The first minute of his walk passed in numb silence. The second brought no clarity – his mind slogged through sludge, muscles leaden, each step a battle against gravity. By the fourth minute, he noticed the shift change: workers streaming out of factories, replacements trudging in. Say something abut Thamburg, say that it never slept. Jord checked his phone – 16:28 – and marched on.


    By the tenth minute, his body fell into the city’s rhythm. By the twentieth, halfway home, his thoughts turned inward – to Elia, to their fractured silences. Is he home? Or off chasing that new girl again? Jord scoffed aloud. A faint smile surfaced, then faded. Hope she’s worth it. His jaw tightened. Should I tail him? Make sure he’s not – He dismissed the idea. Elia isn’t a kid. But… – A flicker of doubt. Since when does he hide his friends? Ashamed of me? Jord’s throat constricted. Or am I just… that much of a lout? He dragged in a sharp breath, the air scouring his lungs. Sorry, Elia. Big brother will do better. Maybe. But – what needed fixing? His style? His vocabulary? The way he chewed too loud at dinner? Where do I even start?


    The questions piled up, higher and higher, until a sudden gust of wind sent the trembling tower tumbling down – leaving Jord’s mind blissfully free of the weight of thought.


    The door hung ajar. A shiver of panic prickled Jord’s spine. He quickened his pace, limbs protesting, and slipped inside with clumsy stealth – more lumbering bear than cat. The door clicked shut behind him, silent as a whisper.


    Voices drifted from the kitchen. Two metres ahead, then a sharp left. Jord crouched, joints screaming, and edged along the wall.


    ‘–Why would I ever do that?’ Elia’s voice, sharp with outrage.


    Jord exhaled – a shaky breath he hadn’t realised he’d trapped – and straightened slowly, back creaking like old floorboards. He stepped into the kitchen.


    ‘Evening,’ Jord said, with confidence that he did not wield.


    Elia stiffened, back still turned. At the table sat two boys: one with a patchy beard clinging to his jaw like moss, the other clean-shaven, hair ruthlessly combed. Opposite them, a girl – unremarkable at first glance, in her long sleeves and brown boots – turned. Her eyes locked onto Jord’s, and he faltered. Crystalline. Depthless. A gaze that pinned him mid-stride.


    Elia turned, eyes narrowing the moment he saw Jord. ‘Where the hell have you been?’


    Jord leaned against the door-frame, forcing a casual shrug despite the stiffness in his shoulders. ‘Training.’ He kept his tone neutral, avoiding the word Guard. In Thamburg, the institution’s name made scrunching one''s nose a prerogative – tainted by the Lavitii Occupation two decades prior, when the Guard had swapped their badges for invaders’ colours, enforcing curfews and confiscating proprieties. Jord had been too young to understand then, the chaos filtered through whispers and half-remembered shouts.


    The bearded one snorted. ‘Training – or getting your arse handed to you?’


    Jord gave him a flat look. ‘Both.’


    The clean-shaven boy smirked but stayed silent. The girl, however, studied him with quiet interest, fingers idly tracing the rim of her cup.


    Elia sighed, rubbing his glabella. ‘Whatever. You’re just in time. These two were about to start another pointless argument.’


    The bearded one – Jord pegged him as the loud type – leaned forward. ‘It’s not pointless. I’m saying the rules don’t matter when things get real. You don’t stop to ask what’s fair in a fight.’


    ‘There’s a difference between being practical and being reckless,’ the other boy countered, voice smooth, measured. ‘You’re not useful if you’re dead.’


    ‘You’re not useful if you’re afraid to act either,’ the bearded one shot back.


    Jord raised a brow. ‘Should I even ask what this is about?’


    Elia groaned. ‘No, because it’s stupid.’


    The girl across from them finally spoke, her voice calm but firm. ‘We were discussing how much force is necessary in our line of work. Whether following procedure always makes sense.’


    Line of work? The hell, Elia? Jord’s lips twitched. ‘Funny. I had almost the same conversation earlier.’


    The girl tilted her head slightly. ‘And what do you think?’


    Jord hesitated. Her gaze was piercing – not demanding, just expectant. Waiting. He exhaled and met her eyes with bravery .


    ‘I think… violence isn’t an answer. But a question.’ Jord quoted Jory, the words settling awkwardly in his mouth like borrowed clothing that didn''t quite fit the contours of his body. Damn, it sounds so much more stilted when I say it, he thought, the realisation carrying a peculiar sting. Why did it sound so natural, so resolute when the officer said it? The question unfurled in his mind, delicate and piercing as a thorn extracted from flesh.


