Khazmine stood, wide-eyed and completely at a loss for what to say to the imposing woman standing in front of her. The outcast drew her long ears back and licked her dried lips that had fused together over the long morning of toiling at the commissary in silence.

“Am I learning from you today, ma'am?” Khazmine asked but was only met with a deep breath from the major, followed by a nod.

Not knowing what else to say or do, Khazmine tilted her head and waited patiently for Major Barshaw to say something—anything—but the outcast was met by an inquisitive stare from the stoic titan instead. The major reached to one side and detached a coiled object from her belt, only to toss it to the ground directly in front of Khazmine.

She’d seen a weapon like this before, back at The Blanched Hart, but wasn’t entirely sure what the major had meant by tossing it in front of her. A lengthy, rusty-red leather cord as thick as a wyrwhisp viper coiled lifelessly on the trampled dirt of the training circle. At its base was a handle that was almost as long as the outcast’s forearm, which was also wrapped in fine leather that matched the braided tendril attached to it.

What interested Khazmine most about the weapon was the intricate braid that terminated in a single tuft of fiber flayed to ribbons at its end. She’d witnessed the damage one could cause with such an implement and remembered the shocked expression of the Star Guard back at the tavern who’d felt its sting firsthand. Khazmine’s fascinated expression drew a smile out of Major Barshaw, who strode towards Khazmine unexpectedly.

The startled outcast bent low on instinct to grab the whip before Major Barshaw threatened to stomp right over it. Khazmine hugged the coiled leather to her body and retreated, with long ears still tensed fearfully. The major gave no indication that she was going to stop, until Khazmine backed into the outer ring of the circle. Not having anywhere else to go, the outcast cowered and glanced up at Major Barshaw, only to find the soldier bending low enough to whisper in Khazmine’s ear.

“Hit me,” Barshaw commanded with a resounding, malevolent voice like a raddilbak’s warning growl. The smirk that followed seemed to add wordlessly to the major’s order, “if you can…”

Khazmine cracked the whip as hard as she could, until the ragged tip snapped in the air like a thunder shock. Despite her injuries and lack of instruction, the outcast lunged at Major Barshaw with a fierce determination that the seasoned veteran couldn’t help but respect. She allowed Khazmine to close the distance between them, filled the outcast with hopes of hitting her, only to dart away at the last possible moment. This delicate dance of give and take merely fueled Khazmine’s hunger to succeed in her mission and appeared to amuse the major endlessly.

It was a noble effort, truly, but the suns began setting long before Khazmine even came close to striking Major Barshaw. Again and again, Khazmine swung the long, snapping whip at her target, only to catch air in its biting crackles. Not only were Khazmine’s movements blatantly broadcast, but Major Barshaw was unbelievably fast, even without ether-boosting her strides. Breathless and sweaty, Khazmine eventually dropped to her knees for relief, only to find her opponent looming overhead.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s my first day,” Khazmine wheezed. Her rib still throbbed, and the outcast was practically ready to pass out from overexertion before adding, “I’ll try harder…”

You didn’t really think you could hit me on the first day, did you? the major thought as a smirk flickered briefly across her face. She extended a thick, scarred hand to the outcast to help lift her from the dusty ground, and practically yanked Khazmine’s arm out of its socket when she tugged forcefully. It hadn’t occurred to her earlier, but Major Barshaw realized that Khazmine had continued to push through the pain of her recent injuries without complaint, never once giving up or crying “foul” at the clearly unfair expectations laid before her.

She needs to eat better, Major Barshaw thought to distract herself from lingering on any affection that started to take root for the outcast. It was important to see just how undernourished Khazmine was, as there was no sense in training some emaciated half-breed if the poor thing was half-dead from malnutrition. The major ran a thousand scenarios, tweaks, and adjustments in her head, silently recalculating a training plan to properly condition this unexpected student. Khazmine trailed behind the major as the pair trudged out of the training circle to make for the bathhouse together.

No one wanted to be around when any of the Solanai officers bathed, so the pair had the entire facility to themselves once everyone else had evacuated. While Khazmine and Major Barshaw separately enjoyed a refreshing dip in the private alcoves of the bathhouse, rumors began to spread about the half-breed receiving not only special treatment, but private training from the major herself. Ill-will, jealousy, and spiteful indignation ruminated among the initiates, planting seeds of discord and rumors which would eventually reach every corner of the Solanai camp.

Emerging from the warm embrace of brambleberry-scented bath water, Khazmine and Major Barshaw changed before they departed from the bathhouse, ready to relax for the remainder of the evening. Khazmine was about to turn away and leave without bothering her superior further, when a gigantic hand alighted on her bony shoulder, radiating warmth where it touched her. To the outcast’s surprise, Major Barshaw gave the half-breed a kind smile and a nod before turning towards her opulent quarters. This small gesture left Khazmine speechless, and any onlookers passing by were ravaged by envy at the blatant display of favoritism.

One of the jealous initiates she’d tried to avoid in the commissary — a stocky, dapper man named Quin — bashed his shoulder into Khazmine’s as she headed down the bathhouse steps. His sturdy body almost knocked the outcast over, but Khazmine found her footing before she risked toppling off the wooden stairs. It was yet another petulant display from one of the younger initiates, and Khazmine had enough of being pushed around today.

“Watch where you’re going, half-breed,” Quin snapped, as if he were the victim of Khazmine’s aggression.

“I try to, but sometimes an unsightly boor gets in my way,” Khazmine clapped back, sensing Quin’s overt hostility. The outcast winced at the realization that even initiates could mortally wound her, and so she ambled towards the camp’s outer gates as casually as she could to save face.

