Yarik grimaced and swung his feet out of bed on the moon of the evaluation. Although he had been running and training on his leg for multiple weeks, it still felt weak, and probably would for the rest of his life. Cavaar was awake and dressing. Yarik put on the leather eye patch that shielded the world from what had once been his left eye. It was misted over and distorted from the pressure wave. He caught Cavaar staring. “What?”

“You look pretty.”

“Funny. Think I could be a jester?”

“Oh definitely, though you might get kicked out of the castles on account of the desires of the noble wives.” They laughed until their smiles faded. Cavaar spoke, “ready friend?”

Yarik answered by getting up, pulling on his tunic, lacing his boots, and striding towards the door. They walked across the courtyard in silence. Other students were starting to emerge from their bunks and make their way to the inner gate that led to the yard. In the orange glow cast by the sunrise they looked like wraiths on their way to perform some hellish ritual. They exited the gate and joined their respective squads, forming lines perpendicular to the broken outer gate.

Mareth was flanked by the four instructors. “This is your final evaluation. The Cataclysm approaches. Blades will be chosen by this moon's results, with some consideration for past performances. Dawn be with you.” He spoke the words without ceremony, the students knew what to do when he finished. They trotted past in single file: squads one and two on the right, three and four on the left. As they reached the broken gate, instructors handed each student a colored flag and a poison coated training blade. The students then turned right and left to follow the path that led around the walls to the back of the castle where the maze waited.

Yarik tied the blue flag around his arm and held his training blade away from his body. It would be a shame to cut himself on the way there and wake up twelve hours later, not that he harbored any hopes of being chosen to join with the Black, but he hoped to preserve what was left of his pride.

Squad four reached their designated entrance on the North side of the maze. They listened for the signal. A warm wind blew through the trees at their backs, carrying the smell of sulfur mixed with pine needles. The orange glow that had bathed the yard was now beginning to show traces of red. Yarik felt the wind stop, and then the cannon shot.

The squad burst through the gate and the two scouts, Cavaar and Horace, raced ahead to spot dead ends and chart a course through the maze to the center. Yarik, before the explosion, would've been in their place as the fastest in the squad, but he had been replaced by Horace and made the navigator. When they came to a fork the two scouts would split and determine if the route had a dead end or not. If there was the decision was easy: just take the other fork; but if both were viable the decision passed to Yarik, who, with the aid of a charcoal stick, was making a crude map on his hand. He did his best to keep their course pointed towards the flag. It was an effective system for the most part, though they did have to backtrack twice. The first major setback came when they were close enough to see the flag pole looming high above their heads.

There was a fork in the maze, and as they had done many times already, Cavaar shot to the left and Horace to the right. Cavaar's shout came back moments later: “Dead end!”

They waited for Horace's shrill voice but it didn't return. Instead there was a muffled cry and the clang of sword on sword, then silence. Pyotr and Hob shot past Yarik. Yarik followed them and rounded the corner. They found Horace standing over an unconscious student much bigger than himself, an incredulous look on his face.

“I- He- We both came around the corner and I just reacted like Dmitri showed us and it worked. He went down so fast. I can't believe it!”

Cavaar smiled at the younger student. “Well done Horace, now lets get-” But he was cut off. The smaller boy reacted to something coming from his right, but too slow. A sword flashed out from the corner and Horace toppled onto his recently defeated foe.

The other students cursed and charged around the corner to meet two students from another squad, most likely comrades with the one that Horace had felled. Cavaar, Hob, and Pyotr advanced, pressing the advantage they had in numbers. Though the walls of the maze only allowed for three students across, it was wide enough for Pyotr to flank the two foes while Cavaar and Hob kept them busy with aggressive cuts. Pyotr grinned, catching one on the arm, and the other on the thigh. They panted over the twitching bodies and watched them descend into a peaceful sleep.

“Let's go.” Cavaar said.

