Barracks 7 was six floors of brutalist architecture crammed with the absolute minimum required for human habitation. Valoris climbed the stairs (elevators were for equipment only, apparently) and found Section E at the end of a corridor that smelled like industrial cleaner and anxiety.

  The common area was already chaos.

  Twenty students, twenty bags, twenty personalities colliding in a space designed for efficiency rather than comfort. Bunks lined the walls; metal frames, thin mattresses, storage cubes beneath. A central table. Lockers. One bathroom (communal, she noted with resignation). Windows that looked out over the training grounds and, beyond them, the dimensional rift's ragged edge.

  Even here, the propaganda followed. A poster on the wall near the bunks: EXCELLENCE IS NOT OPTIONAL. Another by the bathroom: DISCIPLINE EQUALS SURVIVAL.

  Valoris paused in the doorway, bag in hand, and assessed the situation with the same tactical analysis she'd use on a battlefield.

  Groups were already forming. Three students near the windows, all wearing expensive athletic gear, moving with the confidence of people who'd trained together before. Military families, probably. Connected and prepared. She recognized one of them from social events; Kaito Thorne, tall and broad-shouldered, laughing easily with the others. Legacy recruit like herself, but clearly more comfortable with the interpersonal aspects.

  Two students comparing scholarship badges, voices low and shoulders hunched; outsiders recognizing each other, forming alliance of necessity. A cluster near the central table, louder, claiming space with volume and presence. Natural leaders or just naturally loud, time would tell.

  And scattered throughout, the individuals who didn't fit easily into categories: the quiet observers, the nervous ones, the people trying to become invisible.

  "You going to stand there all day or actually come in?"

  Valoris turned. The girl who'd spoken was maybe an inch taller than her, dark curly hair fighting against the regulation bun, hazel eyes that assessed Valoris with professional thoroughness before dismissing her as not currently relevant. She wore the standard intake uniform but moved in it like someone wearing armor; functional, efficient, ready for combat.

  "Sorry," Valoris said, stepping inside. "Just orienting."

  "Mmm." The girl had already moved past, attention on the bunk assignments posted near the door. "Alphabetical by last name. Figures. Zavaretti gets stuck in the back corner."

  "Kessa?" Valoris said, trying for friendly. She'd read the pod list. This had to be Kessa Zavaretti. "I'm Valoris–"

  "Zee." The girl's tone went flat, professional, as she corrected Valoris. Not hostile, exactly, but with all the warmth of a training manual. "I know who you are." She turned and headed for the back corner bunks without waiting for a response, leaving Valoris standing there with her attempted friendliness hanging awkwardly in the air.

  Well, Valoris thought. That went about as expected.

  She found bunk twelve and started unpacking with economical movements, trying to take up as little space as possible, trying not to draw more attention than her name already had.

  "--five generations of pilots–"

  "--heard her grandmother's practically falling apart from corruption–"

  "--wonder if she'll actually be any good or if it's all family connections–"

  The whispers were quiet enough to maintain plausible deniability but loud enough to ensure she heard. Valoris kept her expression neutral, her movements steady, and focused on the simple task of arranging three uniforms in a storage locker. They must have gotten tired of gossiping about Kaito already.

  Around her, Pod K continued its chaotic settling. Kaito Thorne held court near the windows, already the center of his small group's social dynamic with his easy charisma. He seemed to have a natural leadership, the kind of person who made friends through sheer gravitational pull. His voice carried across the barracks as he told some story about prep training, and people laughed at the appropriate moments.

  The scholarship students clustered together but remained wary; two boys comparing notes on their entrance exam scores, a girl with close-cropped hair who'd claimed a corner bunk and immediately started doing push-ups. Hungry. Isolated. Determined to prove they belonged here despite the system suggesting otherwise.

  A quiet girl with an elaborate braid had claimed a bunk near the door and unpacked with precise, economical movements that suggested some previous training. She worked alone, declined conversation with a polite shake of her head when anyone approached, and seemed content to observe rather than participate.

  And then there was the counter.

  Valoris had noticed them during processing, someone who moved through space with careful economy, as though conserving energy for something more important. Now she watched as they stood near their assigned bunk (number sixteen, close to the bathroom), counting quietly.

  "Twenty-three tiles from door to bathroom. Twenty-three exactly. Width of common area: seventeen tiles. Length: thirty-one tiles." Their voice was flat, precise, giving no indication whether they found satisfaction or concern in these measurements.