    The bearded one grinned, as if he’d just won the argument. The clean-shaven boy sighed. Elia just looked exhausted.


    The girl merely nodded. ‘Interesting answer.’


    He took a moment to remember what he was going to say, then remembering: ‘Elia, The door was open, forgot to close it?’


    Elia frowned, then ached an eyebrow. ‘Fuck’s sake Alvin, can’t close a door behind you, can you?’ he said towards the boy with patched beard.


    Alvin locked nonplussed, shrugged. ‘Happens to the best of us, man.’


    ‘Best of us my ass.’ Muttered Elia, loud enough for the others to hear.


    ‘Anyway, talk you later Elia.’ Jord said, leaving for his room.


    Jord opened the door and a squeak stole his attention. The door, right. Forgot about that… again, damn. Jord sighed, Now, what lubricant should I use? Kitchen’ oil? Or should I trek to old tom’s shop? He moved his mandible left and right, lost in thought. Money? He checked his pocket for his portfolio, found it, opened it, and found it almost empty save it for his identification papers. He mused: Should I get another loan? Mh… Well now I’m with the guard should be easier no? But I know no legal loaner – Jord frowned – only street sharks. An idea blitzed in Jord’s mind, and a rictus grin now plastered his face. Should I go after them? No… too soon, still don’t have uniform nor any official seal. Hm, maybe I should make some friends before I do something so over-the-top.


    He shook his head. Getting ahead of myself. Inside the room, he kicked off his boots and flopped onto the bed, grabbing Treaty of the Seven Nations from the night-stand. Section Six: Antagonism Between Classes.


    After twenty or so pages, a thud echoed – the front door closing. Jord padded back to the kitchen, finding Elia slumped at the table, staring at his hands.


    ‘Elia? Still want the Guard manual? Or do you want to read it on my phone?’


    ‘A copy.’ Elia held out his phone. ‘Cable?’


    ‘Cable.’ Jord linked their devices, transferring the file. ‘Enjoy.’


    ‘Enjoy? I’ll skim it for you, you dumbass. Worst case scenario, I learn what to avoid.’


    ‘Suit yourself.’ Jord pocketed his phone. ‘Any oil left?’


    ‘First drawer on the left. Why the frown?’


    ‘Just… reminds me of Grandpa. He used to make oil, gave us cans as gifts. You were too young to remember.’


    Elia nodded. Jord disappeared, oiled the hinges – upper first, teetering on his toes, then the lower, crouching – before testing the door’s silent swing.


    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.


    Back in the kitchen, he tossed the oil into the drawer. ‘So…’ He dragged on. ‘New friends? What happened to Jastion?’


    ‘Fell in with a bad crowd.’ Elia met Jord’s gaze. ‘Tried to talk him out of it. Didn’t work. Alvin the one with the patchy beard, Luko’s –’ he gestured where Luko was sited before he left. ‘–and Irena.’


    ‘Irena,’ Jord crowed, his voice carrying the reckless triumph of youth, that particular blend of affection and cruelty that exists only between those bound by shared history. ‘The one who’s got you on the clouds, and now made you redder than a chilli!’


    He snapped a photo of Elia’s flushed face, the moment captured in digital permanence – that particular shade of crimson spreading across his face like spilled wine on linen, a telling flush that spoke volumes where words dared not venture. The camera’s click punctuated the air between them, a small sound that somehow managed to fill the entire room.


    Elia’s eyes found the floorboards, suddenly fascinating in their weathered patterns, each groove and whorl a sanctuary from Jord’s knowing gaze. His embarrassment was a tangible thing, delicate and raw as a newly opened wound, yet somehow precious in its vulnerability – this unguarded glimpse of tender feeling normally kept tucked away beneath layers of carefully constructed nonchalance.


    Dusk’s light filtering through half-drawn curtains caught dust motes dancing in the air, transforming the ordinary kitchen into something golden and suspended, a place where time seemed to slow its relentless march forward. Outside, spring was unfurling tender green fingers, coaxing reluctant buds from winter-hardened branches, mirroring the cautious blossoming of Elia’s affections – equally fragile, equally determined.


    ‘You''re a proper menace, you know that?’ Elia murmured, words directed at the floor rather than at Jord, his voice carrying notes of both irritation and something softer, more complex – the reluctant fondness one reserves for those who see straight through our carefully constructed facades to the truths we hardly acknowledge to ourselves.


    But then Elia lunged for the phone, ‘Delete it!’ Jord held the phone aloft, a head taller.


    Elia continued his struggle to reach the offending machine, but nature was a cruel mistress and didn’t gave the gift of height to him. So his efforts turned futile.


