The tolling bells had just marked midday when Jord reached home, the heat pressed down like a damp rag. The house was quiet – too quiet – save for Elias hunched at the kitchen table, scribbling in a notebook. Jord kicked off his boots, squinted at the page Elias was bent over (linear algebra, Jord guessed), and jerked his chin at their parents’ empty seats. ‘Where’re the heroes of the hour?’


    Elias didn’t glance up. ‘Soup kitchen. Again.’ His pencil scratched louder. ‘The Father needed volunteers to chop onions.’


    ‘Volunteers?’ Jord snorted, slumping into a chair that screeched against the floor. ‘Or victims?’


    ‘Dad said it’s “community duty”.’ Elias’s voice dripped with air quotes.


    ‘Right. Duty.’ Jord flicked a dried pea left on the table. It pinged against the wall, falling in the bin. ‘Bet they’ll still moan about us not “pitching in”.’


    ‘Already did.’ Elias finally looked up, deadpan. ‘Left us a list. Dishes. Laundry. Moral improvement.’ Jord groaned.


    Jord then grinned as Elias continued to scribble. ‘Oi. You eaten yet?’ He gestured towards the window, where the smell of freshly baked pies wafted from. ‘Or do you fancy a proper meal for once? Mrs Pelley’s got mutton stew on.’


    Elias glanced up, mock-scowling. ‘I had two whole biscuits and some peas. Practically a feast.’


    ‘Two whole biscuits?’ Jord snatched the notebook, dodging Elias’s swipe. ‘That’s just crumbs with ambition. C’mon – my treat.’


    ‘Your treat?’ Elias raised a brow. ‘Last time you “treated” me, we split a sausage roll and you owe me two marks still.’


    Jord clutched his chest. ‘Betrayed! And after I carried you home when you tripped over that cat–’


    ‘You tripped over the cat!’


    ‘Details.’ Jord tossed him his coat. ‘Stew’s getting cold, Saint Elias. Move your sanctified feet.’


    Jord shouldered open the door to Tsacini – a pub Mrs Pelley claimed was named after a Zyrian sailor she’d loved decades ago (“Poetic, eh?” she’d wink, though the faded sign still misspelled it as Tasinni). The bell clanged, slicing the clotted air of pipe smoke and drunken stupor. A half-dozen dockworkers hunched at the bar, their laughter as weighty as the crates they hauled.


    ‘Two stews and beers,’ Jord called to Mrs Pelley, who stood behind the counter polishing glasses.


    Elias interjected. ‘Just a bottle of water, please. Mineral – if there’s any.’


    ‘Right, boys – two stews, a beer, and a mineral comin’ up. Sit yourselves down.’ Mrs Pelley said as she vanished behind the kitchen door .


    They’d barely claimed their corner table – its wood scarred with patron’s initials – when Mrs Pelley barged back in. She thumped down two bowls of greasy stew, a sloshing pint, and a glass of water.


    The stew’s scent unfurled – roasted marrow steeped in bone broth, woodsmoke-kissed thyme, and the earthy sweetness of carrots left to soften for hours. It clung to the air, thick as the crust of rye bread Mrs Pelley tossed onto the table. Humble, yes, but steeped in the kind of stubborn nourishment that kept making Jord coming back.


    ‘Eat,’ she grunted as she left.


    And eat they did – heartily, with gusto. And It didn’t take long for their spoons to scrape the bowls clean – too quickly, really, the hollow clink of iron on ceramic betraying a hunger neither brother knew to have.


    ‘Cheers,’ said Jord, raising his glass and taking a hearty swig. ‘Why’d you skip the beer?’


    Elias swirled his glass, watching the whirl-pull settle. ‘Someone’s got to remember the way home. Last time you drank you mistook a lamppost for an alley.’ He paused, thumbing on table’s edge. ‘Besides, beer tastes better when it’s not paid by debt.’


    Jord had no retort. He let silence hang between them – thick, guilty, sharp as the paper note crumpled in his pocket. Guilty, yes. The debt still gnawed at him: a yellowed scrap from Old Man Herrin’s ledger of promises, stamped with his own sloppy signature. He’d meant to repay it weeks ago. But like the rusted hinges on his bedroom door – squealing, ignored – he’d let it linger. Now, with compounding interest, it would fester.


    ‘I have joined the Guards,’ said Jord, staring into his pint.


    Elias let the words hang, then froze. ‘You mad? After what they’ve done to y–’


    ‘It’s better than any gig I’ve scrounged,’ Jord shot back, tone hollow, almost haunted. ‘And don’t pretend you haven’t seen the overdue bills pinned to our calendar. It’s bleedin’ red, Elias. And for how much I fancy the colour, I fancy it not enough to admire it in such papers.’


    Elias set his glass down with a clink sharp enough to almost cut the tavern’s murmur. ‘You’ve got a mark on your record, Jord. The riot at the docks – they’ll toss your application into the shredder first glance.’