Their encounter proved a good indication that the flag was not far. The path that Horace had found continued for another twenty yards, and exited into the square arena. As squad four approached the end of the path, they could hear the din of raised voices and clanging swords, punctuated by the occasional scream.

The orange of the sunrise was now a dark blood red, and while the training blades were dulled enough to only break skin, the way they flashed red impressed Yarik with the illusion that this was not an evaluation, but a bloody fight to the death. Students hacked about as enemy squads tried to gain the pole and raise their flag. When one student reached it, another would slash from the back and take his place. If the flag bearer was lucky enough to have his comrades with him, he might get it up a few feet before it dropped back down to the ground. Bodies were piling around the pole.

“Form a ring around Yarik,” Cavaar ordered. “For now we focus on knock outs. Do not break formation for any reason. Yarik, you're responsible for calling out threats. Let's move for the flag, but remember, getting KOs is more important than getting there. Move!”

The ring of students started moving towards the center. “Right!” Yarik called out two enemies. The right side of the ring saw them coming and turned to engage, landing cuts without too much trouble. They continued to advance, taking advantage of turned backs. Three foes fell, crying out as they were struck from behind. They were now less than ten feet away from the flag pole. It was crowded, and Yarik was busy calling out threats from all directions. The squad mates in front of him were struggling to step over unconscious bodies. Pyotr cried out and turned to face Yarik, struggling to fight the poison. “Sorry,” he managed, and fell.

“Close the circle!” The ring went tighter and filled the gap Pyotr had left. They still weren't moving.

“Cavaar!” Yarik yelled.

“What?”

“We need to break formation, we won't make it this way!” Cavaar grunted and blocked an overhead cut that was thrown at his face. He let it bounce down his angled blade, then lashed out in a quick upward slash. His opponent fell, clutching a lacerated nose.

“Cavaar!”

“Yeah Yarik I heard, what should we do?” Yarik surveyed the carnage.

“There! Where those two squads are fighting. We make a V and push!” He indicated the spot. Two squads of about five students each had just clashed. The battle line was perpendicular to squad four, which meant they could drive right in between. Cavaar grunted again, channeling Dmitri.

“Alright, you heard him. Squad four, Move!” They obeyed and formed a V like a gaggle of big geese. “Charge!”

They ran forward, Cavaar at the point, Yarik positioned just behind. They crashed into the line of battle. The unfortunate students who they met first fell with wide eyes. Cavaar lashed about, blade flashing red in the sun. Hob and another squad mate, abandoning their sabers, pushed the stumbling and surprised students aside.

It all happened in a few seconds. One moment they were charging, the next Cavaar, Yarik, and what was left of squad four was emerging on the other side in front of the flag. Two of them had been left behind in the charge. Yarik tripped over an arm and felt himself caught by a big hand. Hob was smiling at him like an idiot. “We made it!” The big student exclaimed, then shuddered as he was slashed from behind. He roared and whirled, grabbed the blade that had hit him, wrenched it from his enemy's grasp, slashed with a vengeful cut, then fell. I guess being big has its advantages, Yarik thought.

“Form a circle now!” Cavaar's command cut through the din. “Yarik. The flag!” Yarik was fumbling with the clasp. He got it and started wrenching on the rope to raise squad four's blue square of cloth. His squad mate gave a shout and fell. The flag was a quarter of the way up. Yarik was aware of shouts while his two remaining squad mates struggled to keep attackers at bay. The blue square was now halfway up, jumping with every pull on the rope. Another shout, only Cavaar remained. Three quarters of the way. Cavaar was yelling and laughing while he danced around the flag pole, whirling his saber in the red glow. He was grazed on the left wrist, then slashed on the right leg, then stabbed in the chest. He fell next to Yarik and watched the blue square jitter up and ring the bell at the top. The two friends smiled and clasped hands.

A ray of light pierced the ubiquitous red glow and shone on the flag as it whipped in the wind.

“For Maria,” Cavaar breathed. His grasp went limp.

Yarik held it. “For Maria,” he echoed.