    ‘Fine, fine.’ Jord flashed the photo, then deleted it. ‘Happy now?’


    Elia meekly nodded.


    ‘I’m gonna nap. The Guard’s more a gymnasium than anything I’d’ve expected.’


    ‘Gymnasium?’


    ‘Yeah. Made me run, stand, grapple – all that, all day.’


    ‘Doesn’t sound so bad. Exercise is good, you know?’


    ‘Talk for yourself, you lout. Almost spat a lung. No end to their training – one thing after another. Not a moment’s rest, the devils! And I think I created some animosity between some colleague.’


    ‘Already? The hell did you do? Did you cross him? Or is it a her? Like… Did you stare at him or something?’


    ‘Was a man, and I don’t think so… no, I was going with Lapo – Man’s a senior guard officer – and like, I was new, right, first day and all that. And like, I got there, and there was nobody, received some messages –‘


    ‘– Messages? Did you make a plan? With what they co–‘


    ‘– No-no, nothing of the like! I’m on their network, it’s linked with my profile and all that, and they can send me all sort of official messages.’ Jord continued, Elia falling silent. ‘It’s how I received the manual, so again, I was there, the whole place was deserted save for some special forces, I think? Anyway, was alone on the track and, not wanting to be seen as a lazy, I started warming up. And after some running there comes a man. Comes from nowhere, almost got me a scare. And then he starts saying things, and, I kid you not, he starts that I need to “loom”.’


    Elia raised a brow, ‘Well, he’s not wrong. You lack a bit of… oomph, If I say so myself.’ Elia finished.


    ‘Right…’ Jord narrowed his eyes at Elia. ‘Sure, anyway. He’s… a bit… peculiar, yes, peculiar.‘ Jord nodded to himself.’ Made me almost throw up twice, the devil. So yes, done that, an hour or two passes and then I met the group. Rookies like me. And the other senior, the one I quoted before, What? Why are you frowning? The violence thing that I said before! What the hell are you suspicions for? Anyway, first sight and the guy was already glaring at me, I mean glaring, Elia. Can’t mistake that. Anyway Jory – The partner of Lapo – made us start a mock fight, the cunt, for a cunt he is, made me pair with the other cunt – His name is Krane, I saw it on his uniform. Still haven’t got mine, by the way.’


    ‘Sounds like he was pissed you skipped procedure.’


    ‘Procedure? What procedure?’


    ‘You read his name off his uniform. Others were in uniform too, yeah? He probably thinks you’re cutting corners. Doesn’t like that.’


    ‘Huh. Spilled milk, then. I glared at him like Lapo said, and he looked away. Sorted.’


    Elia stared at Jord, incredulous. ‘Congratulations, you fool. You turned a snub into a feud. Belittled him in public – bloke’s got pride. If he’s got spine, he’ll make you pay. Expect mockery.’


    ‘Ain’t that excessive? I just glared! And He already mopped the floor with me in a sparring!’


    ‘Don’t overlook wounded pride, Jord. Try to smooth it over. Doesn’t have to be friendship – just don’t make rub salt in the wound.’


    ‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll think about it later.’ Jord’s eyelids were already drooping, each blink demanding more effort to keep him awake.


    Elia snorted and tossed him a threadbare towel. ‘Take a shower first. You stink to high heaven and back.’


    ‘Too late now.’ Jord collapsed onto the sofa. ‘If I snore, kick me.’


    He was out before Elia could even reply.


    –––


    The scrape of the front door stirred Jord from a half-dozing stupor. He blinked, disoriented – senses jammed up by exhaustion – as voices clattered down the hall.


    ‘Again with the overtime?’ His father’s rasp, sandpaper-dry. ‘Told ’em union’s threatening strike votes –’


    ‘And I told you, keep your head down,’ his mother, Irena, snapped back. ‘ “Family enterprise”, they call it. Means they’ll gut you faster if you squawk.’


    Jord scowled into the sofa cushions. Family enterprise. The phrase came back like a tide wave in his memory. Twelve years at Pryor & Sons Textiles, his parents still came home stinking of dye vats and compliance.


    A gasp. ‘Gods alive – ’ Irena’s shadow loomed over him, sleeve pressed to her nose. ‘You’ve marinated in a pigsty!’


    ‘Trained. Showered. Tried to,’ Jord grunted, rolling upright. ‘Boiler’s still cursed.’


    ‘Doubt that,’ she huffed, though her glare softened. ‘Go scrub proper. And air those rags!’


