Page 15 of Blood Fist
Niklas was vibrating in place; arms crossed and worry lines decorating his face. Only a couple of years older than Brune, his face wouldn’t stay smooth much longer if he kept worrying like he did.
He’d met Niklas on his first day. Shoved into a courtyard with a dozen other new recruits, he’d looked up from behind filthy bangs to see the black haired beta. Heappeared as if he wanted to die, with his shoulders curled up around his ears. Some of the other men were hassling him, grubby fingers pinching the tips of his ears. Even though Niklas was older and taller, he didn’t bat them off, choosing to curl in on himself instead.
Brune hated an empty stomach, but he hated bullies more. In Guttersnipe he’d learned to throw a punch before taking a step, and he did it without question. Head down to protect his face, he barreled into the group, throwing wildly inaccurate punches and baring his teeth in a snarl. The biggest grabbed him by the hair, but he couldn’t get a good grip in the thick knots. Brune whirled around and sank his teeth into his arm hard enough to draw blood. The man shrieked, ripping his arm open on his teeth.
Brune spat the bloody chunk at him. “I’ve tasted better dog.”
When they left, he’d turned back to the taller boy. He took one look at Brunes’s bloody smile and gave him a wobbly one back.
They became friends after that. Niklas had it a little better than Brune. His family were servants in the palace, and he’d grown up there. Someone even taught him how to read. When he came of age, he had a choice to either join the army or hit the streets. He chose the army.
Nearly as tall as Brune, he was thin and fast. And just as strong, something Brune was reminded of when Niklas grabbed him by the arm and dragged him from the barracks. “They’ll take away your evening rations if you’re late,” he mumbled, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he led them through the narrow hallways.
The barracks were attached to the city walls. Built around the same time, they jutted out from the base of the walls like tumors. At some point, they might havelooked intimidating with their thick wooden doors and courtyards full of soldiers, but time had stripped away any prestige. Now it was just crumbling walls and wobbly hinges.
Their cohort filed out into the massive courtyard, lining up shoulder to shoulder for muster. They did this every morning, baking under the sun or freezing in the wind. Brune didn’t really know why—the doors were all locked from the outside. Where could they go in the night? But as long as he was guaranteed two meals and a roof, he’d happily stand in whatever line they wanted.
While they waited for the officers, he took a moment to look over at the rut cage. At some point, it used to be a cell. But now its thick iron bars were used for the alpha’s ruts. There was no privacy. It was an unspoken rule to never look while occupied. Never comment on what you heard or saw when someone was in the throes of their rut.
Brune shivered as he remembered presenting. It was later than normal. The army surgeon said it was probably because of malnutrition and his large size. His second month in the barracks, he’d woken hot and angry. Niklas had to wrestle him to the ground, avoiding his snapping jaws. He’d dragged him down to the rut room so that the officers wouldn’t punish him. He stayed with him until muster, talking to Brune through the bars and trying to soothe him with his neutral beta scent.
Rut was still unpleasant, and he was grateful he didn’t have to go through it as often as omegas did with their heat. A healthy alpha will only have a regular rut once or twice a year, unless they had an omega, then they would match their mate's heats.
Or at least that’s what his commander said when he realized Brune knew nothing about subgenders andfound himself responsible for giving him a lecture on it. He tried asking Niklas, but the man turned red and couldn’t form a coherent sentence for the rest of the afternoon.
The far door banged open, and every soldier sucked in their gut. Brune resisted the urge to laugh at fifty men inhaling at once. Officers had their own barracks, their rank designated by the marks on their bracers. He didn’t know their names. Officers switched in and out so frequently it was pointless to get to know them. They were all the same, really.
To be an officer, you had to be magic born. Most of them couldn’t do more than blow sparks, or perhaps light a candle on a good day, but magic was magic, and Kaledonea was desperate to build up their ranks. Niklas said he’d read that Kaledonea used to have battalions of mages. But now only a handful of babies were born every year with the ability to use magic. Most of them to the noble families. Brune had never even seen a noble, but Niklas said they bred themselves like horses—picking lines for the best magic.
Brune didn’t think that sounded very romantic, but the last time he said that one of his battalion mates threw a boot at his head and told him romance was for the well fed.
He stared ahead, not making eye contact with the officer who looked them over. What they were looking for, he didn’t know. As long as a soldier was standing, he passed. They weren’t even wearing any weapons. The lower ranks weren’t permitted to carry weapons outside of training.
While he enjoyed the physical exertion of using a sword, Brune wasn’t very skilled. With size came strength, a boon to be sure, but it also made him slow. He would be the first to admit he lacked the footwork needed tobe a great swordsman. Brune was clumsy. And while he was passable with a bow, he was certainly no Niklas. He didn’t think his tall friend had ever missed a target, and he was fast.
No, Brune was certainly not a standout amongst the ranks. Not that he wanted to be. As long as he did as he was told, he was fed with a roof over his head.
Just as quickly as they came, the officers dismissed them. Releasing their breaths, the men let their shoulders slump as they milled about the courtyard. The officers got their rations first, then they were allowed into the mess.
Like it always did, pockets of conversations cropped up. Mostly about things Brune didn’t care enough about to take part in—women, men, sex, food. Discussing food just made him hungry. When he was a kid, he could occasionally con a merchant into giving him scraps—burnt batches of bread or molding fruit. Those were the best days. Even now, he sometimes drifted off to the memory of the taste on his tongue. The army provided him with food but didn’t care if it was appetizing.
And as for sex, well, he couldn’t really contribute to that conversation. The only omegas he’d ever seen were far more interested in coin than his personality, and for a kid with nothing, it left little options. He supposed he’d seen some pretty betas; but one look at his shorn hair and uniform had them promptly looking away again. No amount of grooming or feeding could wipe the stink of Guttersnipes off him. Something in the eyes he’d heard. A kind of desperation.
Either way, it wasn’t until he’d presented that he even had a sexual urge. And between training and being squashed in with a bunch of other pent-up alphas and betas…it wasn’t exactly romantic.
“What about you, Brune?” a new man called out across the yard, his smile lecherous. “Tits or ass?”
“Nah, don’t bother with him. He’s only interested in meat that comes on a stick!”
Niklas winced. At the implications or the terrible word play, Brune could only guess. Not that he wanted to. He smiled and waved them off, moving with Niklas to a less crowded space.
“I was wondering,” Niklas said quietly, arms wrapped around himself. “You don’t, um, I mean I-I know I’m not the best at talking about that kind of…stuff. If you wanted to talk to them, you don’t have to stay here.” Niklas’s face was on fire, eyes pinned to the ground between their feet.
Brune chuckled, adjusting his breastplate. “What’s there to talk about? When would I ever be in a position to evenlookat an omega?”
Niklas shrugged, looking a little more relaxed now that he knew Brune wasn’t going to wax poetic about the finer features of an omega.
Even if by some miracle Brune found someone willing to overlook his background—or rather a lack of one—and his poor station in the army, what would he do with them? He could barely remember his parents, and what he did remember were flashes. Blurred memories that meant nothing. He was pretty sure they were dead. And as far as romance goes, his only example had been the old couple who shared an alley with him one time. The alpha would give her beta extra scraps, pretending her stomach hurt. She died, and the beta moved on.