The residence on Silver Street is not a barracks. It is a palace.
House Number 45 is a massive, five-story mansion constructed of various woods and marble. It sits behind a wrought-iron gate that screams noble prick, surrounded by a manicured garden that somehow, despite the war and the occupation, still smells of blooming hydrangeas and freshly turned earth.
I am lounging in the living room, my body sunk deep into a sofa upholstered in crushed velvet the color of dried blood. The ceiling above me is vaulted, painted with a fresco of the gods descending from the heavens to grant magic to mortals. At least the couch is comfortable as hell.
I stare at the painted gods, but I am not seeing them.
Inside my mind, I am building a structure of a different kind.
Fourteen multiplied by twenty-seven. Subtract the square root of one hundred and forty-four. Divide by three.
I visualize the beads of an abacus inside my mind. I slide the black beads across the mental wire. Click. Click. Click.
One hundred and twenty-two, I conclude.
I reset the board.
Calculate the trajectory of a an arrow traveling at forty meters per second with a crosswind of fifteen knots and a descent angle of...
It is a grounding exercise. The Abacus technique keeps my mind active which is needed as a contrast to the luxury of this room, the silence and the sheer absurdity of being a teenager in a mansion preparing to go and kill people.
I shift slightly and through the open archway, I can see the dining room. Lieutenant Colonel Aric Caldera is sitting at the head of a mahogany table long enough to seat twenty people. He has claimed the space as his command post.
He has changed out of his PT gear. He is now fully dressed in the standard Awakened officer's uniform—black, reinforced leather. A black, hoodless cape is draped over his shoulders, pinned with the silver insignia of his rank. The collar is high, hiding the spiked chain tattoo on his neck.
He is going over a stack of paperwork that looks substantial enough to be a small novel. His face is a mask of concentration, his grey eyes scanning the reports in front of him with an air of subdued annoyance.
I watch him for a moment. He looks like a warlord holding court but I grow restless and I return to my math.
Three hundred and sixty degrees. Divide by...
Time stretches.
It feels like hours, the silence of the house pressing against my eardrums. I can hear Lucian and Vihaan moving around upstairs doing some random shit in the rooms on the third floor. Imara said she wanted to go back to sleep.
I glance out the window and based on how high the sun has climbed It has probably only been an hour or two max since we arrived at this house, but in the waiting, time distorts.
Finally, the heavy knocker on the front door slams down. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Caldera doesn't look up from his papers.
"Get that, XO," he calls out, his voice flat.
I sigh, abandoning my mental calculations.
"Yes, sir."
I heave myself off the comfortable sofa and walk to the massive oak double doors. I pull one open.
Standing on the porch is a motley collection of soldiers.
There are six of them. They look tired. They look wary. They are carrying rucksacks and duffel bags that look heavy enough to break a normal man's back.
"This House 45?" the man in the front asks.
I look at them. I assume the Wolf's eyes cold, assessing and unimpressed.
"It is," I say. "Inside. Colonel's in the dining room."
I step aside.
They file past me, tracking dirt onto the pristine marble foyer. I close the door, sealing us in, and follow them into the dining room.
They drop their bags in a pile near the archway and stand at attention as Caldera finally looks up from his paperwork.
He scans them. His grey eyes dissect them just as ruthlessly as mine do.
"At ease," Caldera says.
They relax, but only slightly.
"I'm LT Colonel Caldera," he says, leaning back in his chair, the leather creaking. "This is First Lieutenant Daath, my XO. You are now part of my new strike force so welcome and congrats on the reassignment."
He gestures to the empty chairs around the table.
"Sit. Names and specialties. Now."
They take seats. The wood scrapes against the floor.
The Awakened go first. Hierarchy dictates it.
A stocky man sits two chairs down from Caldera. He is of above-average height, but his width makes him look shorter. He has broad shoulders and a neck thick with muscle. He has a buzz cut.
He looks up, and I catch a flash of color that makes me pause.
His eyes are strawberry red. Not the crimson of the General's eyes, which look like blood. These are lighter, pinker, almost like the fruit. Interesting.
"Second Lieutenant Vini Lopez," he rumbles. His voice is deep, like stones grinding together in a quarry. "Mark of Kinetic Reinforcement."
I pull a small notebook from my pocket and start writing.
Lopez. Kinetic Reinforcement.
