Advanced
Firearms & Ranged Weapons – The Next Day, 14:10
The
outdoor firing range stretches like a scar across the earth, long,
barren lanes carved into packed dirt and stone, bordered by blast
walls and steel pylons. Wind hisses low and constant, carrying the
sharp tang of oil and scorched metal. Thirty cadets kneel, prone or
crouched, gear laid out with ritual precision.
Armsmaster Letho Graven
stands at the center platform, coat unmoving despite the wind. He is
tall, spare, iron-still. His eyes sweep the line once, measuring,
weighing, then he turns to the intercom.
“Today is sniper
doctrine,” he says calmly. His voice carries without effort.
“Shooter and spotter. Communication is survival. Hesitation is
death.”
Targets whir to life
downrange.
Humanoid constructs rise
from concealed pits at staggered distances. White-painted units begin
to move immediately, slow patrols, erratic pivots. Black-painted
units remain frozen, stark and patient. Green-painted figures stand
interspersed among them, friendly silhouettes meant to punish sloppy
eyes.
“White moves. Black
holds. Green is friendly,” Graven continues. “You shoot green,
you fail. You hesitate on white, you fail. You miss black,” His
eyes narrow slightly. “You fail.”
Pairs are already assigned.
Lucille lies prone in the
dirt, rifle nestled into her shoulder like an extension of bone. The
weapon is long, sleek, brutal, ballistic, magnet-assisted, tuned for
extreme range. Her breathing is slow. Controlled. Pain still lingers
in her shoulder and knee, a dull echo from the night before, but she
locks it away.
Beside her, Cain kneels
with the rangefinder braced to his eye, tablet slaved to the rifle’s
telemetry. His posture is steady. Focused. This is where he thrives.
“Pair Seven,” Graven’s
voice cuts in. “Begin.”
Cain exhales softly.
“Target one. White. Four hundred meters. Movin' left to right. Wind
quarterin' from the east.”
Lucille tracks through the
scope. The world narrows to reticle and motion. Dirt. Heat shimmer.
White metal limb swinging in rhythm.
“Confirmed,” she
murmurs.
Cain watches the data
scroll. Adjusts. “Hold half a mil right. Elevation plus one point
two.”
She shifts her aim by
instinct, micro-adjustments born of muscle memory and long nights on
the range.
“Ready,” she says.
A beat.
“Fire.”
The rifle cracks, deep,
thunderous, nothing like the snap of lesser weapons. The round tears
downrange. A heartbeat later….
Ping.
The white construct jerks
as the impact detonates its core. It collapses mid-stride.
“Hit,” Cain says
immediately. No pride. Just fact. “Next. Black. Six hundred meters.
Center mass.”
Lucille rolls her shoulder
once, settles again. The black target stands still, deceptively
simple.
“Confirmed.”
“Wind steady. Same
correction. Fire.”
Another thunderclap.
Another distant ping. The black-painted figure folds
backward, chest cratered.
They move faster now.
“White. Eight hundred.
Zig-zag pattern. Lead high.”
Lucille tracks,
anticipates. Fires.
Ping.
“Green crossing lane,
hold,” Cain snaps.
Lucille freezes, finger off
the trigger without conscious thought. The green-painted construct
passes unharmed.
“Resume. Black. One
thousand meters.”
The range stretches. The
target is small now. A suggestion of a shape.
Lucille breathes in. Out.
Holds.
Cain watches the numbers.
“Elevation plus three. Wind increasing. Quarter mil left.”
She adjusts. Feels the
rifle settle.
“Fire.”
The shot feels different,
longer. Heavier.
The pause stretches….
Ping.
A ripple of sound passes
through the observing cadets on the catwalks. Even Tiber Lucan
stiffens, jaw tightening. Rhen Tiberion squints downrange,
unreadable.
Lucille doesn’t react.
She’s already moving.
Target after target falls.
White. Black. Long range. Extreme range. No greens hit. No wasted
rounds. Cain’s voice stays level, precise, a steady anchor. Lucille
becomes something else entirely, cold, distant, surgical.
Predator and guide. Shooter
and spotter. Perfect alignment.
The final target drops at
one thousand two hundred meters, a white-painted construct sprinting
laterally at full speed.
Ping.
Silence follows.
Graven steps forward, eyes
on the timer. His expression does not change, but something sharp
glints behind it.
“Cease fire.”
Lucille eases the rifle
down. Cain lowers the rangefinder, breath finally leaving him in a
slow exhale.
Graven’s voice comes over
the intercom again.
“Pair Seven,” he says.
“Exceptional communication. No friendly casualties. Time well under
threshold.”
A pause.
“Remember this,” he
adds. “This is what trust looks like under pressure.”