    The shower hissed to life, pipes groaning like rheumatic lungs. Jord braced as the first icy droplets struck – then yelped when the water abruptly lurched to scalding. ‘Heavens – !’ He fumbled the knob.


    By some miracle, the heat pacified and held. Jord slumped against the tiles, steam scouring the day’s stench from his pores. Loom, Lapo had droned today. Learn to Loom. The words rang like a bell, reverberating in his mind.


    He dreamt of leaking pipes that night, and of Elia, silent at the kitchen table, carving something small and sharp from a block of birch wood under a sky that held no stars.


    –––


    Jord awoke to agony – every muscle seized, locking his body in a rigid, cast-like stillness. He tried moving his hands; his biceps ignited with white-hot pain. Attempting to stretch his arms only wrenched fresh flares, forcing them back into a braced curl. He rolled sideways to sit up, but his quadriceps screamed in revolt, muscles spasmed uselessly. I’m trapped.


    Pain wasn’t new to him, but this – this was a vice. Need to message Lapo. Can’t bloody move. Gritting his teeth, he cursed through the ordeal, clawing for his phone. His thumb hovered over Lapo’s contact. Call or text? Band-aid or sword hanging? He ripped the band-aid and called.


    ‘Whittaker.’ Lapo’s voice crackled through, brisk.


    ‘Sir – body’s done in. Can’t move. Not joking.’


    A dry chuckle. ‘Happens. Rest today. I will handle paperwork.’ Then the line died.


    That’s it? Jord slumped back, suspicion warring with relief. Second day, already sidelined. Brilliant.


    He drifted fitfully until Elia shouldered the door open. ‘Sacked already?’


    ‘Can’t move. They gave me a pass.’


    ‘They?’ Asked Elia.


    ‘Lapo, the officer that ran me through hell.’


    ‘Devil’s playing nice? Maybe he’s not all bile and bite.’


    ‘It’s a trap,’ Jord growled. ‘Lull me before the storm.’


    Elia smirked. ‘Or he’s just… decent?’


    ‘Decent? May the heavens scrub his saintly soul,’ Jord spat. ‘Piss off.’


    ‘Sir, yes sir!’ Elia saluted mockingly, leaving the door ajar.


    Little shit.


    The day bled by. Jord devoured Treaty of the Seven Nations, his bladder gnawed at him for relief but the walk to the bathroom was a martyr’s pilgrimage – every shuffle a descent into purgatory, every step a prayer. And so he tried his hardest to optimize the voyage.


    When Elia returned with greasy takeaway, Jord devoured it wordlessly. Pride stifled his whimper as he levered upright; salt fat soothed the sting.


    ‘Do you think this will be a black mark on your record?’ Elia questioned, collecting the emptied container.


    Jord stared at a flower on the white wall-paper. ‘So be it, not like I can do anything.’


    That day sleep came like a coup de grace.


    –––


    The second day was marginally better. His muscles still screamed, but now a dull roar rather than yesterday’s cacophony. Jord flung himself into the shower, scalding water loosening the knots in his corded limbs – until the morning chill seized him anew, stiffening every joint. Only the shuffle of the crowd steadied him, their rhythm lulling him into step despite the flares of pain.


    At the gate stood an unfamiliar officer. No uniform, no message from Mara – Jord prickled with unease. He approached, shoulders squared.


    ‘Sorry, erm… rookie-in-training. Can I… enter?’


    The woman arched a brow, scanning him head to toe. ‘Name?’


    ‘Jord Whittaker.’


    ‘A moment.’ She tapped her tablet, scrolling. ‘Clear.’


    He slipped inside, adrift until instinct led him to Mara’s desk. Empty. A clerk nearby snorted. ‘Mara’s off Tuesdays and Wednesday. What do you need?’


    ‘Assigned to Lapo Polazit. Supposed to… shadow him?’


    The clerk paused, assessing Jord. ‘Six months under Polazit, then full guard status – weapons, patrols, the lot. Understood?’


    ‘Understood. Where’s Lapo?’


    ‘Track One.’


    Jord found Lapo mid-lap, sweat glinting under the pallid sun. The man slowed, grinning. ‘All good today?’


    He knew.


    ‘Some soreness, sir.’


    ‘Warm-up will fix that.’ Lapo set off at a brisk walk, pace quickening but never breaking into a jog.


    ‘Does this happen every time?’ Jord gestured to his aching limbs.


    ‘Only at the start. Push too hard, pay the price.’ Lapo shrugged. ‘Train steady, and it dulls. Now – keep up.’


    Jord struggled to keep up, the pain never fully receding – only abating slightly.


    ‘Sir, are there showers? I noticed people scrunching their noses when I left on Monday.’


