serein (n.) the quiet serenity of evenings wherein fine, light rain falls from a clear sky at sunset or in the early hours of night.

A Warrior's education was a blunt instrument, much as they were. It was purposefully so – they were soldiers first, and if a soldier knew only how to make war, he would not waste time indulging in any other pursuit. To study literature or advanced mathematics would have been to fill a candidate's mind with knowledge that would only be hollowed away by Konrad Sauer a few hours later. In other words, a waste of time and effort for all involved, one Commandant would not be quick to forgive. They would not live long enough to do anything but serve; they learned little but how to.

Even with all of that in mind, theirs was a dullened education, what they were taught overshadowed by that which they were not: Irij knew little of Illéa, and even less of what had become of the Schreaves. If the brass knew what had become of the final two curses, the Radiance and the World, then no one had ever cared to make the Warrior Candidates privy to the same. Instead, once they had covered the most elementary foundations of their world, their class-days were spent in study of the generations which had preceded them, from first to eighteenth, and the feats that they had accomplished. By studying how these great works had been done, Instructor Ermete Tofana told them, they could analyse the thinking behind them, and learn, slowly, to replicate the heroism of the Warriors who had gone before.

Khalore Angelo had arrived in the Programme barely literate; that had improved over the years, but barely, barely. Each lessons called from her a gargantuan effort, to accomplish that which her classmates seemed to do with ease. Trying to replicate the stratagems of people many centuries dead, with more experience and more intuition than Khalore had ever felt within herself – it seemed, so often, a single step from the impossible. "But spoon-feeding," Instructor Tofana had told her once, "will ever teach little but the shape of the spoon."

That had made her flush red to her roots. Was that what Instructor thought of her? She burned to show that the contrary was true. Khalore would not – would never be – content to be pitied, to feel less than, to occupy the lower ranks of their programme. If being a Warrior was all that she was good for, then by god she would be the greatest Warrior that she could be.

That day, their final day in the programme, they were covering one of the early victories of the eighteenth generation – the battle of Muztagh, in the year 192. It struck Khalore as strange that they were not addressing those Warriors' most recent battle, when the blood was still drying on the grass in Nawia, when the war with New Asia was just won. Or maybe not so strange – perhaps Instructor simply did not have that information to hand just yet. Khalore couldn't imagine that the Warriors' first instinct upon waging such a hard-won victory had been to run to their old schoolteacher and tell her all that they had suffered.

Nonetheless, as Instructor moved to the blackboard with a piece of chalk and began to sketch out the situation, Khalore could not help but feel a familiar bitterness ferment, somewhere beneath her ribs. This was their final day – the great finale of all that she had given herself over to? Another day at the desks, with Mielikki Zorrico stowing ink cartridges in her pockets and Hyacinth Estlebourgh scrambling to scrawl an exact mimicry of Instructor's diagram, Ina Nirari drawing absent-minded swirls on the edge of Pekka Hämäläinen's notebook and Myghal Erys staring out the window like it had personally offended him. Could this be all?

No, she thought, of course not. It was foolish of her to doubt the programme. The programme had made her all that she was and all that she could be – she owed the Angelos nothing for the person she was now.

Instructor was gesturing to the board. "As should be apparent to all of you, the enemy attempted to outmanoeuvre the xrafstars with that oldest of Caesarian tactics: divide ut regnes. After cutting off our communications array and starving the ranks of the Hierophant's prophecies, they then utilised new anti-artillery technology to pin down the Moon with hooks as it descended over the peak of Kanjut Sar – more fool them, but that's what they did. After that, they divided the Grigoryans, hurling several garrisons at the Hanged Man to stem the use of his curse and pinning the Sun in the Vigne Glacier to maximise the risk of self-destruction if she attempted to ignite…."

As was the case every time they studied these battles, Khalore found herself absolutely engrossed less by the questions of tactics posed than by the simple reality of life as a Warrior. Each member of the team was treated with the utmost value – in each of these thought experiments, the sacrifice of one xrafstar to save the other ten was simply not acceptable. They studied each member of the previous generation with such precision and caution that Khalore felt she almost knew them herself; they were precious and prized. They were gold dust. They would not be given up for anything, anything but those that would succeed them.

That was a comfort. When you were the root of all that flourished above you, you could not be replaced. You could not be sacrificed. You could not be given up.

It was as simple as that.

"Angelo?"

She blinked abruptly and looked up at the front of the room. Instructor was watching her expectantly; so were the others. Khalore peered at the board, where Instructor had mapped out a complex array of respondent movements, and said, very hesitantly, "the Chariot could have sabotaged their tanks?"

"A lack of imagination, Angelo. Disappointing. Estlebourgh?"

Hyacinth's brow was furrowed tightly; her gaze was nailed to the worn wood of her desk. She spoke softly, so softly that the others clearly had to strain slightly to hear all. "Jiménez..."

"Louder, darling."