    ‘Not if they’re in badly need of hands.’ Jord leaned forward, voice low. ‘And, it turns out, they are. Get in front of some clerks, talk to them, and then you are in. Fastest job interview I ever had.’


    ‘What!?’ Elias spat out the word. ‘So now you’re their thug? A walking jackal?’


    ‘If it gets me – us – money then yes, I will become anything required of me.’


    Elias stared at him, then barked a bitter laugh. He leaned in, voice fraying. ‘They’ll own you. You’ll be running their debt collector’s errands in that shiny badge.’


    Jord shrugged, but his jaw clenched – a tell Elias knew too well.


    For a long moment, neither brother spoke. The tavern’s clamour swelled around them: clinking glasses, slurred hymns, the thud of a drunk collapsing into his own plate. Finally, Elias dragged a hand down his face. ‘Fine. Play their dog. But when they send you to kick in some poor man’s door –’ he jabbed a finger at Jord’s chest, ‘– don’t come whining to me about the fleas.’


    Jord nodded, hollow. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’


    Elias stood, chair screeching like the hinges back home. ‘You’re a fool.’


    ‘Yeah.’ Jord said but didn’t look up.


    Elias hesitated at the door, hand braced against the frame, his expression fraying with unsaid words. The bell clattered in his wake. Jord stared at his own palm. He wondered if guilt had a compound rate too.


    –––


    When Jord stepped out of the pub, the sun still hung heavy – a bloated, unrelenting eye that oozed eternity. To Jord, the day felt already wasted, its hours dissolving like a tingle of smoke in the breeze. The conversation gnawed at him, yet He held no power to sway anything. His life was labour, then more labour: stolen naps between shifts, calluses made for measly coin that vanished like steam. My sole accomplishment? Jord looked down. Not yet growing a labourer’s gut.


    Perseverance hadn’t saved him. It had only carved him hollow. Why wait for tomorrow’s morning? Get the shit done today. He thought and then walked.


    The Citadel’s halls echoed hollowly, The morning’s clamour gone. Only the click-clack of Jord’s boots on polished stone polluted the silence. No queues, no barked orders – just his boots and his own shadow stretching thin under boring lights. Building Three, he repeated, passing vaulted archways until he found the East Wing. A dented door bore a plaque: Reception.


    Inside, a cramped closet more than a room. A woman behind a desk tapped at a terminal, her face lit blue by the screen.


    ‘Good day. How can I help you, sir?’ Her voice carried the monotone hum of a dial tone.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    ‘Morning. Are you, perchance, Officer Lory?’


    ‘That’s my colleague.’ Her emerald eyes flicked to him, then back to the screen. ‘If you’re here for him, you must be a new recruit. Name?’


    ‘Jord Whittaker.’


    She arched a brow as she typed, keys clacking. ‘Your induction’s tomorrow. You’re… early.’ A smirk tugged at her lips. ‘Ah. One of those.’


    ‘One of… what?’


    ‘The eager ones.’ She mimed air quotes, chipped nails glinting. ‘Can’t wait to toss yourself into the meat grinder. Think drowning in paperwork will smother your problems?’


    Jord held her gaze. ‘Just here for the money.’


    She snorted. ‘Sure,’ she slid a form across the desk. ‘Sign here. And here. Grinder chews quick, eager or not.’


    He scrawled his name, ignoring the tremor in his hand.


    ‘Wait – shouldn’t I get something?’ His voice was flat, worn smooth as the counter-top under his palms. ‘A manual? Uniforms? Last clerk wasn’t much help. Do I get more than one? Spares?’


    The clerk sighed – a hiss of steam escaping a kettle – and drummed the desk with her pen. ‘Manuals are digital. Got a phone?’ Jord nodded, ‘Get a technician to sync it with the city network. Otherwise, if not working, we’ll issue you a brick.’ She lingered on the word. ‘Uniforms – two, to be precise – issued post-orientation. Tomorrow.’ She slid a key-card across the counter. ‘Smart-cards, these. Synced to the network. Holds your basic details, service record. Report to the big grey-brick building on Milasii Lane – can’t miss it. Third floor for the newly minted. I’m told lifts jam halfway. Stairs will save you time.’


    Jord pocketed the key-card.


    ‘Anything else?’ she asked, already turning back to her screen.


    ‘Should I report to this office for tomorrow’s orientation, or just head straight to the guard quarters?’


    The clerk – Haelin M, according to her plaque – tapped a command into her terminal. ‘I’ll notify headquarters. Meanwhile, you can head to the guard quarters on Milasii Lane. Familiarise yourself with the layout, the lockers, the lot.’ She nodded toward the door. ‘Might even meet a few kindred souls.’


    Jord hesitated. ‘Now?’


