[Chapter 11 - Ranking]


    They pulled out an orb, an unassuming ball of blue that now rested in the hands of a soldier.


    He set it down on the table with a cautious delicacy, laying its glass against the gold stand that had been prepared for it earlier.


    “A Pythian Eye,” Ante breathed. “I can’t believe they brought one here.”


    “How else would they rank us?” Roxas said, although she too eyed it with an obvious curiosity.


    Its appearance brought out an unease amongst the recruits, one that was evidenced by the apprehensive murmuring which rippled through the crowd.


    But as they did so, another legionary stepped forth.


    He held open a large wooden box which he placed down beside the Eye.


    Nestled within lay numerous plates of gold, cut into identical sets of rectangular cards.


    These had been stacked neatly atop one another, and each appeared much alike the card that the blacksmith had placed before me.


    The same card which had displayed her stats and her identification.


    We were called up one by one.


    The first to step forwards was a bulky man, sporting hair of coarse brown which extended down to his beard.


    He stopped in front of the table, a gold card laid out before him by one of the soldiers to his side.


    “Hand on the Eye, recruit.” the officer instructed.


    He complied, reaching out to rest his palm on the glass.


    As he did so the orb exploded, light erupting out before coalescing into clouds of blue.


    The crowd gasped, and even I could not hold back my surprise.


    They swirled around him, forming translucent trails which floated lazily around.


    Within them I could make out the twinkling of what almost seemed to be stars, clustering into numerous constellations which encircled the man.


    I threw a quick glance at Italus.


    He stood composed, joined by the other officers who all bore similar expressionless faces.


    Although it was expected considering how many ceremonies they must have witnessed, to think that such a spectacle was the norm fascinated me.


    I did not even want to compare it to my own military entrance ceremony back on Earth.


    That thought was accompanied by a slight snicker in my mind.


    Slowly the light that had manifested began gathering around the plate, inscribing words and numbers which glowed upon the metal.


    The card floated in turn, a gradual ascent which lifted it off the table.


    But then it was done and the light dissipated as the tablet lowered itself back down.


    Another soldier hurried to the side, bowing in respect before reaching out his hands.


    Italus took off his ring, its gold glinting in the light as he placed it in the legionary’s outstretched palms.


    Soon it was passed to the recruitment officer, who pulled out a block of wax to match.


    It melted upon contact with the plate, the officer waited for a short second before pressing down the signet ring he had been given.


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    And with that it was sealed, handed to the legionary on his left who paired it with a small leather pouch.


    To his right however, he was given an iron rod.


    One from which even this distance I could tell what it was.


    “The Atreians and their fucking branding.” Roxas muttered under her breath.


    The officer held out his hand and the recruit placed his own on top.


    A few words were said, ones which I could not hear, and then the end of the rod lit up with an orange warmth.


    “Torigg Gundarovin!” the officer declared, “By presentation of your viaticum and signaculum, along with the marking of the stigma, I announce you member of the ninety-sixth legion!”


    And he pressed the iron into the back of the man’s hand.


    Torigg said nothing, but a grimace took his face.


    The smell of burnt flesh occurred once again, a scent I had become way too familiar with since my arrival in this world.


    Beside me Ante had lost his colour, rendering his fear all too clear.


    Roxas kept quiet but she scowled at the sight.


    Soon the rod was taken away and the man lowered his marked hand.


    It hung limp to his side, a redness discolouring his arm.


    The officer glanced at the card, its once blank metal now etched with Torigg’s identity.


    “As ordained by Pythos,” the officer exclaimed, “and in accordance with your own efforts, I declare you [Iron Rank, Third Class]!”


    A roar broke the unnerved silence, a cacophony of cheer and enthused celebration which bellowed out from the assembled recruits.


    I lowered my head, whispering to Ante, “Is that good?”


    In contrast to the atmosphere around me, Torigg’s title seemed wholly underwhelming.


    Ante regarded me with a puzzled look. “Isn’t the system standardized?”


    And then he shrugged, dismissing the thought.


    “Iron is expected for veteran soldiers. High [Copper] is minimum, while low [Copper]s are filtered out by the initial inspections anyway. The rankings are used to put people into the right centuriae - groups of 100.” He caught my confused look. “They’re divided by ranks but people who join in parties normally stay together.”


    He glanced at me once over.


    “Third class means he’s higher than most, and judging from how you dealt with the bandits I’d say you’re probably a bit higher, but Pythos would be a better judge.”


    I turned my gaze to the orb.


    The light it radiated now remained caged within glass, the same trails of blue swirling around in a nonchalant manner.


    The officer nodded to the legionary, who stepped up to offer the card and pouch to Torigg.


    He accepted with a nod, before turning to head towards the other side of the grounds.


    “Erren Titan-Born!”


    And the next recruit was summoned.


    It took some time before it was my turn, and when my name was announced I stepped up.


    I could feel each of my muscles screaming at me to leave but still I pressed on.


    The unranked crowd was now thinned, but I could feel the gaze of all in the training grounds regardless.


    And despite my curiosity, I dared not risk a glance to see Italus’ expression.


    The recruitment officer watched me as I walked up, gesturing to the orb when I reached the table.


    I placed my hand upon it, and when the light came I was ready, retaining my composure even as I marvelled at the glow which danced around me.


    But the feeling it caused was unlike anything I had ever experienced.


    I could no longer feel the suspenseful watch of the crowd, now shrouded behind wisps which blocked them from my view.


    Instead it was replaced by the eyes of what could only have been the stars, the same constellations forming around me bringing with them the distinct feeling of stares which seemed to probe beneath my skin.


    It was a weird feeling although not exactly uncomfortable.


    But when it subsided the card rested before me, a character sheet of gold inscribed upon it in a determination of my stats and capabilities.


    This too was sealed by the officer, but my thoughts were not of inspecting the levels I had been assigned.


    Instead they were filled with a fear of what was to come.


    He gestured for my hand, one I firmly placed in his open palm; false courage disguising the dread I felt.


    This will hurt. Despite what he said, the wolf demonstrated no concern in his tone.


    I made sure to stare on ahead as the soldier handed the branding iron to the officer, trying best I could to keep my temperament unmoved by the approaching heat whose very sight lurched my stomach.


    “Enkrid Ishmaea!” the officer cried out, “By presentation of your viaticum and signaculum, along with the marking of the stigma, I announce you member of the ninety-sixth legion!”


    And then he plunged down the iron, and my hand screamed back.


    I could only taste blood as I gritted my teeth, relying on the tension to hold back a cry of pain.


    It lasted only a moment but it felt like an eternity, one in which I struggled to keep my hand steady against the pain inflicted by the metal searing my flesh.


    It did not subside either when he pulled it back, agony rendering my hand aflame.


    And in its place left a black mark which I slowly raised to my face.


    “LEG ? XCVI”


    Seated above a Roman helmet, captioned by the same words embroidered on the flags around me.


    “ITALVS”.


    I barely even noticed as the officer took the plate, his shout muffled by the daze I had found myself in as a consequence of the pain.


    “[Iron Rank, Second Class]!”


    Applause and voices of awe greeted this announcement, but I comprehended neither this nor the congratulatory nod of the officer.


    Nor could I feel the gold licence in my hands, or the footsteps I somehow managed to take as I made my way towards the ranked recruits.


    All I could feel was the burning of my hand, a red hot blaze igniting my skin and flesh.


    And his name, emblazoned across my hand as if mocking me.


    Italus.