I analyze the power instantly. It's a powerful ability. He can likely transfer kinetic energy from one object to another, thus strengthening their attacks, or tear holes in walls with a simple touch, turn an object's potential energy into kinetic energy, making it explosive, or cause a target to be unable to move or unable to stop if in motion. Hmm very useful.
Next is a woman.
She sits opposite Lopez. She is tall and lanky, her limbs long and thin like a spider's. Her hair is cropped short to her skull, a severe, utilitarian cut that emphasizes the sharp angles of her face.
I eye her for a second. She has a harsh, angular beauty to her. Not soft, but striking.
Then I look at her eyes.
Electric yellow. They crackle with energy, shifting and darting around the room like trapped birds.
She notices me staring and holds my gaze. There is a challenge there.
I smirk to myself, looking down at my notebook.
Attitude, I write.
"2nd LT I go by Sola," she says. "Mark of the Gale which is an Air Affinity."
I jot down a few notes, but I am familiar with Air marks.
Caldera nods. He doesn't write anything down. He expects me to do it as their day to days falls upon me.
"Markless," Caldera commands. "Go."
The mood in the room shifts. The Awakened lean back, a subtle arrogance in their posture. The Markless lean forward, eager to prove they belong at the table.
The first is an older man. He sits at the far end. His face is weathered, lined with deep creases like a topographic map of a hard life. He has burn scars on his hands, shiny and pink against his tanned skin.
"Rook," he says, his voice raspy, like he's inhaled too much smoke in his life. "Sergeant First Class. I specialize in demolition. Bombs. Siege machines."
I perk up.
Bombs.
Gunpowder and explosives are heavily regulated by the Imperial Army. Guns are practically relics, before the First King arrived from the dark continent apparently guns ruled the battlefield among the various cultures and people here. But against Awakened Elites gifted with their mark of power, superhuman speed, and reflexes beyond human limits, bullets became nothing more than slow-moving nuisances. And as the Empire expanded, close quarters combat became the standard across the continent. Blades, magic, and raw physical power replaced firearms entirely. Our Long-range attacks still exist, of course, but only in the form of siege weapons and city-leveling bombardments which apparently this man is a master at using.
I remember the flashbang I crafted back in Lont. I remember the weeks of scavenging magnesium and completing dangerous deals with shady merchants in the back alleys to get the potassium nitrate. I remember nearly blowing my own fingers off in my apartment trying to assemble the damn thing.
I smile ruefully. It took me weeks to make one unstable flashnang. This man has probably cracked cities apart.
I shake my head in amusement and listen to the next guy.
He is younger, definitely in his thirties, but he has the kind of face you forget five seconds after looking at him. He is average height, average build, with mousy brown hair. He looks like he could be a radom shop keeped in Lont.
"Max," he says softly. "I am a Sergeant, I specialize in espionage. Infiltration, Information retrieval you know the fun stuff!"
He pauses, then adds with no hint of boasting, "I am a master of it."
I raise an eyebrow. A master spy who introduces himself as a master spy? That's almost too ironic to be funny.
Then, the next soldier speaks
"Specialist Ivy Fawn," a voice says. It is clear, melodic, but firm.
I look at her.
She is sitting near the middle of the table. She is around my height, maybe five-six. She has blonde hair tied back in a practical ponytail, but strands have escaped to frame her face.
Her eyes are blue. Not the icy, blue of that prick Cain but a warm, summer-sky blue.
I stare.
She is... striking.
In a room full of scarred soldiers, ink-covered warlords, and dangerous Elites, she looks like she walked out of a propaganda poster for the "Ideal Imperial Citizen." She has the kind of features that usually belong to the nobility high cheekbones, clear skin.
I would have bet money she was an Elite. She looks like one.
I see Lucian out of the corner of my eye. He is leaning against the doorframe, peeling an apple with a knife. He stops peeling. He looks at Ivy, then looks at me, and a slow, shit-eating grin spreads across his face.
He winks.
I scowl at him.
She's good looking, I admit silently. Objectively.
Then I curse myself.
Stop it, I tell myself viciously. You are an officer. She is a subordinate do not try anything stupid.
The voices in my head chuckle.
Shut up, I snap internally.
My mind flashes, unbidden, to Proctor Juliet Deng. I remember the white furs, the silver hair, the way she held my hand in the Observatory Tower. I remember the crushing embarrassment I felt when I realized I was blushing like a schoolboy in front of her.
I feel the heat rising in my neck again.
