The door to the third office didn't creak; it swung open with a heavy, muffled thud. Inside, the room was dimly lit, dominated by a large desk and the sharp, clinical smell of ink and floor wax.
Behind the desk sat an elf. He wore the dark green officer's uniform of the Republic, but he wore it with a casualness that suggested he didn't need the starch to command respect. A single silver bar gleamed on each side of his collar—a First Lieutenant. He didn't look up as Jack entered. He was busy scribbling notes onto a ledger.
"Sit down, Private," the officer said, his voice smooth and disinterested. "And why don't you give me that folder before you drop it?"
Jack stepped forward, handed the folder over, and took the seat opposite the desk. The chair was hard wood, designed to keep a man upright. He rested his duffel bag against his shins.
The officer finally looked up. His eyes were a pale, glassy green, typical of high-born elves. He flipped open the folder and ran a finger down the first page. "So, your name is Jack Khrale Sterling."
"Yes, sir," Jack said.
The officer leaned back, his chair giving a slight groan. He picked up a pen and began tapping it against his chin. "Private Sterling, I've been looking at your aptitude tests. Your spatial logic scores are the highest I've seen in this entire recruitment cycle. You finished the rotation puzzles before the proctor could even finish the instructions."
The officer's eyes sharpened. "Yet, your mana-sensitivity is a flat zero. A dead line. You didn't even register a spark on the Aether-tap."
Jack didn't know how to respond to that, so he kept his mouth shut.
"Most 'Irregulars'—the ones with no mana—struggle with basic coordination in the Airborne," the officer continued. "They get vertigo. They can't feel the horizon. But look at this..." He pulled a sheet of paper from the folder. "The third problem on the navigation exam. You calculated a wind-drift correction for a high-altitude drop in under ten seconds. I have elven navigators who've studied the Aetheric veins for twenty years who can't do it that fast. Tell me... how did you know the landing coordinates for that problem were off by six meters?"
Jack hesitated. He looked down at his hand, his thumb tracing a line across his palm. For a second, the office seemed to blur. He didn't see magic, but he saw the room for what it really was: a series of vectors. The angle of the desk, the arc of the lamp's light, the distance between the officer's eyes.
"I don't 'feel' anything, sir," Jack said. His voice was steady, almost too calm. "When I look at a map or a trajectory, it isn't a guess. I don't wait for a feeling. The numbers just... they sit where they're supposed to sit. It's like a prediction that I can't really explain."
The officer watched him for a long beat, then his lips curled into a thin smile. "A prediction. Fair enough. Let's see how your predictions hold up when the ground is coming at you at terminal velocity."
He flipped to the next page, and his expression changed. One eyebrow crept up his forehead. "I see your personal history sheet is... brief. The answer you wrote during the enlistment is, 'Fuck them. Forever.' referring to the Empire."
The Lieutenant looked Jack in the eye. "While I appreciate the sentiment, the Airborne requires discipline, not just rage. Rage gets people killed. Can you follow an order to retreat, or are you going to get your squad slaughtered trying to satisfy a grudge?"
Jack thought back to the recruitment office, the heat of the day, and the frustration he'd felt. He gave a small, dry smile. "It was meant as sarcastic humor, sir. It wasn't out of anger. I just figured I should be honest about how I feel regarding our neighbors to the north."
The officer didn't smile back. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Listen to me, Private. Humor is a great thing for the barracks. It keeps men from losing their minds. But when an officer asks you a specific question in a formal interview, humor is a liability. It makes me think you aren't taking the weight of this uniform seriously. Do you understand?"
Jack's smile died instantly. "Yes, sir."
"Good. Because out there, humor won't stop a bullet." The officer flipped another page. "Marmello. You're from a veteran town. You grew up around men who know exactly what a 'Whistle-Bomb' does to a person. You're volunteering for the 506th—the special division. Do you want the double-pay, or do you actually think you can survive the landing?"
"Double pay is a bonus, sir," Jack replied. "I just want to do what has to be done. If I'm going to serve, I want to be where I can actually make a difference. Behind their lines."
The officer snickered. It was a genuine sound, though a bit cynical. "That's the perfect answer for a man who's about to be sent into a meat grinder. This new division needs troublemakers like you and your friends. You'll be the first ones over the fence, causing as much hell as possible."
Jack nodded. "That I will do, sir."
"Your friends," the officer said, his tone shifting again. "The beastfolk and the elf. It's rare to see a human acting as the anchor for a mixed-race group in the civilian world. If I put you in a jump-seat with them, are they going to look to you when the flak starts hitting the hull? Or are you just the guy who buys the first round of drinks?"
Jack paused, thinking of Tavros and Kenlil. "Honestly, sir, we don't really have a leader. We just... look out for each other. If there's an odd job to pay for the tab, I usually have the idea of how to do it. But we're a group. That's all."