    ‘Unless you’d prefer to stare at me all afternoon.’


    He cleared his throat, thumb brushing the edge of the smart-card. ‘Suppose gazing stars are not the worst way to kill time.’


    The clerk’s gaze lifted briefly, her sternness thawing by a fraction. ‘Save the charm for your new co-workers, Whittaker. They’ll need the morale.’ She tapped her screen, voice quieter. ‘Grinder chews faster if you’re distracted. Head to the quarters – ask for Mara at the desk. She’ll show you the ropes.’ A pause. ‘And eat first. Canteen’s grim, but the chicken stew’s edible on Tuesdays.’


    Jord raised a brow. ‘Today’s Sunday, through.’


    ‘Exactly.’ Her lips twitched – almost a smile – before she nodded to the door. ‘Go on. I’ll ping HQ you’re en route.’


    ‘Good luck,’ she added with a softer and kinder tone than he’d expected.


    Jord lingered a beat, heart beating faster – but his mouth clammed, then he turned. The clerk’s terminal resumed its clatter as he stepped into the hallway.


    –––


    By the time Jord reached the grey-brick bulk of Milasii Lane’s guard quarters, a feeble rain had turned into a needling drizzle, dusk leaching the colour from the streets. A man in sodden fatigues slouched under the archway connecting the compound with the outside, cigarette smoke curling upwards. He eyed Jord, snorted. ‘Rookies’ third floor. Better use the stairs – unless you fancy getting stuck with yesterday’s sandwich stink.’


    Jord nodded, passing the open gate.


    ‘You are the first, you ‘now?’ The man ground his cigarette underfoot, smirk etched with a cynicism older than his face. ‘Mara’s on desk duty. She’ll love you. Especially if you’re here to lighten her filing.’


    The stairwell swallowed him whole, reeking of damp concrete and the burnt tang of stale coffee. Above, voices spiralled down – a bark of laughter, the tinny blare of a radio static-drowned songs of protest. Jord climbed, and then climbed some more. Each step reverberated Healin’s warning: Grinder chews quick.


    By the time he reached the third floor, sweat glued his collar to his neck. Another reception desk – the last, he prayed – loomed ahead, lit by the same sterile glare endemic to bureaucratic hellholes. A woman hunched over a terminal, her posture mirroring Haelin’s, though her plaque read Mara V.


    ‘Name?’ she said, not glancing up.


    ‘Jord Whittaker.’ Jord said.


    She squinted at her screen. ‘Whittaker… Whittaker… Ah. Early bird.’ A flicker of a smirk. ‘Well a late bird in this case. Regardless, sign here. And here. Orientation’s tomorrow, but you’ll need the pre-screening waiver.’ She handled Jord a fountain pen.


    He scrawled his initials. ‘How many more?’


    ‘Patience, recruit.’ Mara slid another form across the desk. ‘Waiver first. Then the liability disclosure. Then the–’


    ‘Gods. More?’


    She arched a brow. ‘Institution’s got rules, more for troublemakers.’ Another chuckle. She knew, had gossip already poisoned the well?


    The hum of the printer machine grated like a dull blade. Jord stared at the flickering light above her desk. Signing, then more signing.


    ‘Why didn’t the other clerks let me do all these forms there?’


    ‘Protocol.’


    ‘But… what’s the point?’ He leaned forward, pen held in his grip. ‘Isn’t this all just–’


    ‘Meaningless? Wasteful? Yes and then yes. But this is the job and we do not make the rules.’ Mara finished, finally looking up. Her eyes were grey, flat as the terminal screen. ‘That’s the job first lesson, Whittaker. Protocols must be followed.’


    A fresh sheet spat from the printer. She snagged it mid-air. ‘Now. Non-disclosure agreement. Section 12.3: Unauthorised publications of critiques will void your pension and will dock your pay.’


    Jord snatched the pen. ‘Bullshit.’


    ‘Bullshit,’ Mara agreed mildly, ‘has its own subsection.’ She leaned forward, grey eyes glinting with the quiet weariness of someone who’d seen a hundred recruits cycle through. ‘Whittaker, let you in on an open secret – rules only bite if someone’s watching. Do as you’re told, keep your head down, and no one will bat an eye at minor… missteps.’


    She tapped the form. ‘But skip a step?’ A shrug. ‘You will meet the system teeth. And trust me – it bites.’


    Jord stared at the non-disclosure agreement, its dense paragraphs swimming. ‘And the pension?’


    ‘What pension?’ Mara deadpanned. ‘Sign.’


    And He scrawled his name once again, ink smearing his palm.


    Jord flexed his hand, the ache in his knuckles a dull protest. ‘Don’t think I’ve ever signed this much in my entire life.’


    Mara shrugged, stacking the forms. ‘Job second lesson, Whittaker. You’ll sign your name till it stops feeling like yours.’