“You’ve got some cheek, creature,” Quin countered. He smoothed long strands of black hair back into place from when he’d bumped into the outcast and stared down at Khazmine as if she were mud or filth that one would scrape from their boots. “You think you’re all glittering gold, just ‘cause the major’s taken a shine to you.”

“Oh really, you give me too much credit, Mister Scurving,” Khazmine shrugged sarcastically at his assertion as she approached the gate master’s cabin to knock on his window. “As you’ve all taken to saying, I’m ‘nothing special,’ right? Then it stands to reason that you must be even less interesting for Major Barshaw to withhold your special treatment, yes?”

“You, y-you—,” Quin stammered for a rebuttal that didn’t make him sound like a complete idiot, but none came to mind, confirming that fact anyway. Khazmine glared back at Quin from the relative safety of the cracked open gate and refused to blink or turn away first. “You better watch yourself, mutt!”

The gate closed again, separating the initiate from the outcast, at least for one more night. Khazmine clenched a sore hand into a fist at the notion that it would take considerable work for her to earn her place among the other initiates, and that some may never accept her presence in the camp. But that was a problem for “tomorrow” Khazmine. All she needed to do now was keep learning, surviving, and continuing to grow.

---

Nearly a month of intermittent rains went by, drenching and blanching the city of Old Sarzonn with unpredictable deluges of heat and moisture. In that time, the strongest and most resilient of sweet thistle-wheat sprouts proliferated in the abundant hills outside the city, creating a gradient of green and gold seedlings that carpeted the land as far as the eye could see. That same span of weeks that fostered the seedlings also bolstered the outcast, allowing her once frail body to grow beyond her expectations.

Daily toiling among the initiates — coupled with demanding afternoon trainings with the officers — had molded Khazmine into an unrecognizable young woman. The outcast’s muscles solidified as her dark bruising faded, and proper rations of good, healthy food filled in the unfortunate hollows of her body that starvation had dug out through the years. A solid foundation of physical well-being also sharpened her mind significantly, allowing Khazmine to harness abilities she wasn’t even aware of before.

Despite the vast changes to a singular individual, the camp remained largely unchanged by the time Mister Hallem returned to his post after his “convalescence.” The gates, battlements, facilities, and even the initiates were the same, but something was different. He could feel it. Mister Hallem traipsed through the open area between the various outbuildings of the camp, only to be met with curious stares from his fellow soldiers. Uncomfortable whispers spread throughout the Solanai barracks as Hallem approached his old bunkmate.

“Oy, Quin, what’s news?” Hallem asked the dapper man he’d been assigned to mentor. He hadn’t seen the initiate since his recent loss at the hands of Major Barshaw, and Hallem expected a warm welcome from his mentee.

“News? What’s—ah!” Quin Scurving had turned around on his bunk and recoiled in shock at Hallem’s unexpected appearance. A pair of wide, hazel eyes scanned over Hallem’s face, wavering and unsure of where to look. “I mean, ‘ah, you’re back, sir.’”

It must have been much worse than he’d thought. Mister Hallem’s brutal beatdown from the major had been his most pathetic defeat to date, and she’d done him the particular “honor” of leaving a nasty, deep gash on his face during their spar. The wound wasn’t from a scratch or sword strike, as the ironwood blades had been blunted for the Challenge Rack. No, he’d taken a savage blasting from a bolt in Major Barshaw’s thunderous ether storm. In all honesty, Mister Hallem should have died, were it not for the major’s divided attention between the insubordinate Hallem and her precious mongrel half-breed they’d rescued from the back alleys.

“N-Not much ‘as changed since you left, sir,” Quin averted his eyes and moved his cache of belongings from Mister Hallem’s bunk. “We’ve gone from four shifts back down to three, the red rack’s finally been repaired, and the officers are still doing them private lessons, as far as I can tell.”

“Private lessons?” Hallem scrunched his brows as he asked, causing the scarred flesh from his gash to tug uncomfortably. At once, Hallem had the open flap of Quin’s jacket in a vicious grapple. “Who’s giving private lessons, and who’s taking them?”

“L-Lieutenant Mevralls and Major Barshaw, sir,” Quin quaked in Hallem’s clutches, with eyes darting to avoid meeting his superior’s menacing stare. “They’ve been giving lessons to that ruddy half-breed they picked up somewhere. Every day after mid-day meal, sir, and it lasts for hours. They even raise the training gates so’s no one can get in. Like I said, sir—private.”

Those wretched b*stards… Hallem sneered silently, causing Quin to tremble and tug at his jacket to back away from his mentor. The angry Hallem released his pupil from a white-knuckled grasp and stomped angrily from the bunks to look for something or someone to take his anger out on. I begged them over and over for MONTHS to teach me how to “storm” and now they’re giving PRIVATE lessons to some ankle-biting WHELP?!

The only reliable source of information on the comings and goings of the Solanai barracks was the outer gate master, who logged arrivals and departures for the colonel’s nightly report. Even though he was a peer to Hallem, the gate master scowled as Hallem issued demands in a frothy, untamed rage.

“Where’s that filthy half-breed gone?” Hallem roared.

“Not that it’s any of your business but are you talkin’ about Miss Khazmine?” the gate master waited for Hallem to take a breath and stay his fury before continuing. “She’s out on errands this morning. Due back later for training or something, I think. Back soon, hopefully before the rains pick up again.”

Mister Hallem kicked rocks in annoyance at having to wait for the half-breed’s return. She’d been to blame for his horrific injuries, and he couldn’t wait for Khazmine to return for some well-deserved payback. Fortunately for him, Hallem would get a chance for revenge that very day, as the target of his ire would surely return soon, and he’d be waiting for her under gathering storm clouds…