Gods damn it, I think, flushing. What the fuck is wrong with me!
I force my face to remain impassive. I hope no one notices the slight reddening of my ears.
"I specialize in survival," Ivy continues, oblivious to my internal crisis. "Living off the land you know. Shelter building. Fire-making. Tracking and hunting. The actual real fun stuff" she grins glancing at Max.
I nod, writing quickly.
The last soldier clears his throat.
He is a skinny guy, younger than the others, maybe early twenties. He has short, messy brown hair and nervous hands. He looks like he belongs in a library, not a strike force.
"Specialist Jordan Hudson," he says. His voice cracks slightly, then he stabilizes it. "I'm... uh... I'm your comms guy."
I stop writing.
I raise an eyebrow.
"Comms?" I ask. "You mean you're a runner? Seems a little pointless don't you think?
The Colonel looks at him too, his expression unreadable.
"What are you talking about, Specialist?" Caldera asks. "We don't need a runner, as the LT just put it would be pointless for this strike force."
Hudson flushes a little, his ears turning pink.
"I... I am not a runner umm sorry!"
He reaches down to his pack. He unzips it and upends it onto the polished mahogany table.
Clatter. Thud.
A bunch of strange devices spill out.
I frown, leaning forward.
They are rectangular, blocky things. They are no larger than ten inches tall, but they look thick and heavy. They appear to be made out of a thin-ish material—maybe a lightweight metal or a treated resin—that glows with a faint, pulsing blue light from within.
The front of each device is dominated by a pane of colored glass; dark, almost opaque.
At the top of each device is an empty hole, a socket about the size of a coin.
"What are those?" Vini Lopez asks, reaching out to poke one with a thick finger.
"We call them Amulets," Hudson says, picking one up. He handles it with reverence.
My eyes widen slightly in recognition.
"Amulets," I say softly.
Hudson looks at me, surprised. "You know them, Lieutenant?"
"I know of them," I correct, picking one up. It feels cold and dense in my hand.
Pierce Ryder, the Count had said. A genius craft master. He found a way to mass-produce amulets without the need for an Elite's power.
"These are the Ryder models then?" I ask, running my thumb over the smooth casing. "Mass-produced and Powered by our nice and local Verion crystals."
I look up at Hudson and he nods an affirmative.
"But these are still expensive," I note. "I heard they were becoming less rare, sure, but usually they're reserved for high-ranking officers or are given out to a few specific barracks who rotate them around for patrols. You have..." I count the devices on the table. "...Ten of them?"
"Eleven, sir," Hudson says, grinning now that he's on familiar ground. "One for each of us. Plus spares."
I whistle low.
"Strategic Command isn't playing around," I mutter.
"Wait," Vini Lopez rumbles, poking one of the devices with a finger thick as a sausage. "You mean we all get one? Deadass?"
He reaches into a pouch on his belt and pulls out a small, glowing blue crystal shard. It pulses with the same rhythm as the streetlights outside.
"These run on raw mana shards found in the mines," Hudson explains. "We are going to be doing a lot of heavy lifting I suppose so they want us decked out. We can also resupply our own batteries if we take a mine back."
He clicks the shard into the socket at the top of the device.
Hummmmm.
The device vibrates on the table. The colored glass on the front lights up, displaying glowing runes that shift and swirl, locking into a frequency.
"Instant communication," Hudson says proudly. "You just need to tap another powered Amulet with your own and they will be able to transmit to each other!"
Caldera reaches out and picks one up. He weighs it in his hand, his expression calculating.
"This is interesting, being able to communicate over vast distances with each other instantly will allow us to use some interesting tactics."
"Exactly, sir," Hudson says. "I can give a lesson on how to use them later one after we all get settled in and answer any specific questions you guys think of."
Caldera grunts, but I can tell he is pleased. He looks at his new team.
A tank. A wind mage. A bomber. A spy. A survivalist. A tech specialist. And three killers from the Academy.
He leans forward, the leather of his uniform creaking. The spiked chain tattoo on his neck seems to ripple as he flexes his jaw.
"Pack your gear," he commands. "Stow your personal effects. Check your weapons. Then check them again." "Hudson dish out the Amulets and give them a lesson on how to operate them."
He looks at me, then at the window where the sun is climbing high into the sky.
"Get some rest if you can. Eat something substantial." "We will have an OPORD later tonight around sunset!"
He grins "I got our first mission, we step off at dusk."