Chapter Text
The door to the training hall opened, and Clive tensed. The moment of truth had arrived.
“Look alive, Bearers!”
I’m not a Bearer. The thought was worn thin from repetition. He looked up anyways, studying the man in the doorway.
Months of effort. Months of spending his precious mealtimes befriending the oldest Bearers in the barracks, all to find out what this man wanted in a recruit. Months of battling the temptation to sleepwalk through training, all to show some modicum of his true skill. It had all been for this day.
Tiamat strode into the room. He seemed to stand a head above the rest, despite being of middling height — it was his posture, the way his eyes raked across the room. Most couldn’t meet his gaze. Clive did.
Months ago, he’d seen the man return from a mission. At first, as in most things, he hadn’t cared. Then gossiping soldiers had supplied one vital fact.
Tiamat’s regard lingered on Clive for a moment, then moved on. “All right, you lot. Pair off and let me see you spar.” The hall filled with shuffling footsteps.
Tiamat, leader of the Bastards. The Holy Empire’s best assassins, they were set on high-stakes targets: generals, rulers… and enemy Dominants.
Clive moved swiftly for the second-best fighter in the hall. Their spar was a tricky balancing dance between unimpressive and overly revealing. When he finally disarmed his opponent and carefully tapped his side with the flat of his blade, Tiamat nodded slowly before turning to another pair.
The second Dominant of Fire had most likely been Sanbrequois or an ally thereof, two years ago. Allegiances, however, could turn in a moment, as Clive knew all too well.
Clive’s second spar was interrupted by Tiamat’s bellow. “Blades down, you lot, I’ve seen enough.” The assembled Branded formed into ragged ranks. Clive kept his breathing even.
This was it. The only chance he’d seen that would give him even a possibility of finding Joshua’s murderer. Two years ago, he might’ve been horrified at the heartless pleasure that had struck him at the news of one of the Bastards’ death.
Tiamat clapped him on the shoulder. “You, come with me. The rest of you, as you were.”
The mixture of relief and triumph was dizzying. Clive followed Tiamat down the hall, into a part of the fortress he’d never been to before. They turned into a room where two others were waiting.
“Meet the new blood,” Tiamat announced, pushing Clive into the room.
The one on the right said something, but his words blurred in Clive’s ears. He’d done it. He’d taken the first step towards finding the other Dominant of Fire, the only thing he’d managed in two years.
“…meant to be one of us, he’ll need…”
For so long he’d drifted, kept his head down, and barely tried to survive. These past few months, working to get into the Bastards… it felt like he’d woken from sleep, like perhaps he had a true chance. Like there was an end to this, somewhere far ahead.
One day he’d be free of this place, and Joshua would be avenged.
Until then, he’d have to keep —
“—ive—”
Clive’s eyes shot to the speaker, his attention pulled back to the present.
Tiamat chuckled. “You like that, huh? All right then, Bearer, your name’s Wyvern.”
I’m not a Bearer, and my name is Clive Rosfield. Clive didn’t speak the bitter thought. He hadn’t told anyone his name in two years, and he wasn’t going to now.
“Welcome to the Bastards, Wyvern.” Tiamat clapped him on the shoulder again, heavily. Clive didn’t stumble. “From now on, all that’s ours is yours.” His gesture around the room was drenched with irony — elite or not, they were still Branded, forbidden ownership even of the clothes they wore. “Let your name be the first of many gifts.”
Clive mustered a stiff nod. The Bastards — the other Bastards — didn’t seem to care that he’d barely responded to them. Call him a margrace, but these were gifts he couldn’t find gratitude for. Still, he couldn’t squander this chance. The Bastards would be in the best place to watch for the second Dominant of Fire.
Wyvern it would be, then. For now.