"Now what should I wear? They didn't give us the uniforms,ahh, I'll have to ask Mom," Julius thought.
"Mom, what should I wear?" he called later, trying to sound casual.
"Just wear something plain," Octavia said.
"They'll give you the uniform at the academy. Don't worry."
"Mom do you know Thessa" Julius asked.
"Yes I know her, she is a nurse at the academy," Octavia said. "How do you know her?"
"When I was at the infirmary she said that say hi to your mom" Julius said.
"She was a good friend at the time." not trying to tell Julius much more. "You are going to be late again" Octavia said.
At the entrance to the academy, Will sat in his usual chair like part of the gate itself.
"Hey, old man, you're still here," Julius said with a grin.
"And you're still showing up every day, right?" Will teased back.
They traded a little joking talk and then Julius let the campus open around him. He walked without hurrying and took in the details: flagstones that shone faintly in the morning, hedges trimmed to straight lines, banners still crisp. Solthar Academy of War flaunted the investment that had gone into it. Everything looked clean, sharp, and meant. Not that he saw any academy.
On the training ground, he was last, as usual. The recruits clustered in knots, some loud with bravado, some quiet and sharp-eyed, a few who moved with a loose confidence that came from practice. Julius hung back. He had learned to prefer older company: men who had been struck down by life and still spoke plainly. Boys his own age braided challenge into their talk; he found their noise difficult to parse. He liked listening better than shouting.
Finally Magnus appeared. "Trainees, follow me, time for your first lesson," he said in a strict voice. No one hesitated; the group fell in behind him.
"The lesson is war strategies," Magnus said, and left them at a door whose name was written in golden letters.
They filed in and sat. Julius took the second row, neither front nor back. He wanted to watch without being watched too much.
The door opened slowly. A man in his fifties stepped in: white hair, a lined face, and a posture that suggested he'd led men in many fields. When he looked at them, you could tell at once he'd seen battles.
"Why are you all sitting?" he asked.
At his words the class saluted in an instant.
"That's better," he said with a smile.
"In this lesson you will learn how to think in a battle. But first I have a question: does the number of an army matter much?" He looked over the students without moving his face. "Those who say yes, raise your hands."
Silence. No one raised their hands.
"That's right. It doesn't matter much, because of what?" he asked.
A boy raised his hand. "You may speak," the old man said.
"Because of war strategies," the boy answered.
"With a clap, that's right," he said again. "I'm Harrison, one of the old wolves in the army."
Julius thought for a second and raised his hand. Harrison looked surprised but let him speak.
"Commander Harrison," Julius said, "good leadership is important too. When you are outnumbered you have to give a brave speech to your soldiers so they fight at their best."
Harrison looked at him a moment, then smiled brightly and turned to the blackboard. While he explained he wrote diagrams and notes.
"Leadership and strategy—they are the most important things in a battle. You can't win a battle without them. If your strategies are bad you will lose a lot of men; if your leadership is bad your men will flee; if both are bad, you've already lost. Do not forget: a battle is won in the head, not only with swords."
Julius felt that thrill students get when something fits: Harrison's passion made the lesson come alive. This is already my favorite class, he thought.
"Class is over. Wait for Magnus, he will show you where you will get your uniforms."
Magnus arrived a short while later. "Come with me. Your uniforms are ready."
They entered a large room and stood in line. Julius remembered the first time he'd seen the uniform.
The uniform was not a simple jacket but a long, dark tunic, tailored to fall nearly to the knees, with a high, stiff collar. A neat row of brass buttons ran straight down the front, clean and symmetrical like a formal shirt fastening. Fine braided cords and a single aiguillette swept across the right shoulder, adding just a touch of ceremony without overwhelming the design. On each shoulder sat a small, empty patch meant for rank insignia, bare for now, waiting for whatever future he would earn. The left breast remained intentionally plain, reserved for medals far beyond his current reach. Paired with calf-high boots and a simple scabbard at the hip, the uniform felt severe yet practical, the kind of attire made not for display but for duty. When Julius fastened the buttons, the tunic settled across his frame with surprising ease, as though it had been shaped for him long before he ever touched it.
He smoothed the fabric, caught his reflection in a narrow mirror, and for a moment the uniform changed the way he held himself: shoulders squared, back a little straighter. It was only cloth, but cloth could set a man's posture. Even empty patches and silence about rank felt like a promise, something to chase, something to earn.
"Now that's done," Magnus said. "Time for the last lesson of the day." He led them to another door; the word on it was plain and direct: Fighting.
No frills, no dramatic flourish, just the place where practice met practice. Someone inside shouted, impatient.
"What are you waiting for?!"
Group looked confused. Without waiting they got in. A big flat place in front of them, swords on the wall. A big man was standing there too.