dépaysement (n.) when someone is taken out of their own familiar world into a new one.

Ilja Schovajsa had woken in the middle of the night, believing he had heard someone cry – Ina, in the next room, but Inanna Nirari was here, her face pressed against Pekka Hämäläinen's shoulder in the bed next to Ghjuvan Mannazzu. If it had not been Ina, Ilja thought for a moment, perhaps he himself was weeping; he felt his face, and it was dry. Then he looked at the window and thought: why, yes, it's just the rain, the rain, always the rain; he had turned over, sadder still, and fumbled about for his dripping sleep and tried to slip it back on. He had been dreaming of his childhood – of Frida Tenkrát and of the Preacher and of all of the children in the orphanage's custody.

In the light of day, he could not say why this moment had struck him so. It clung to him like a burr; he found himself rising in the dark, well before dawn, still thinking of the rain. Even as he and the other male cadets went to bathe in the lake, Ilja found that the water did not wash away the memory of that moment.

When they returned to the barracks, Myghal Enys went inside the dorm and held his jacket up to the window to block out all view of the bunks within; Ilja found himself staring at his own reflection, stark and somehow unnerving. He always found it difficult to recognise himself; he usually chalked that up to an existence without mirrors for the most part. The orphanage and the programme had that in common: the facilities had always been even more bare-bones than the term bare-bones implied. It didn't matter what they looked like here – vanity was the least of their concerns. They existed in a most unadulterated state. Ilja found himself looking into his own eyes most seldomly; every time it was like a surprise. Oh, he knew that was him, and he knew he could adopt an expression of sincere guileless surprise like so, or feign sorrow like this, but to observe the curve of his lip, to trace the shadow of his own cheekbone, to see the precise colour of his eyes…. this was rare, and he did not revel in it as Zoran seemed to.

Using this wavering reflection, Ilja shaved quickly, precisely, and adjusted his hair into a semblance of tidiness. Beside him, Zoran was slicking back his own dark locks into his customary formal style, looking more like a commissioned officer than Ilja had ever seen him before.

Zoran had caught him watching. "Yeah?"

"It's not a fashion show, Czarnecki." Ilja paused and pursed his lips, adjusting the strands of hair that hung over his eyebrows. "You think they'll give merits for style?"

His comrade shrugged. "Can't hurt."

Within the barracks, Myghal was rapping sharply on the window. "Hurry it up!"

Ilja addressed Zoran with a wink. "Don't cut yourself shaving. They can smell blood in the water round here."

Zoran smiled dryly. "I'll do my best."

Pekka was coming down the steps of the dormitory as Ilja retired within; the oldest candidate looked clean-shaven and pristine. Just as Kinga had once helped Ragnar, Inanna usually helped Pekka to shave, wielding her straight razor with a most un-Ina degree of confidence. Some guys, Ilja thought ruefully, had more luck than others - though he had long ago decided not to add to the beautiful Nirari girl's list of male problems with his own attention. Nonetheless, he imagined having a girlfriend in this place came in handy sometimes, if only from the perspective of practicality. Ghjuvan had once offered haircuts to the other male trainees, but six months with a part of his scalp missing had taught Ilja that it was best to look after your own hygiene in this place; it was safer that way, he thought, safer and more stylish.

They had no formal uniform, only those that they wore every day for training; for days such as this one, they usually wore their thick winter coats over their outfit to approximate spruceness. In the summer, when the chancellor's maven, Orfeas Halkias, arrived for annual inspection, they would sweat through their shirts in the first few minutes of muster; on winter days such as these, Ilja found he was exceptionally grateful for the warmth. They were the same dull brown as the rest of their uniform; they had fur-lined hoods and sleeves for which Ilja had always found himself endlessly, wordlessly, grateful during their survival sessions in the mountains. One simply didn't know the meaning of the word cold until one was two thousand metres above sea-level without tent or stove.

Ilja had always found it rather reminded him of home.