"The Wheel…. he could induce a heart attack."

"That was not the Wheel's ability."

"But General Takamoto was a woman, over fifty-five, a smoker, a stressful job. Her chances of suffering a heart attack were…" Hyacinth was clearly focusing closely; Khalore could almost see the cogs turning in the smaller girl's mind.

Instructor interrupted her. "Four in one hundred over the next ten years. Her chance of suffering a heart attack that day was zero point zero zero one percent. That moment? Lower again."

Hyacinth said, softly, "but it wasn't zero."

Instructor nodded curtly. "Very good, Estlebourgh. An innovative tactic to be sure. I expect nothing less from you. Now. Schovajsa. Taking this into account, how would you suggest the Star and the Sun support the Wheel in this risky endeavour?"

Ilja Schovajsa straightened when he was called, adjusted his thin wire glasses, and looked rather doubtful. He had obviously been distracted, though by what was not immediately apparent; he had the unmistakeable air of a man who was refreshing himself of the facts as he squinted at the board and said, with an air of great academic rigour, "hmmm."

Khalore balled up her fists and stared down at them. Hyacinth had made her seem so stupid in front of Instructor. She had never failed a test, in all her time here, but that didn't mean anything; she lacked the spark that Hyacinth Estlebourgh had, the quick instinct possessed by Ragnar Kassik had, even the reflexive confidence of someone like Kinga Szymańska who could make even the most brazen of suicide rushes seem like a good idea in the moment. Ilja seemed to be taking inspiration from her now – he had his elbows braced against his desk and was saying, with great relish, constructive pro-active self-immolation. Khalore could only stare at her hands and feel her blood simmer. That was fine, she thought, she was not here for her keen mind – but even so, that fear lingered in the back of her mind, a shadow without source.

She was not the smartest. She was not the strongest. She was expendable.

Maybe, she thought, she could put that to good use. As the conversation drifted from Ilja to Zoran's quieter, more clinical analysis of the situation, Khalore thought, self-immolation. Expendability had its uses.

Class broke after five hours. They had not lingered on the battle of Muztagh for longer than an hour or three – Ilja's strange concoction of tactics had proven quite similar to what had actually transpired; the remnant of their time had been spent analysing Hutier tactics, the art of bombardment without relief to allow no chance to regroup; and then, as they always did, they recited the shameful history of the Kur empire, for whose crimes the whole of Irij still paid with blood and bodies. The Schreaves had been demons and dogs, Khalore thought, little more than rats, as all Kur were – only in the crucible of the Warriors Programme could they hope to be, in some form, purified. Only as xrafstars could they atone.

The first time that she had opened up the skin of her hands on the obstacle course, falling from one of the nets strung up across a ditch, she had gazed at her blood and been shocked that it was not blackened with the dishonour of her ancestors. It had been red. She had seen it again, only a few hours later, when she had broken Achille D'Amboise's nose for calling her deadweight. In those days, Khalore's temper had not been such an anomaly – all of them had scrapped, at some point or another. She could still remember Eero Hämäläinen going to great pains to pull Ragnar Kaasik and Ghjuvan Mannazzu apart after a dinner-time row, both cadets bleeding and panting, and then swearing vehemently on noticing his own brother had taken advantage of the break in the action to jump into the fray himself. She could not remember what they had been fighting about - it had been normal enough in those days; they had grown out of it, as the years had gone on, and learnt to favour sentences over strikes.

Such was the case for most of them, at least. Khalore thought there was a good chance she would be higher on the ranking if the others didn't provoke her temper so often – and they did.

They were released from class shortly before dinner, their minds dulled with the spectre of tactics and strategy. Ordinarily these hours were filled with sparring, or calisthenics, or survival skills, or whatever Commandant thought was necessary in light of their performances that morning; this evening, however, as the sky drew dark, they found that Commandant's office windows were ablaze with orange light, and shadows moved within, clearly arguing. Instructor excused herself and went to join them, crossing the green with long strides and shutting the door firmly behind her.

The Champions were convening.

Khalore thought this was a good sign. After such a frustratingly mundane final day, such a meeting could only indicate progress. Or maybe, as the whispers went, there would be no final assessment. Maybe they were crystallising the final rankings now. Had Khalore done enough?

She banished this thought as it arose.

Ilja paused on the steps of the classroom, and turned to look at her. She imagined she must have looked deep in thought. That would have been concerning to anyone. "Okay, Angelo?"

Khalore nodded. Their classes had only been amalgamated very recently; before that, they had been split into two groups, and sometimes three. She couldn't remember sharing many with Ilja before. After nine years, she still didn't know what she made of him; he seemed slightly different every time they spoke. "Fine. Just… thinking."

"Don't strain yourself before tomorrow."

She shook her head. "Just not feeling well. There's a draught in the barracks. I volunteered to take the coldest bed last night, to spare Azula and Belle… I'm not complaining, but I haven't quite warmed all day. It'll be more of the same tonight, but rather me than them, you know? Still."