    Jord signed five more forms.


    ‘Now what?’ He pushed the stack back, ink smudging his thumb. ‘You lot said I can’t do squat before orientation. Can’t you… expedite somewhat?’


    Mara’s smirk returned, sharper this time. ‘Expedite. Cute.’ She filed the forms into a drawer labelled Pending – Low Priority. ‘Tell you what – head to the canteen. Kitchen staff’s always short-handed. Peel spuds, scrub pans. Unofficially, of course.’


    ‘Unofficially.’


    ‘Grinder’s third lesson, Whittaker.’ She nodded to the flickering corridor light. ‘No one cares what you do – as long as you don’t step on the wrong toes.’


    ‘And if I refuse?’


    Mara’s gaze drifted to her drawer. ‘Then you’ll sit here. And I’ll find more forms.’


    Jord’s phone buzzed – a shrill, outdated alarm he’d forgotten to remove.


    ‘Problem?’


    ‘Ah, yes. Almost forgot. Need to synchronize this – ‘He held up his phone,’ – with the network.’ Jord said and then put his phone onto the table.


    ‘Synchronization with a personal device require a form,’ she said, sliding a triplicate form toward him. She nodded at the paperwork. ‘Fill this. Section B needs your blood type and preferred font for alerts.’


    Jord scribbled answers, half-guessing. ‘Why the font?’


    ‘Guard’s IT manual: “Aesthetic cohesion mitigates cognitive dissonance in high-stress scenarios.” ’ She quoted with her fingers. ‘Or because the techs are pretentious twats.’ Her lips twitched.


    He shoved the form back. ‘How long?’


    ‘Confirmation takes…’ She squinted at the submission code. ‘Anywhere between two hours and never. Depends if Robert is sober.’ A notification pinged. ‘Ah. Lucky day. He will ping you a login by the hour.’


    ‘And if it doesn’t work?’


    Mara shrugged. ‘Then you’re a brick carrier.’


    ‘I think I will follow with your earlier suggestion.’ Jord clawed at his collar, the damp fabric suctioned to his skin. ’Where’s the canteen?’


    ‘Second floor then follow the smell of burnt gravy.’


    He left, the thrum of printers fading behind him. Somewhere ahead, a man barked orders. A voice swore. Jord walked faster.


    –––


    Mara’s advice rang true: the stench of burnt gravy seared Jord’s nostrils long before the canteen’s double doors lurched into view. Ten steps down a flickering corridor, and there it sprawled – a cavern of harsh fluorescents and stainless-steel counter-tops, the air thick with stench of industrial detergent.


    A mountain of unpeeled potatoes teetered beside a sink. Behind it, a wiry man in a grease-streaked apron barked into a handheld radio. ‘ – said six crates, not bloody seven – ’ He spotted Jord, scowled. ‘You lost, mate?’


    ‘Mara sent me. Implied you’re in dire need of hands.’


    The man – Hesk, according to his name-tag – snorted. ‘Short-handed? We’re short on sanity.’ He lobbed a peeler at Jord. It clattered onto the counter. ‘Knives are blunt. Spuds are sprouting. Knock yourself out.’


    Jord eyed the peeler, its blade nicked and dull. ‘Pay?’


    Hesk grinned, revealing a chipped incisor. ‘Pay’s tomorrow. Today’s volunteer. Rookie’s law: Pre-contract labour accrues no fiscal obligation. Handy, innit?’ He tossed a sprouting potato into a bucket. Grey’s got a clause for everything.’


    Labour, then more labour. Jord rolled his sleeves, his phone digging into his thigh as he leaned into the sink. Damned angels. Forgot to ask for the handbook. Maybe Hesk will run me up.


    ‘Have you read the manual?’ Jord asked, peeling with deliberate slowness.


    ‘Read it?’ Hesk barked a laugh. ‘Mate, I lived it. Twenty years scrubbing pans teaches you the Guard’s three truths.’ He held up grease-blackened fingers. ‘One: Rules exist to hang you, not them. Two: “Volunteer” means unpaid. Three: That brick they call a manual?’ He jerked his chin at Jord’s phone. ‘It’s got one useful line – page 241. Oversights may be rectified retroactively. Means they’ll dock your pay tomorrow for today’s fuck-ups.’


    Jord’s peeler slipped, gouging the potato. ‘So why bother?’


    ‘Because –’ Hesk lobbed another spud at him, ‘– this job’s simple. Head down, do what you’re told, and you’ll – trust me – survive the grind. Plus – ’ He paused, wiping grime off his apron. ‘The uniform’s good for one thing: catchin’ eyes. Some very… appreciative eyes.’ A wink, sharp as a blade. ‘If you’re lucky.’ He added, almost in afterthought.


    The sink filled with murky water. Jord’s phone buzzed – a notification from the city network, already syncing. Welcome to the Guard, it read.