"Interesting," the officer said. He stood up, walking to the window that looked out over the training grounds. "A thousand years ago, before this Republic was even a thought, the people who founded it were a group of adventurers. A human, an elf, and a beastfolk. They didn't have ranks. They just had a cause. They became the symbol of unity that forged this country."
He turned back to Jack. "Don't worry about the title of 'leader,' Private Sterling. A combat leader isn't the guy with the loudest voice. It's the guy who has the most ideas and cares more about his men's lives than his own achievements. You've got the ideas. We'll see if you've got the heart."
The officer offered his hand. Jack stood up and shook it. The elf's hand was cool and dry, but his grip was like iron.
"Good luck out there, Private. You're dismissed."
Jack stepped out into the hallway. The noise of the other recruits seemed louder now, more chaotic. He grabbed his duffel bag and headed for the exit. His mind was spinning—leader? He didn't want the responsibility of other people's lives. He just wanted to get the job done.
As he walked past the waiting pen, he saw Kenlil. The elf was practically vibrating, his eyes wide as he saw Jack walk out. Kenlil raised a thumb, his face twisted in a silent question: Did you get in?
Jack smiled and gave him a thumbs-up. Kenlil's face lit up, and he immediately started poking Tavros, pointing at Jack with a grin that could have lit up a dark room.
"Private! Over here!" a Sergeant yelled, gesturing toward a line of trucks. "Get to the changing area. Put your civilian life behind you."
Jack followed the line of recruits behind the parked transports. He was handed a bundle of stiff, olive-green fabric. The changing room was a long, temporary tent that smelled of sweat and new laundry. He stripped off his old clothes—the clothes he'd worn in Marmello, the clothes that smelled of the tavern and the road—and pulled on the military fatigues.
The fabric was scratchy against his skin. The boots were heavy, made of thick, unyielding leather. When he finished lacing them, he felt different. The weight of the uniform changed the way he stood.
A soldier came by with a large wicker basket. "Dump your civilian gear here. You don't own these anymore. Anything non-regulation is contraband from this point forward."
Jack dropped his old shirt and trousers into the basket. He felt a strange pang of loss, followed by a cold sense of clarity.
"Wait in the receiving area," the soldier told him. "Lunch is at 1130. After that, you're moving out to your destination."
Jack nodded and began walking toward the designated area. As he passed the waiting pen again, the recruits who hadn't been processed yet stared at him. They weren't looking at Jack anymore; they were looking at the uniform.
Suddenly, the bustling activity of the camp ground to a halt. Sergeants stopped shouting. Soldiers snapped to attention, their heels clicking together.
Jack stopped. Coming down the main thoroughfare was a small group of officers. In the center was an elderly female elf in a khaki uniform. On her shoulders were two silver stars. She was flanked by a Colonel and a Major.
Jack's eyes widened. A Lieutenant General.
He didn't think; he just reacted. He snapped his heels together and brought his hand to his temple in a sharp salute.
The General stopped. She didn't look at the Sergeants or the other soldiers. She looked directly at Jack. Her eyes were like flint, and for a second, Jack felt like she was looking right through his skin. She was an elf—she could feel the mana in the air. Or rather, she could feel the lack of it around him.
"What are you?" she asked.
The Major beside her stepped forward, looking nervous. "He's a new recruit, Ma'am. Just processed—"
"I am not asking you, Major," the General said, her voice quiet but carrying a weight that made the Major flinch.
She stepped closer to Jack. "I sensed something... discordant. Not your uniform. Not your posture. What are you, soldier?"
Jack felt a bead of sweat roll down his neck. "I am an Irregular, General."
The General's eyes widened slightly, then she gave a slow, measured nod. "An Irregular. A void in the Aether. It is rare to see one in the field these days. I thought for a moment my senses had failed me."
She looked him up and down one last time. "Carry on, Private."
She walked away, her escort trailing behind her. Jack held the salute until they were well out of range, then he let his hand drop. His palm was damp.
"You're a brave man, Private," a nearby Sergeant murmured, looking at Jack with a mix of respect and pity.
"Sir?" Jack asked.
"That was Lieutenant General Loville," the Sergeant said. "She's the most meticulous officer in this Republic. If you'd had so much as a loose thread on that tunic, she would've had you doing push-ups until your arms fell off. You're lucky you didn't stutter."
"I guess so," Jack said, his heart finally starting to slow down.
"Lucky indeed," the Sergeant said. "Now, get to the trucks. Eat your lunch when it comes. You're going to need the strength for the transport. The 506th doesn't take it easy on the first night."
Jack nodded and moved toward the trucks, his mind repeating the name: Loville. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew the world he just entered was far more dangerous than the one he'd left behind.