming to understand the boundary she hits. "Fair enough. I have a few 'no before thats' myself." She shifts topics seamlessly. "Do you know the new six-cylinder engines they're developing in Jeolara can reach speeds of—"

  The High Marshal visits each day, standing silently outside our cells. His black eyes bore into us, expecting hunger and desperation to weaken our resolve. Instead, he finds Anja chattering away about the perfect consistency of mashed potatoes while I sit in meditative silence.

  With each visit, his composure cracks further—a twitching eye, a clenched jaw, fingers curled into white-knuckled fists at his sides.

  I wonder where Maya is, or the mercs.

  "I think we're driving him mad," Anja whispers after his third visit, his departure marked by the slamming of the dungeon door. "He expected us to be begging for food and freedom by now."

  "He underestimates what we had endured before this." I reply icily

  She grins. "I'm starting to like you, Mark. You're a man of few words, but they're usually the right ones."

  On the morning of the fourth day, guards arrive with keys rather than food trays.

  "The High Marshal has determined you're to be set free," declares a stern-looking woman wearing an officer's regalia.

  "Told you he'd break first," Anja whispers as the cell doors swing open.

  They're escorted up from the dungeons, through corridors of polished stone and gleaming brass fixtures that speak of Egozia's wealth and pride. Eventually, they're led to a small office where the High Marshal awaits, sleek glasses on his paper. A couple stacks of paper neatly lined next to him. His face a careful mask of neutrality.

  "Your resilience is... noted," he announces, not looking up from the papers on his desk. "However, I cannot allow potential spies to roam freely."

  "We're not—" Anja begins, but he raises a hand.

  "You will remain in Egozia under observation. And since idle hands invite mischief, you'll be enrolled in the Grand Academy."

  "School?" Anja sounds genuinely offended. "I'm eighteen."

  "The Academy accepts students of all ages," he replies coolly. "Particularly those with... unique talents that require proper channeling."

  His piercing gaze flicks to me—where my tattoo lies hidden beneath my sleeve— then to Anja.

  "Consider it an opportunity. Education in Egozia opens many doors." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Or consider it your prison. The choice is yours, but the outcome remains the same."

  Anja crosses her arms. "And if we refuse?"

  "Then you'll find our standard cells far less comfortable than the special holding area." He signs a document with a flourish. "Your academic journey begins tomorrow. I suggest you prepare accordingly."

  He turns his head back to a different stack of papers and ushers the guards to take them away.

  I pause at the doorway, my feet refusing to move. The question burns in my throat, demanding to be asked despite knowing the answer might shatter what little hope I have left.

  "Where is Captain Maya? And the rest of the company?"

  The High Marshal looks up from his papers, his expression blank. "I don't know." He adjusts his glasses, then a slight smile creeps across his face. "Though after a moment's consideration... they're probably dead. My mages are exceptionally skilled. I wouldn't expect anything less."

  The words hit like a physical blow. My fingers curl into fists, nails biting into palms. My heart aches, the snake tattoo writhes beneath my skin, sharing my rage.

  How many more.

  The guards lead us out through a side entrance of what I now realize is the central administrative building. We step into Egozia's streets, sunlight burning my eyes after days in the dim cells.

  "Freedom!" Anja exclaims and stretches her arms wide, nearly hitting a passing nobleman who gives her a look of barely concealed disdain. "Well, sort of. What now?"

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  My mind races with possibilities— Maya could have escaped, regrouped somewhere. The company survived worse. But the Marshal's words gnaw deep at me, along with the growing certainty that I'm alone again.

  "Right, you look like you need feeding up." Anja grabs my wrist, steering me through cobbled streets. "Food fixes everything."

  I try to pull away. "I should scout the perimeter, find—"

  "Find what? We're stuck here. Might as well get to know our prison." She points to a bustling café. "Starting with breakfast." Anja proclaims, both hands now grabbing my arm with surprising strength, "we could eat something that isn't prison gruel and actually see this pompous city before we're stuck in some stuffy academy."

  But I just have to survey quickly along the way. Distract my mind a little.

  Wide cobblestone streets, buildings of expensive-looking white stone and dark timber, brass fixtures gleaming in the midday sun. Citizens in fine clothing move with purpose, backs straight, chins lifted.