  They were maybe her height, with platinum blonde hair cut short and pale skin, and equally pale eyes that seemed to look through things rather than at them. Everything about their body language suggested both hyperawareness and complete disconnection. They were present in space but utterly absent from social dynamics.

  Someone laughed nearby. "What are you, counting floor tiles?"

  The counter – Sterling, Quinn Sterling according to the bunk assignment – didn't look up. "Yes. Twenty-three to bathroom. Seventeen wide. Thirty-one long. Five hundred and twenty-seven tiles total in common area."

  "...Okay then."

  Quinn didn't seem to notice or care about the dismissal. They moved to their bunk and began unpacking with geometric precision, every item placed in alignment with some internal system Valoris couldn't decipher.

  Interesting, Valoris thought, filing the observation away. Obsessive? Coping mechanism? Dimensional sensitivity manifesting as compulsion? Unclear.

  Near the windows, one of the scholarship boys was explaining something to his companion with animated hand gestures. "I'm telling you, there's a kid in Pod O who already got written up twice. Once for trying to reverse-engineer his intake tablet, and once for attempting to 'optimize' the weight distribution on his bunk. They caught him with the thing half taken apart and tools everywhere."

  "What kind of idiot modifies academy equipment on day one?"

  "The genius kind, apparently. Renn something. Heard his entrance scores were off the charts, but he's got the common sense of a–"

  Their voices dropped as an instructor passed by the open door, but Valoris filed the information away. Pod O. Renn. Genius without survival instincts. Note and avoid.

  "All right, Pod K," Kaito called out, his natural leadership apparently extending to unofficial pod coordination. "Orientation in two hours. Might want to finish unpacking and figure out where the mess hall is before then. Anyone know this place's layout?"

  A boy near the windows pulled out a tablet. "Got the map downloaded. Mess hall is Ground Level, West Wing, Section C."

  "Perfect. Meet there in ninety minutes? Get food before the orientation speech that'll probably tell us we're all going to die?"

  Nervous laughter rippled through the barracks. Valoris focused on her unpacking, trying to become part of the background.

  It worked until Kaito noticed her.

  "Hey, you're Kade, right?" He'd crossed the room with easy confidence, hand extended. "Kaito Thorne.”

  Valoris shook his hand briefly. "Hi."

  "Looking forward to training together. Should be interesting having two legacy recruits in the same pod." His smile was genuine, friendly, carrying no apparent calculation. "You settling in okay?"

  "Fine, thank you."

  "Great. Listen, some of us are going to try to find the training grounds after orientation, get a sense of the layout. You're welcome to join if–"

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  "I appreciate the offer," Valoris said carefully. "But I should probably focus on getting oriented first."

  "Sure, sure, makes sense." He didn't seem offended, just moved on with the same easy energy. "Open invitation if you change your mind."

  He returned to his group near the windows, and Valoris allowed herself a small breath of relief. Kaito seemed genuinely nice, which was somehow more exhausting than hostility. She finished unpacking and sat on the edge of her bunk, ostensibly reviewing the academy protocols on her tablet but actually observing Pod K through peripheral vision.

  Zee was helping the scholarship students with their unpacking now, offering advice with matter-of-fact efficiency. Not seeking recognition, just being useful. Leadership without performance, Valoris noted.

  Quinn had finished unpacking and now stood perfectly still in the center of the common area, apparently counting something else. Their lips moved silently with numbers. No one approached them.

  The girl with the braid – Sable Vex, Valoris recognized vaguely – remained near the door, reading from her tablet with absolute focus, somehow managing to observe everything while appearing completely absorbed in her reading.

  And throughout the barracks, twenty individuals continued the awkward process of becoming a temporary collective. Some would form friendships. Some would form rivalries. Most would remain acquaintances thrown together by randomized accident, waiting for the permanent squad assignments that would define the next four years.

  "Ninety minutes," someone called out. "Anyone who wants to find the mess hall, we're leaving in ten."

  Valoris considered joining them, then decided against it. Better to navigate alone initially, establish independence before any social dynamics could form around her name.

  She waited until most of Pod K had departed in various groups before making her own way to the mess hall, tablet map in hand, moving through corridors that would become familiar eventually but were currently a disorienting maze of identical passages.

  The mess hall was enormous and loud.