The sun was just cresting the mountains when the cadets began to spill out onto the square; there was a frisson in the air, an unmistakeable tension between friends and rivals alike. Ilja could feel it in his bones; he adopted a similar bounce in his step as his peers milled about on the grass, exchanging quiet words before they fell into line. As he approached the others, arranging his features into a smile that was not quite as nervous as little Azula's, he could hear Uriasz Chrzanowski saying, rather loudly, "fight to the death? You can't actually believe that, can you?"

Ilja would never understood how Kinga looked so relaxed all the time. Ilja had always found the youngest Szymańska easy to get along with, for her concept of friendship demanded no vulnerability or indeed dependability. And he could not deny she was a good foil for a group with a tendency to overthink; now, for example, she seemed almost bored, arms folded, as she said, "that sounds pretty good to me, Chrzanowski. Think we can pick our opponents?"

"Cut him some slack, Szymańska." Zoran's voice was soft. A peacemaker to the last; Ilja would have admired the boy, if he didn't feel so bad for him. They had been briefly best friends when they had first arrived at the campus, in that immediate way children had; it had lasted six weeks, but Ilja's instinctive fondness for his empathetic comrade had never quite faded. "Now isn't the time for bullying Uriasz..."

"No matter how fun it is," Ilja added, his tone chipper. Ragnar Kaasik laughed at that. Ragnar Kaasik was here, he noted with some degree of surprise, bandaged and bruised, but alive, alive and standing on his own two feet. He had purposefully place himself so that Kinga and Ghjuvan stood between him and Nerezza Astaroth; Ilja would have found that humorous if he didn't think it was a wise pre-caution.

"Might be the last chance she gets," Myghal added ruefully. "There will only be eleven of us by the end of today."

"And I want you to know," Ilja said, in a tone of mock-sincerity. "I'll miss you all very much."

They had spoken before about what they might do with their lives, if the programme had been stripped from them; Ilja knew, and could remember with precision, that Khalore Angelo would have been a seamstress, that Azula Gehörtnicht would have run a flower farm, that Pekka Hämäläinen would have returned to his father's carpentry shop. He knew that Kinga Szymańska had not understood the question when he had put it to her; he knew that he had carefully arranged the movement of the conversation so that he had never had to answer it himself.

Some of them would never see each other again. They would scatter to the winds like so much dust – for life in the city, for life in Old Kur, for a harsh existence out in the wastes eking out what victories they could in the name of Irij. A harsh existence, Ilja thought, but ultimately – surely – in some way – rewarding.

Surely.

"Toe the fucking line, kids." Commandant had emerged from his office, with a thunderous expression on his face; his eyes were deep-set, giving him the unerring impression of a man whose eyes had, over many years, sunken further into his skull. He looked exhausted, Ilja thought; he had never seen Commandant as truly human in the way that all other Kur were, had never perceived in him a man with the same frailties as any other man. In nine years of the Warrior's Programme, Ilja had never seen the man eat or sleep. He seemed utterly dedicated to the matter of training future xrafstars; as soon as Ilja and the others were ushered onto their future, he would take in some new crop of trainees and set about breaking them as he had once broken Ilja, and Azula, and Inanna, and Zoran, and Myghal…. "Toe the fucking line. You'd think after ten years you little fuckers would be able to remember one thing..."

They mustered hastily; Ilja took his place in the dead centre of the pack, hidden behind Pekka and Ina in the first row. There was a spark in the air; beside him, Khalore Angelo simply seemed incapable of standing fully still. Uriasz was bouncing slightly on his toes until Commandant cut his gaze across him. In the single moment before Commandant cleared his throat, Pekka's hand grazed against Ina's, and Azula shot Belle Seo a shy smile, and Ghjuvan cleared his throat like he was expecting to make a speech.

On the gravel driveway, near the gates, an automobile had disgorged the chancellor's maven, Orfias Halkias. He was a narrow, pale man in a slouch hat; he observed the line from afar. Instructor Ermete Tofana stood beside him. The whole group seemed to buckle under the weight of their gazes as Commandant began to speak.

