The bell above the main door clanged, its tone as cracked and weary as the ancient stone it hung from. James and Philips hurried inside.
Their first period was with Mr. Davies, who taught Logic and Mathematics with patient enthusiasm. Today, he was revisiting the river-crossing riddle. A quiet village girl named Mary offered a precise explanation. James listened, his mind only half-engaged. He'd found the pattern fairly quickly the night before. His gaze drifted to the window, tracing the flight of a lone gull against the oppressive grey sky.
The bell clanged again, signaling a shift in the classroom's subdued energy. A few younger village children gathered their things with visible relief, their lessons concluded. For the older students, however, it meant the arrival of Father Alaric for his weekly lecture on "The Weight of Command."
The classroom door opened with a decisive click. Marcus and his contingent entered, settling at desks near the windows, pointedly separated from where the Saint Ursa's orphans sat clustered together on the left side of the room. They arranged their quills and parchment with practiced self-importance.
The air seemed to drop another degree when Father Alaric entered. He was not a man of Saint Ursa's, but presided over a starker boarding school in a larger coastal town, an institution with official oversight of the struggling Saint Ursa. His weekly visits were endured rather than anticipated. His sharp gaze swept the room, lingering perhaps a fraction longer on the orphans before he moved to the front, every line of his severe black cassock radiating unyielding authority.
Father Alaric unrolled a large, worn map on the wall with decisive movements. It depicted Sparrow's Point. Small, stark wooden blocks were already arranged upon it.
"We have previously discussed," Father Alaric began, his voice devoid of warmth, "the imperative of preserving the Order's knowledge and lineage. Today, a practical application." He tapped the map. "Sparrow's Point. Fifty souls – scholars, healers, families, a mere handful of aging guardsmen. Raiders from the Onyx Fleet – two hundred hardened warriors, taking no prisoners – have landed at Blacksand Cove. Eradication is their intent. The sanctuary is a trap. Sea-routes blockaded. Land-bridge their only ingress. Provisions for one week."
He let the grim scenario settle, his eyes scanning the now utterly silent classroom. "Your task," he continued, "is to devise the strategy for command. How do you ensure the survival of the Order's knowledge and lineage, understanding that not all lives may be preserved, and any path will carry a heavy moral burden? Your solution must be decisive, logical, and account for the disposition of all your people. Sentiment, as always, will be your ruin."
A nervous hush fell. James leaned forward, his eyes now fixed on the map. He took in the coastline, the depicted sea wall, the few small fishing boats, the patch of land indicating grazing areas. His gaze meticulously traced every contour, every inlet. Then, on the rugged western edge, almost obscured by shadow and faded ink, he spotted it – a faint, thin line snaking down a steep cliff face. An old track, barely visible. His mind began to race, possibilities and dangers warring within him.
A village boy stammered about an all-out defense. Alaric cut him off with a scathing remark. Another suggested negotiation, earning an even frostier dismissal. Several minutes passed, punctuated only by Alaric's impatient tapping and the shuffling of nervous feet.
Then, Marcus Kaelen rose slowly, his posture radiating studied confidence that drew all eyes. "Father," he began, his voice clear and carrying, "while others grapple with the obvious, I propose a structured and unassailable approach."
James watched as Marcus stepped closer to the map, almost theatrical in his movement. "Firstly," Marcus declared, his finger decisively tapping the land-bridge, "our twenty most able fighters make their stand here. Their duty is clear: to delay the enemy assault, buying crucial hours. A necessary sacrifice, naturally, for the greater good of the Order."
His gaze swept the classroom with brief, dismissive assessment. "Secondly, as the enemy commits its full force to that engagement, our swiftest longboat – and we only have one truly serviceable for such a desperate venture – will be launched from the main landing. It will carry our most vital assets: ten Keepers of Lore, selected for their irreplaceability; five of our youngest and healthiest children, to secure the lineage; the most sacred texts, of course; and what small valuables might aid their resettlement, should fortune favor their escape from the blockade."