  Five hundred and twenty-three students, all trying to navigate an unfamiliar system simultaneously, resulted in barely controlled chaos. Valoris grabbed a tray, moved through the food line with mechanical efficiency (standard academy nutrition, optimized for athletic performance rather than enjoyment), and found a seat at the edge of a long table where she could observe without being directly in anyone's social sphere.

  The wall screens showed news coverage. Never just blank, always something to watch, something to reinforce the message. As Valoris settled into her seat, the current clip showed a deployment zone, but the footage was carefully curated. Pristine. Heroic.

  Three mechs moved in perfect formation, corruption writhing in the background and occasionally glitching the camera. Apart from that, the editing was seamless and professional.

  An entity emerged, rendered in the video as a writhing mass of darkness and wrongness, all threat and no complexity. The mechs engaged with coordinated precision. Energy weapons fired in beautiful arcs of light. The entity dissolved into nothing.

  The narrator's voice was the same one from the transport: "Humanity's defenders stand vigilant against dimensional incursion. Our brave pilots face the threat with courage and skill, protecting billions from entities that would consume our reality. Thanks to their sacrifice, civilization endures."

  Cut to the pilots emerging from their mechs: young, unblemished, faces full of noble satisfaction. No corruption scars yet, or trembling hands. No evidence of the dimensional exposure that would slowly poison them from the inside.

  "Every day, our heroes risk everything so that we can live in safety. Support your pilots. Honor their service. Remember their sacrifice."

  The clip ended. A new one began, showing a pilot receiving a medal while their family watched with pride.

  Across the hall, she spotted students she recognized from processing. Several tables over, a girl with severe features and black hair cut into a brutally efficient bob sat alone, eating with mechanical precision while studying from a tablet propped against her water glass. Everything about her posture screamed don't approach, don't engage, leave me alone.

  Pod K had scattered throughout the hall. Kaito's group claimed a prominent central table, the scholarship students clustered together in a corner, various individuals finding their own spaces in the social geography.

  Quinn sat alone at a small table near the windows, eating with focused attention while occasionally glancing at something on their tablet. Counting calories, maybe. Or tracking some other metric.

  A student with a fourth-year patch sat three tables over. Their collar was dark with something that wasn't water; thicker, slightly viscous where it soaked through the fabric. They coughed suddenly, a wet, rattling sound that made several first-years turn and stare, and casually spit clear liquid into a napkin before continuing to eat.

  No one at their table reacted. No instructors appeared.

  The fourth-year coughed again, brought up more liquid, wiped their mouth with the same napkin, and resumed their meal like nothing had happened.

  Valoris looked away, feeling something cold settle in her chest.

  "Mind if I sit?"

  She looked up. Zee stood with her tray, not waiting for permission before sliding into the seat across from her.

  Valoris blinked, surprised. "Of course."

  "Figured we might as well get acquainted," Zee said, attacking her food with efficient purpose. "Pod K for two weeks. Might be squadmates after that, might not. Either way, good to know who you're living with."

  The tone was less flat than before. Still professional, but with an edge of something warmer. Pragmatic friendliness, maybe. Or just tactical networking.

  "Makes sense," Valoris said cautiously.

  "You’re Valoris Kade. People call me Zee." She still didn't offer a hand, just continued eating. "Third-generation colonial, scholarship recruit. Industrial Sector Seven." She paused, then added with deliberate emphasis, "Here on merit."

  The implication was clear: Not here because of connections. Not here because my family has a name. Here because I earned it.

  "Fifth-generation pilot family,” Valoris responded. “Here because..." She paused. Why am I here? "Because I chose to be."

  Zee's expression shifted slightly; reassessment, maybe, or acknowledgment of something unexpected. "Fair enough. You any good, or is it all name?"

  "I don't know yet," Valoris admitted. "I've had training. Whether it's enough..." She shrugged.

  "Honest answer." Zee nodded, apparently satisfied. "Better than the ones who think their family connections mean they've already made it." She gestured vaguely toward where Kaito's group was laughing about something. "Not saying anything against Thorne specifically. He seems decent enough. Just saying the name doesn't do the work."

  "No," Valoris agreed quietly. "It doesn't."

  On the screen behind Zee, the news clip shifted to show a pilot receiving treatment in a medical facility. But even this was sanitized. The pilot looked tired but whole, accepting care with dignified gratitude. No corruption scars spreading across skin, or psychological breakdown from prolonged dimensional exposure. Just a clean, controlled narrative of sacrifice and recovery.

  "Support programs ensure our pilots receive the care they've earned," the narrator intoned. "The academy stands behind its graduates from deployment to retirement."