"Life contains no tests." Konrad Sauer's voice was so deep it was more like a rumble; Ilja felt it down to his bones. "After you set foot outside of those gates, there are no assessments. Every step you take is crucial. Failure could be as elementary as one wrong decision in one swift moment." He smiled. Ilja had not often seen him smiling. It was such a wrong expression – his teeth were too white for the wind-worn brown of his face, his eyes too cold. "With that said. There will be no final assessment."

The line of cadets strained; the shock was utterly palpable. Beside him, Hyacinth Estlebourgh had gone totally pale.

"If you have not made your aptitudes known to us by now," Commandant was saying coolly. "Then I fear we have no need for the same. You have had nine years to make your mark. If you were counting on a last-minute reprieve from your own inadequacies…. I am delighted to disappoint you."

Ilja's heart felt frozen in his chest. No, he thought, no. Had he done enough? Even his carefully languid persona cracked a little under the unerring brunt of Commandant's words. He needed to be a Warrior. He needed to repent. That was not his voice – it was Frida's voice, Preacher's voice, and Frida's voice again.

Repent. Atone. Salvation.

"When I call your name," Commandant was saying. "Step out of line."

He looked down at the list in his hand, but Ilja could tell he had no need for it. He knew their rankings. He had thought of little else for the past nine years. They were intertwined in some strange sense, teacher and student, trainer and trainee, commandant and soldier. Without them, he was not; without him, they could never be. He knew.

"First ranked. Kinga Szymańska. Second ranked. Pekka Hämäläinen." The first announcement was no surprise, but Ilja nonetheless observed Inanna Nirari's shoulders relax, almost imperceptibly, when her boyfriend's name was called. The only matter about which there had been any doubt was the precise order in which the finest candidates would be placed – and as it happened, that also was a matter attached to which there was little suspense. "The rest of you, look at your leaders. These two candidates have been among the very finest I have ever had the honour to train. Szymańska, your skill and self-control are unparalleled; Hämäläinen, your strength is matched only by your strength of character. Your siblings would be proud of you both, as I am proud of you."

"Third ranked: Zoran Czarnecki. Fourth ranked: Ilja Schovajsa." Ilja had known his own name would be included in this litany, but it was nonetheless a reassurance of such utter depth and richness to hear it so close to the beginning of the list. But really, behind Zoran? He had been just ahead of him for most of their childhood, though Ghjuvan had occasionally outstripped them both when the training erred more towards physical matters, as it did most summers. On Commandant's nod, Ilja stepped forward; behind him, Zoran stepped forward also. "You have performed adeptly despite that heart weighing you down, Czarnecki; Schovajsa, your adaptability is unlike any other I have seen. I wish you both gentle curses."

Kinga and Pekka were standing on the sidelines; Zoran and Ilja went to join them. Kinga gave them a slight wave, an unmistakeable softening around her eyes indicating a very slight relaxation. Pekka gave them a measured nod; his jaw was tightly clenched as he observed the remaining cadets. Zoran was looking similarly focused, his usual sunny aura diminished as he glanced back at the rest of the candidates. Commandant was calling his next roster of names – "Ghjuvan Mannazzu, Khalore Angelo, Myghal Enys. Fifth, sixth, seventh. The three of you are proficient. You have worked hard. You will do well."

Talk about damned by faint praise, Ilja thought. He could see the uneasiness sweep across the remaining candidates now; more than half of the future xrafstars had been selected. Azula's face was frozen in a mask of focus; Ina was fretting the sleeve of her shirt between two fingers; Hyacinth was staring, very fixedly, at the Commandant.

Nerezza Astaroth still looked like she'd rather be in bed.

The next two names were a little surprising, if only because Ilja had assumed that one would be higher and one lower: "Eighth ranked: Mielikki Zorrico. Ninth ranked: Azula." To the Commandant's credit, he neglected to use the crueller name that appeared on the youngest girl's paperwork in lieu of a family moniker: Gehörtnicht, she-who-does-not-belong-anywhere. Ilja had known many other children in the orphanage with similar appellations appended to their names; it was an utterly wretched practice, and one that Ilja had barely evaded thanks to Frida's pity.