Lucille stares downrange
through the scope a moment longer, then blinks and pulls back. Cain
glances at her, just briefly. For the first time in days, neither of
them looks away.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Mounted Combat &
Mobile Warfare – 15:20
The cadets stand in a loose
line beside their horses, reins in hand. War-beasts of muscle and
nerve and steel-shod hooves. Some snort, some stamp, some stand
eerily still. Shields rest against saddles. Blunted swords hang at
hips. Dust clings to boots and greaves.
Arvion sits astride her own
mount at the front of them, posture immaculate, one hand resting
lightly on the reins as if the animal beneath her is an extension of
her spine. Her armor is darker than theirs, scarred with old impacts.
She looks born in the saddle.
“Today,” she says,
voice calm and carrying, “you will engage in one-on-one mounted
duels. Shield and sword. No lances. No ranged weapons. You will learn
balance, timing, and restraint.”
A cadet raises a hand.
Arvion’s eyes flick to
them. “Speak.”
The cadet clears their
throat. “Commander, why horses? We’ll be fighting tanks. Walkers.
Armored transports. Why waste time on cavalry?”
A few heads tilt. A few
nods. It’s a question asked every year.
Arvion studies them for a
long moment, expression unreadable. Then she answers. “Because
tanks cannot go where horses can,” she says evenly. “They cannot
climb shattered terrain. They cannot pass silently through forest or
snow. They cannot pursue fleeing infantry without flattening the
battlefield beneath them.”
She shifts her weight
slightly. Her horse adjusts without command.
“The Order fields armored
vehicles,” she continues. “And drones. And artillery. But when
supply lines break, when cities choke, when EMP storms gut your
machines, horses still breathe. Still move. Still kill.”
Her gaze hardens.
“Cavalry is shock. Speed.
Psychological dominance. A mounted unit hitting exposed infantry can
shatter morale faster than any shell. And when vehicles fail, cavalry
does not.”
Silence follows. No one
challenges her.
“Mount up,” Arvion
orders.
Leather creaks. Hooves
shift. Cadets swing into saddles.
Lucille moves to her horse,
a young, massive thing with dark eyes and a thick neck. He snorts
softly and dips his head, immediately nosing at her hair. She exhales
something that might almost be a laugh and nudges his muzzle away.
“Behave,” she murmurs.
The horse ignores her, paws
once at the dirt, then deliberately lifts a hoof beneath himself,
bracing it.
Lucille smirks despite
herself. She plants her foot against it and pushes, hauling herself
up into the saddle in one smooth motion. The horse snorts, satisfied,
and settles.
Arvion watches. Says
nothing.
She gestures toward the
training ring, a wide oval of churned earth marked with boundary
pylons.
“First pair,” she
calls, naming two cadets. “Enter the ring.”
They ride out, shields up,
blades raised.
Lucille tightens her grip
on the reins, posture forward, eyes sharp. She feels the tension in
her shoulders, the familiar unease settling in her chest. Mounted
archery she hates. Mounted melee she respects.
She strokes her horse’s
neck once, grounding herself. This is war training. And the ground
will not forgive mistakes.
At the instructor’s
raised fist, the arena goes still.
Then her arm snaps down.
The two cadets spur forward
at once.
Hooves thunder against
packed earth, the sound amplified by the enclosed training yard.
Shields come up. Swords angle low, then high. The first clash is
violent, metal on metal, shield rims slamming together as the horses
collide shoulder to shoulder. One animal rears, screaming, iron shoes
tearing divots from the dirt as its rider barely keeps his seat.
They circle at speed,
passing, wheeling, charging again.
The noise is brutal.
Bone-jarring. Every impact rattles through armor and saddle alike.
The smaller cadet overcommits on a swing, his shield drifting wide
for half a second too long.
That is all it takes.
The other rider leans in
and slams his shield across the smaller cadet’s chest. The blow
isn’t lethal, but the momentum is unforgiving. The smaller cadet is
torn sideways out of the saddle, fingers slipping from the reins as
gravity claims him. He hits the ground hard, rolling once before
coming to a stop. His horse skids, then backs away, snorting,
riderless.
Commander Arvion watches
without flinching.
“Dismounted,” she
calls. “Exchange over.”
The fallen cadet groans and
pushes himself upright. Arvion fixes him with a hard stare. “You
survived because your opponent made it quick. In the field,
hesitation like that gets you trampled or skewered. Learn from it.”
Her gaze shifts. “Clear
the arena.”
The two cadets collect
their horses and move off, one stiff and bruised, the other breathing
hard but intact.
Arvion turns her mount
smoothly and raises her voice. “Domitian. Mornis. You’re up.”
A murmur ripples through
the watching cadets.
Lucille tightens her grip
on the reins and guides her horse forward. Livia Mornis does the same
from the opposite side, posture confident, spear already resting
easily against her thigh before she switches it out for the issued
sword and shield with a faint scowl.
They ride to opposite ends
of the arena and halt, facing one another across the churned dirt.