  Zee followed Valoris's gaze to the screen, watched for a moment, then made a small sound of disgust. "That's not what it looks like, is it?"

  "No," Valoris said quietly. "It's not."

  They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes. Around them, the cafeteria noise continued; hundreds of voices, clattering trays, and always the screens showing their perfect, edited version of what being a pilot meant.

  "So what's your plan?" Zee asked eventually. "Beyond survive training and try not to wash out."

  Valoris considered the question. "I don't know. Make it to summoning. Become a pilot. Serve my ten years." If I get ten years. "You?"

  "Make it to summoning. Become a pilot. Send most of my pay home." Zee said it matter-of-factly, like stating a grocery list. "Pilot wages are good. Real good. I send home eighty percent, we're set. My younger siblings can go to better schools. My parents can retire before their bodies give out. That's the plan."

  The bluntness was startling. No pretense about honor or duty or protecting humanity. Just cold economic calculation and family loyalty.

  "That's..." Valoris searched for the right word. "Practical."

  "It's survival." Zee met her eyes directly. "I'm not here to be a hero. I'm here to change my family's trajectory. Being a pilot means we escape the industrial sectors. Means my sisters don't have to work factory lines at nine like I did. Means my brother can study medicine instead of mining. That's worth eight to ten years of corruption exposure."

  Eight to ten years. Zee already knew. Already factored it into her calculations.

  "Does your family know?" Valoris asked quietly. "About the corruption? About what happens long-term?"

  "They know pilots don't last forever. They don't need to know the details." Zee's jaw tightened slightly. "Better I do this and they have security than I don't and we all stay trapped."

  On the screen, another perfect combat scenario played out. Entity defeated. Pilots victorious. Reality saved. No mention of the corruption zones left behind, the dimensional scarring that would take decades to heal, the contamination spreading through the pilots' bodies with every connection.

  Valoris thought about her own family. The hall of mechs, the generations of Kades who'd chosen this path for honor and legacy and duty. She'd never had to think about money. Never had to choose between her own health and her family's survival.

  "I hope you make it," she said, and meant it.

  "I will." Zee's voice carried absolute certainty. "I don't have the option to fail."

  They finished eating in silence; not uncomfortable, just two people processing different versions of the same commitment. The screens continued their endless loop of sanitized heroism, and around them, five hundred and twenty-three students navigated their first day, most of them still believing the propaganda more than the reality.

  When Zee stood to leave, she paused.

  "You're not what I expected," she said.

  "What did you expect?"

  "Someone who didn't question whether they were good enough. Someone who took the name for granted." Zee shrugged. "Thought you were gonna be more like him.” She nodded to where Kaito sat with his group. “Founding member and president of the Kaito Thorne Fan Club and Appreciation Society, he is. You might be all right, Kade."

  "Valoris," she said.

  "We'll see." But Zee's tone suggested she might actually use the first name eventually. "Orientation in forty minutes. Probably shouldn't be late on day one."

  She left without ceremony, depositing her tray and heading toward the exit with the same efficient purpose she brought to everything.

  Valoris sat alone again, finishing her meal, watching the screens cycle while five hundred and twenty-three students tried to figure out where they fit in a system designed to break forty percent of them.

  She wondered which percent she'd be in.

  And she wondered if Zee's cold calculations–eight to ten years for family security–were more honest than her own vague notions of duty and choice and becoming something worth the cost.

  ?? A Farm Girl's Guide to Necromancy ??

  by Marcus Crowe

  Farm girl Ashley Hart inherits her family farm—and the mountain of guild debt that comes with it. Unable to coax a single carrot from the dying fields, she does the only thing she can: pen a forbidden grimoire, the Mortis Agrariae (“Of the Dead Fields”), and begins her descent into necromancy.

  What starts as a simple bid to sell carrots and scrape together a thousand gold spirals into a black-market agribusiness just outside the city where she grew up. Bone-hands till her rows; dirty coin from vampires, slavers, and other night-things fills her purse. Ashley’s public face is spotless. Her ledgers are not.

  And the Inquisition is watching.

  Adrian Skye—childhood frenemy, now a newly minted [Inquisitor]—has always had an eye on her. When her plan to secure her future threatens the order he serves, the next knock on her door might be a confession… or a trip to the gallows.

  Farming was never meant to be this lively.

  Expect slow-burn progression, morally gray choices, farming/life sim flavor, and a steady descent into necromancy.