And now, the final names – Commandant's gaze roved over the group. It looked like he was deciding upon something, very abruptly. "Tenth ranked: Inanna Nirari." And there it was, Zoran Czarnecki's great exhalation of breath, his relief so palpable that Ilja nearly told him to tone it down a shade or two; to Ilja's surprise, Pekka's jaw did not relax, even as Ina gazed over at him in relief and excitement. "Eleventh ranked: Hyacinth Estlebourgh." Hyacinth looked as though her legs were about to give out beneath her. "Neither of you are conventional soldiers. I know that you might be afraid. But you are needed. I know you will do our nation proud."

That was it. The eleven chosen xrafstars. The eleven Warriors. The list continued after that: Ragnar, Belle, Uriasz, Nerezza….

Ilja could not but feel sorry for those left in the muster: Belle Seo's gaze was fixed to the ground, her body very still as though she hadn't quite absorbed the fact that she had not made the cut; Ragnar Kaasik was shaking his head, and glancing over at those who had succeeded him, his eyes very dark; Uriasz Chrzanowski scuffed his boot across the ground and swore under his breath; and Nerezza Astaroth….

Nez was furious. It was in every line of her body. Ilja had never bore much good will towards the female cadet, but even he felt a little sorry for the dark-haired girl as she said, her voice cold, "I'm sorry?"

Commandant turned his steely gaze upon her. "Did you speak, civilian?"

Civilian. Was that what they were now?

"I'm sorry, sir." Nerezza's voice was like ice. "I was in ninth place yesterday. What changed?"

"Yesterday," Commandant said coldly, "you tried to kill your comrade. You moved down; those who defended him moved up. If you had put any degree of effort into your training in the past nine years, perhaps that would not have been so devastating. When we put you out into the world, civilian, the people around you are your lifelines and you are theirs. If I thought I was placing the survival of more of my Warriors in your hands I would not be able to sleep at night – though I know you will find that difficult to understand."

"Commandant -"

"My decision is final, Nerezza. Get off my grass."

Ilja had never heard him use someone's first name before.

That was it; there were no goodbyes. It was as swift as yesterday had been slow. Uriasz shouted a goodbye to Myghal and Zoran as the newly chosen Warriors were ushered towards Orfeas Halkias and the waiting army truck; Kinga cast a last, dark look back at Ragnar Kaasik and Nerezza Astaroth; Azula waved frantically to Belle as the doors were shut behind them and they were left, in the dark, their breathing incongruously loud. Chosen. Selected. Warriors.

Repent. Atone. Salvation.

Somehow, he could still sense Nez watching them.

The truck roared to life, and they were gone – nine years of their life left behind them, without even a final glance in the direction of the barracks in which they had lived for the past nine years, or the man who had all but raised them from the age of ten. He had not even taken a final look at the lake.

Ilja almost couldn't believe it. It didn't feel real. Was this real?

Or was he still dreaming of the rain?

There was only a single event before they received their curses – they stopped at the urnfield. Nestled in a slim corner of the Kur ghetto, the cemetery was a small patch of yellow scrubland with a wall of solid black marble erected at its centre stretching for ten metres north-to-south. The new Warriors were herded from the truck to pay respects to the old, for here was inscribed the names of those generations who had gone before them. From the first to the last, their names were embedded here in white and gold forever, a simple reminder of the legacy that they had left and the lives, however short, that they had lived.

They stood there in silence for a very long moment. Such an overwhelming number of names, Ilja thought – more than two hundred in all. Each of them had lived lives as rich as his. Somewhere behind these names, there were a dozen Inannas, scores of Azulas, Zoran after Zoran after Zoran. They had lived.

And now they were dead.

The wind howled between the buildings that hung over this sad square, and rain grumbled on the horizon. Kinga Szymańska was touching, very gently, the name of her cousin in the seventeenth generation; Orfeas Halkias turned back, and called for the trucks to start again.

In the last moments accorded to them, Ilja found himself staring, quite fixedly, at the little numbers etched beside the names in golden leaf calligraphy.

None of them had reached the age of thirty.