Ilja looked like he rather regretted asking. "Well," he said, finally, "that was nice of you." That warmed Khalore, very slightly; it was nice to be acknowledged. As Azula came down the steps after them, Ilja turned to her, looking relieved to have a break from Khalore, and said, "how's the leg, cadet?"

Azula shook her head. "Better than it was, but..." She winced slightly. "I think doing the obstacle course this morning set me back a few days of healing."

Ilja cocked an eyebrow. "Want a ride to mess?"

Azula giggled. "I'm not everyone's burden, you know."

"I didn't say that." Ilja frowned. "It'll be good for me to do a workout before dinner."

"And I'm not that heavy!"

Ilja stretched his arm in front of him dramatically. "I'm about to set world records here, people. Gather round."

Azula pushed him, gently. "You're such a moron, Iliusha. How about I carry you?"

"Don't do it, Schovajsa." Zoran Czarnecki had emerged from the classroom after them, Hyacinth Estlebourgh and Uriasz Chrzanowski close behind. "She's going to drown you in the lake and sabotage your chances for final assessment."

"I could join Ragnar in the infirmary," Ilja said, "get a full night's sleep for the first time in nine years… Don't threaten me with a good time, Czarnecki."

Hyacinth said, softly, "what are we meant to do before dinner?"

Hyacinth had always struck Khalore as… unremarkable. Hell, Hyacinth had kept the bunk next to Nerezza Astaroth's for most of their childhood but Khalore wasn't totally sure Nez knew who Estlebourgh was. Though they were the same age, every time Khalore caught sight of Hyacinth's name on the list of rankings, she was reminded all over again that the other girl existed. The girl from the countryside remained resolutely, almost stubbornly, middle-of-the-pack in nearly every programme pursuit, from death marches to sparring to survival skills. Ordinary, Khalore thought, and yet ordinary was undoubtedly preferable to worst, and Hyacinth had outlasted many a more bombastic personality in her time.

"Looks like there isn't much of a plan," Uriasz Chrzanowski said.

He gestured across the green: Nez was stalking across the gravel towards the girls' barracks; Khalore had left many a mark like that on her comrades over the years, but even her hardest strikes had never turned up quite as dark as Nez's wounds were now. The stark sickly green of the bruises on her face was clearly visible from here. The girl who had gifted them to her, Kinga Szymańska, had clearly taken advantage of the break to slip off to the yard where they kept the wooden dummies for sparring practice; all that was visible was the whip of her black braid as she turned the corner from the main square. Khalore sometimes thought she and the youngest Szymańska were more similar than others realised – they were both, ultimately, merely the sacrifices of their parents. On the other side of the square, Pekka Hämäläinen and Inanna Nirari were over by the meadow; the dark-haired girl was hanging over the fence and gesturing animatedly with her hands as her boyfriend leaned against the fence and nodded intermittently. Khalore thought it rather looked like the end of the world could not have distracted him from listening to her; she wondered if they were in fact as perfect as they seemed or if they, like her sister and her boyfriend, barely papering over the cracks with a saccharine mask. No one could be that happy, could they?

The others seemed to have a sense of the same restlessness as Khalore did, the sense that something should be happening by now. This could not be it - they were to become Warriors this week! Why had they been left to stand in an empty courtyard, and mill aimlessly like stray cats?

As though he had read her mind, Myghal Enys said, "let's have a quick spar, build up our appetites."

At the same time, Ilja said, "anyone for a game of chess?"

Two types of candidates, Khalore thought. Two types of people. They were the final sixteen – there was so little time left. She quietly agreed with Myghal; it was better to get in whatever little improvement one could grasp at. They owed it to those who had taken them and offered them a chance to be something. They should not be wasting time, like Ilja was suggesting now – that way lay disaster.

So, when Ilja glanced at her, she shook her head firmly. "I'll spar."

"Fair enough. Czarnecki? You free?"

Zoran seemed like he had been watching something quite fixedly, with a look of great melancholy in his eyes; he was jolted back to reality now by Ilja's words, and nodded. His voice was slight. "I've got time."

Well, Khalore thought, that was debatable.

They split: Ilja and Zoran headed towards the barracks to see if they could ferret out Ragnar Kaasik's chessboard; Myghal and Uriasz and Khalore retreated in Kinga's direction to make use of the sparring field; and behind them, Azula and Hyacinth sat down on the stairs to the classroom and began to chat softly.

As Khalore and the boys walked across the square, she became abruptly that the evening had grown cold The rain was very soft, and scattered; it was nothing more than the suggestion of rain, the ghost of a storm. The moon overhead was a thin sliver of silver; the stars were igniting slowly, like run-down wicks of church candles. It was quiet; it was like any other day; it was evening, and it felt unerringly like today had been as to tomorrow as yesterday was to today.

It felt like it had never been otherwise, and never would be.