    Lapo chuckled. ‘Barracks have showers. Didn’t cross your mind?’


    ‘Didn’t have the energy to think, no. And the uniform – shouldn’t I have received it by now?’


    ‘Didn’t I tell you?’


    ‘No.’


    ‘Ask Greg at the armoury. He’ll issue you a standard uniform, a spare, a parade set, and a plastic ID card for the gate checkpoint. You’ve got the smart-card, yes?’


    Jord tapped his breast pocket. ‘Here.’


    ‘Don’t lose it. Replacement costs a quarter of your next payslip – bonuses and overtime included. Policy’s to discourage forgetting things. Same goes for your ID, uniform, everything. Lose your firearms, though, and you’re in deep shit. Understood?’


    ‘Yes, sir.’


    ‘Damage or scratch anything, and you pay. No exceptions.’


    Jord frowned. ‘Isn’t that a bit… cheap?’


    ‘Yes, it is. Top brass won’t give more than they can claw back.’ Lapo’s said, then his tone hardened. ‘Smoke or drink, and you’ll regret it – not the Bureau they generally don’t care, it’s me. I expect the aches, the pains – I’ve been there. But self-sabotage?’ He leaned closer. ‘I’ll make hell feel like a holiday. Clear?’


    ‘Yes, sir. Understood,’ Jord replied meekly. Why do you even care?


    Lapo slowed, clapping Jord’s shoulder. ‘Your mask – it’s slipping, lad.’


    ‘Sorry, sir. I’ll do better.’


    ‘Good. It’s your sort I like – ones who listen and push.’ Lapo’s smile reached his creased eyes, fleeting but genuine.


    –––


    Jord limped toward the armoury, each step a fresh reminder of Lapo’s "warm-up." The building loomed ahead. Inside, the air smelled of gun oil and chlorine. A grizzled man with a tattooed forearm leaned against the counter, picking at a sandwich.


    ‘Greg?’ Jord rasped.


    The man – Greg – glanced up, crumbs clinging to his beard. ‘Rookie?’


    Jord nodded.


    ‘Uniform then.’ Said Greg.


    ‘Yeah. Lapo sent me.’


    Greg snorted, wiping his hands on his trousers. ‘Lapo, eh? Poor bastard. Still lost in the ghosts of the past.’ He vanished into a back room, returning with a bundle of khaki fabric and a plastic ID card. ‘Sign here. Damage it, you pay. Lose it, you pay double.’


    Jord scribbled his name, fingers trembling from training. The uniform felt coarse, the stitching uneven. ‘Parade set?’


    ‘Parade set.’ Greg tossed a second bundle, this one crisp but yellowed at the seams. ‘Last worn by some rook who quit mid-shift. Lucky you.’


    Jord hesitated. ‘Firearm?’


    Greg’s grin revealed a lot of missing teeth. ‘Earn that first, sunshine.’


    Back at the track, Lapo watched Jord fumble with his new ID card.


    ‘Man’s seem friendly’ Said Jord.


    Lapo smirked. ‘He’s a prick.’ He nodded to the uniform. ‘Change. Now.’


    In the cramped locker room, Jord peeled off his sweat-soaked clothes. The fabric scraped his raw skin, the boots pinching his blisters. When he emerged, Lapo circled him like a vulture.


    ‘Sleeves rolled like a dock-hand. Fix it.’


    Jord obeyed, hands steady despite the ache.


    ‘Better.’ Lapo tossed him a rusted sledgehammer. ‘Now – swing till sunset.’


    ‘But, sir… In the uniform?’ Jord gestured to his stiff, sweat-stained shirt.


    ‘What’s the point of finery if you don’t sweat in it? Swing.’


    And swing Jord did – sledgehammer thudding into tractor tyres until his palms blistered. Pull-ups ended in graceless drops; leg raises and squats left him trembling. After a lunch Lapo grudgingly paid for (a greasy sausage roll and tepid tea; it was outside the compound), Jord returned, grinding through lunges until the pain dulled to numb static.


    ‘Was a good day, innit?’ Lapo remarked, startling Jord as the sun dipped below the barracks’ roofline.


    Jord blinked, surprised by the fading light. ‘Y-yeah. Suppose.’


    ‘Tomorrow, then.’ With a curt nod, Lapo vanished into the dusk.


    Jord showered hastily, the barracks’ lukewarm water sluicing grime into rusty drains. He changed into his spare uniform, the fabric rough against raw skin, and bundled his dirtied clothes underarm. Forgot to ask for a bag. No matter – he trudged home, head high, the reek of sweat clinging to him like a second shadow.