Lucille settles into her
saddle, shield snug against her left arm, sword loose in her right
hand. Her horse snorts softly, muscles coiling beneath her. She
strokes his neck once, a quiet, grounding gesture.
Across from her, Livia
adjusts her grip, clearly less comfortable without a polearm’s
reach. She hides it well, but not perfectly.
Commander Arvion raises her
arm again.
“Remember,” she says
coldly, eyes flicking between them. “Speed, balance, and
discipline. The horse is half the weapon.”
Her arm drops.
“Charge.”
Mornis is tall, even for a
girl, long-limbed and broad-shouldered, and she looks born in the
saddle. It shows in the way she sits on her horse, easy, balanced,
breathing with the animal instead of fighting it. But the shield
drags at her left side, awkward weight, and the sword in her right
hand shortens her reach in ways she clearly resents.
Lucille, by contrast, looks
small atop her mount. Five foot two, compact, all sharp angles and
coiled tension. She doesn’t have Mornis’ reach. She knows that.
But she knows the sword and shield like extensions of her own body.
And when Lucille fights, there is nothing elegant about it. There is
only teeth and momentum and the relentless will to close distance.
If she can get inside
Mornis’ reach, if she can force the horses close, then the
advantage flips.
The signal sounds.
Both cadets drive their
heels in.
The charge is thunderous.
Hooves slam into packed earth, shields come up, swords angle forward.
They collide hard, wood and metal cracking together, horses screaming
as they rear and shove. Lucille slams her shield forward with
everything she has, the impact jarring up her arm. Mornis rocks in
the saddle, nearly torn free, but she recovers, dragging her horse
around into a tight circle.
They wheel, circle, test.
Mornis misjudges the
distance, expects Lucille to fall short, and Lucille almost
capitalizes, blade snapping out in a brutal, chopping arc. Almost.
Mornis twists away at the last second, steel scraping uselessly
against shield rim.
Lucille growls under her
breath and yanks on the reins, trying to force her horse tighter,
closer, where she wants him. He resists, ears pinning back, steps
uneven. She’s too rough.
They clash again.
Mornis lands a solid hit
this time, sword biting into Lucille’s shield arm, then another
strike glancing off her shoulder. Lucille pitches sideways, nearly
ripped from the saddle. For a split second, gravity wins...and then
her horse overcorrects, lunging instinctively, the sudden shift
snapping Lucille back upright. Pain flares through her ribs, but
she’s still mounted. Still in it.
The crowd murmurs.
Lucille doesn’t slow.
She drives straight in on
the next pass, timing the approach perfectly. Shield first. All her
weight behind it. The impact is explosive, wood into armor, shoulder
into chest. Mornis is lifted clean out of the saddle, legs flailing
as she crashes to the ground in a sprawl of dust and metal.
Lucille almost goes with
her.
Lucille hangs there for a
heartbeat, half between horses, muscles screaming. Her mount snorts
and sidesteps, confused by the sudden absence of its rival. Lucille
drags herself back into the saddle with a grunt, boots finding the
stirrups by muscle memory alone. She brings her horse under control
with short, sharp tugs on the reins, breathing hard.
Mornis hits the dirt and
rolls, shield clattering, sword skidding across the sand. She lies
still for a moment, stunned more than hurt, staring up at the gray
sky between the arena walls.
Commander Arvion does not
rush forward.
“Up,” she calls, voice
cold and steady from atop her horse. “If you can breathe, you can
stand.”
Mornis groans, then pushes
herself to her knees. Cadets lining the perimeter murmur, some
impressed, some unsettled. Lucille turns her horse in a tight circle
and brings it to a halt a few paces away, posture rigid, shield still
raised. She does not gloat. She does not smile. Her eyes never leave
Mornis.
Mornis gets to her feet at
last.
Arvion nods once. “Exchange
decided.” Her gaze shifts to Lucille. “Why did you win?”
Lucille swallows, shoulders
tight. “I closed distance. Took away her reach.”
“And what almost lost you
the duel?” Arvion presses.
Lucille hesitates, then
answers honestly. “I fought my horse instead of ridin' him.”
That earns a faint,
dangerous smile from the commander.
“Correct.” Arvion rides
closer, her horse calm, unbothered by the churned sand and tension.
“Your violence won the clash. Your lack of discipline nearly cost
you the saddle. Remember that. A mount is not a weapon. It is a
partner. Break that partnership, and the ground will take you.”
She gestures sharply.
“Reset. Mornis, recover your gear and observe. Lucille, remain
mounted.”
Lucille inclines her head
and reaches down, offering Mornis a hand. After a brief pause, Mornis
takes it. There is no hostility in her grip, only grudging respect.
As Mornis walks off the
field, Lucille turns her attention back to the arena, reins steady
now, breathing under control. Her knuckles ache. Her thighs burn. The
wolf inside her still snarls, eager, unsated.
Arvion’s voice carries
again. “Next challenger.”