  My mind is already mapping escape routes, assessing guard patterns, calculating distances to the city walls. The High Marshal's offer also feels like a trap, but without knowing the city or having resources, a hasty escape would be foolish.

  So many possibilities.

  The café serves delicate pastries that Anja declares 'adequate' but 'nothing like proper Berlynr'. We move to a pub for lunch, where she picks apart the schnitzel's breading while well-dressed patrons cast sideways glances at our prison-wrinkled clothes. For dinner, she drags me to a supposedly upscale restaurant where the portions are tiny and the prices enormous.

  "This is what passes for fine dining?" She pushes away a half-finished plate. "Where's the hearty stuff? The proper dumplings? The real sauerkraut?"

  Between meals, she insists on visiting the industrial quarter. The first workshop we find is more rust than steam, with pipes held together by hope and string.

  "Amateur hour," she mutters, examining a sputtering engine. "Look at these connections - they're losing half their pressure. And these gauges? Might as well be decorative."

  "Look at these rivets," she scoffs, examining the machine with expert eyes. "Amateur work. And the pressure valve is practically begging to explode. In Jeolara, even children-"

  The second workshop isn't much better. Anja launches into a detailed critique of their belt system while the owner pretends not to hear, nose lifted high.

  I should be planning, preparing for tomorrow's Academy, figuring out escape routes. Instead, I find myself actually listening as she explains why the gear ratios are all wrong. Her enthusiasm is... infectious.

  Later, we stumble upon a square where street performers operate elaborate puppet shows using steam-powered automatons. The crowd applauds as a tiny brass knight battles a dragon spewing real sparks.

  "Cute toys," Anja mutters under her breath. "But the gear ratios are all wrong. That's why the movements are so jerky. And those steam vents are completely inefficient."

  Despite her criticism, I notice how her eyes light up at each new mechanical discovery. There's genuine passion there, not just national pride.

  "Maya would have liked you," I say suddenly, surprising myself.

  Anja pauses mid-rant about inferior brass quality. "Yeah?"

  "She appreciated people who knew their craft. Even if they talked too much about it."

  "I'll take that as a compliment." She bumps my shoulder with hers. "Tell me about her?"

  I hesitate, but the words come easier than expected. "She found me when I was six. Took in this angry kid who couldn't even hold a knife properly. Taught me everything - fighting, tactics, how to survive. She was..." I swallow hard. "She was family."

  "Then she's probably out there somewhere, planning how to break into this stuck-up city and rescue you." Anja's voice holds absolute certainty. "Meanwhile, we'll survive this Academy business. Though I warn you, I'm rubbish at sitting still in lectures."

  "You? Really?"

  She grins at my dry tone. "Was that actual sarcasm? We'll make a proper person out of you."

  The sun sets as we walk back through streets lined with gleaming brass and polished stone. Wealthy citizens sweep past in elaborate outfits, noses turned up but eyes lingering on our shabby appearance with poorly concealed interest.

  I catch my reflection in a shop window - my white hair heavily disheveled from days in the cell, tribal tattoo hidden beneath a borrowed shirt that's slightly too small for my muscular frame. Dirty and disheveled, I stand out among these polished citizens like a wolf among lapdogs. My red eyes, a mark of my tribe, draw wary glances from passersby.

  Beside me, Anja looks equally out of place, but carries herself with complete indifference to the stares. Her black hair falls in messy waves around her face, and despite the prison grime, she moves with the confident grace of someone who knows exactly who she is. The borrowed dress she wears - probably meant for someone more delicate - strains slightly across her athletic shoulders.

  "We should find somewhere to sleep," she says, eyeing the darkening sky. "Unless you fancy camping in one of these fancy gardens?"

  "The Marshal mentioned dormitories at the Academy." I scan the towering spires ahead. "We should head there."

  "Always so practical." She sighs dramatically. "Fine, let's go be good little students. But tomorrow, you're helping me find a proper workshop. These Egozian mechanics are an embarrassment to engineering."

  We make our way through increasingly grand streets, the buildings growing taller and more ornate. Brass and copper fixtures gleam in the lamplight, and the air carries the tang of magic - that sickening sweetness that sets my teeth on edge.