Marcus paused, a slight, knowing smile playing on his lips before he gestured with a flourish towards the faint line on the western cliffs that James had noted earlier. "And thirdly," he announced, his tone edged with the pride of discovery, "for the secondary overland dispersal of the remaining twenty souls – the older, the infirm, those less critical to the Order's immediate future – I have identified this ancient, nearly invisible goat-track." As he spoke, his eyes deliberately sought out the cluster of Saint Ursa's orphans, and a brief, triumphant sneer curled his lip. Philips, beside James, shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to his desk as if an ill wind had passed.
"A treacherous path, undoubtedly, but their only conceivable chance for survival once the bridge falls. Their fate, while regrettable, must be considered secondary."
He straightened, his expression one of finality. "This plan, Father, pragmatically addresses the threat, protects our most vital resources, and maximizes the Order's chances of continuity. Cold calculation, perhaps, but effective leadership demands nothing less."
Father Alaric listened, his face unreadable. After Marcus concluded, he stroked his chin, the silence stretching long enough that James wondered what judgment was forming behind those cold eyes. "A layered approach, Kaelen," he conceded finally, his tone grudging. "You do not shy from necessary loss. Your identification of that track shows… some observation of the terrain's less obvious features. It is less contemptible than the witless panic offered by others today."
He turned his sharp gaze to the room. "For my next visit," Alaric stated, his voice cutting through the silence, "I expect from each of you a fully reasoned written defense of your chosen strategy for Sparrow's Point. No less than three parchments. Logical fallacies or appeals to sentiment will result in failure."
Most students began scribbling down the assignment. James, however, remained fixed on the map, his brow deeply furrowed. The crude blocks representing fifty souls against the stark depiction of two hundred raiders. His gaze traced the jagged coastline, the shadowed coves, the faint line of that goat-track. So many lives, so few options. What if…
"Thorne?" Alaric's voice, laced with familiar scorn, cut through James's concentration. "You offered no wisdom during our discussion. Are you so lost in your daydreams that you've lost your ears as well? Don't just stare at the map as if a magical answer will appear. Note down the assignment."
James mechanically copied the essay requirements, Alaric's dismissive words still ringing in his ears. The relief when the stern priest swept out was palpable, like a held breath finally released. Marcus and his contingent gathered their things with unruffled composure, casting superior glances towards the Saint Ursa's orphans before departing.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of less taxing lessons – recitations James barely registered, sums he completed by rote. His mind kept returning to the grim map, to the impossible choices and cold logic Father Alaric demanded. He barely spoke to Philips during the short break, his thoughts too tangled.
With the midday bell's shrill liberation, children spilled from the schoolhouse onto Vesper's Knoll's muddy paths, their voices rising in relief. James and Philips joined the familiar grey-clad stream of Saint Ursa's children heading back toward the orphanage.
They were halfway down the track that skirted the wilder, gorse-choked edge of the school grounds when they fell behind the main group. Philips was complaining about the unfairness of Alaric's essay topic when James suddenly stopped, his head cocked.
"Did you hear that?" James asked, his voice low.
Philips paused, listening. "Hear what? Just the wind in the gorse, probably."
But James shook his head. It came again, carried on the chill breeze—a sound thin and desperate, a high-pitched wail of pure distress. It was not quite human, more like an animal in terrible pain or fear. Then, cutting through it sharp and ugly, came the mocking, cruel laughter of Marcus Kaelen, followed by the rougher guffaws of his companions.
Philips shot James a horrified look. Together, they crept forward, pushing carefully through the prickly branches until they reached the edge of the clearing. From their concealed position in the shadows of the dense gorse, the cruel sounds grew clearer, accompanied by Marcus's venomous voice.
A knot tightened In James's stomach. His mind raced, processing the angles, the number of voices, the sheer malice in the laughter, trying to form a plan. But before he could think of something, before any calculated move could be made, Philips acted.
Impulse and horror overriding caution, Philips stumbled from the cover of the gorse into the clearing, abandoning the shadows.