  The Academy looms ahead, a sprawling complex of Gothic architecture and magical engineering. Spires pierce the sky like spears, connected by delicate bridges that seem to float on air. Steam vents release carefully controlled bursts between classical columns, and runic symbols pulse with soft light along the walls.

  My tattoo itches beneath my sleeve, responding to the magical atmosphere. I force down the familiar surge of hatred. This isn't the time or place for those feelings.

  "Well," Anja whistles, taking in the grandiose entrance. "They certainly aren't subtle about their wealth, are they?"

  Two guards stand at attention beside massive brass doors engraved with scenes of magical triumph. They eye us suspiciously but step aside when I present the papers the Marshal gave us.

  Inside, the entrance hall stretches impossibly high, supported by columns of marble and brass. Students in neat uniforms move purposefully across the polished floor, some carrying books, others with strange devices that whir and click. A few practice simple spells, making lights dance between their fingers.

  I clench my jaw so hard it aches.

  "Your rooms have been prepared," a stern-faced administrator appears, somehow making the statement sound like an accusation. "Follow me."

  As we climb endless stairs, I can't shake the feeling that we've walked straight into the Marshal's trap. But looking at Anja's determined stride beside me, I realize I'm not alone this time.

  That thought is both comforting and terrifying.

  "They're so proud they'd break their necks looking down on people," Anja mutters. "But tomorrow we play their game, yes?"

  I nod, mind already mapping out the Academy's potential layout, escape routes, weak points. But for now, my thoughts keep drifting back to Maya, to the company that became my home after losing everything once before.

  "Thank you," I say quietly. "For today."

  "That's what friends do." She yawns dramatically. "Now, let's find where they're stashing us for the night. I need beauty sleep before shocking these proper folk with my existence tomorrow."

  How is she so unbothered?

  "We're being forced into their school. Doesn't that concern you?"

  She shrugs. "Better than a cell. Or execution. Besides, knowledge is power, right? Learn what they know, use it against them later."

  I study her face, finding no deception there. Just practical thinking.

  "You're strange," I tell her.

  She laughs. "Says the man with the living tattoo."

  So she did notice it.

  Despite myself, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch upward.

  "There it is!" she exclaims. "Almost a smile. Progress!"

  "This way to the female dormitories," a guard points Anja down a separate path.

  "Try not to break anything before classes start," she calls over her shoulder. "And eat something proper!"

  I watch her zip around a corner before following my own escort through iron gates that could fit three carriages side by side. The Academy grounds stretch before me, all manicured lawns and geometric gardens dotted with statues of stern-faced men and women frozen mid-gesture.

  Students mill about in pressed uniforms, their chatter dying down as I pass. I tower over most of them, my mercenary-honed frame making their scholarly builds seem fragile and minute in comparison. A group of younger students scramble out of my path, whispering behind their hands. "Disgraceful brute."

  The male dormitory rises like a small castle, all white stone and brass fixtures. Inside, portraits line the halls - more proud faces with titles like "Grand Scholar" and "Master of Egozia" beneath them. Their painted eyes follow my progress up sweeping staircases and down plush-carpeted corridors.

  "Your room," the guard leisurely announces, stopping at a heavy wooden door marked 200. He hands me a key and leaves without another word.

  The room is larger than any I've slept in since the tribe. Two beds with actual mattresses sit against opposite walls, both empty. A desk beneath tall windows. Brass lamps with delicate glass shades. Even a private bathroom with actual hot water plumbing - luxury I've only seen in noble houses we've guarded.

  I check the corners, the window latches, possible weapons. Old habits. The second bed is bare - no roommate yet. Good. Fewer complications.

  My few possessions fit in one drawer of the massive wardrobe. The rest stands empty, waiting for proper uniforms and academic texts, I suppose. Everything smells of polish and fresh linens.

  Too clean. Too proper. Too perfect.

  I sit on the bed— my bed, apparently— and let my fingers trace the snake tattoo. Even it seems subdued here, as if the Academy's rigid atmosphere affects its wild nature.

  The sun sets beyond the windows, casting long shadows through the garden statues. Tomorrow, classes begin. Tomorrow, I play their game.

  But tonight. I map escape routes and memorise guard rotations, watching the grounds from my window as darkness falls.