Chapter 187 - 185: Stairing.

Chapter 187: Chapter 185: Stairing.

It’s one of the worst days of Montrel’s life.

​First, there’s the rain. It’s one of the reasons men dread training at this time of year.

Running is a shit time to begin with, but throw in a track slick with mud and it’s enough to put even the most dedicated soldier in a rotten mood.

Even simple drills are that much harder when everything they touch is soaking wet, at times it’s impossible to see, and he hates the feeling of water in his boots.

The only upside is that pushing each other in the mud is entirely fair game, and is always hilarious, unless it’s you.

​Second, there’s the hangover.

​Gods, the hangover. He knew that sweet ale was a bad idea, gods he did, and he still went and drank it by the barrel, didn’t he? It had been too sweet last night, and this morning it’s making his stomach twist and turn in ways he never wants to experience again.

The running had made his aching head pound twice as hard, but at least it had given him something to focus on other than how much he wanted to puke his guts out.

At least a handful of other soldiers have already had to peel away from their laps to discreetly empty their stomaches somewhere out of sight of the Second.

Montrel’s determined not to join them, even though he’s pretty sure most of what’s dripping down his face now is more sweat than rain.

He feels disgusting, and while tomorrow he’d do it all over again in a heartbeat, today he wants nothing more than for someone to knock him out cold.

​And then, to top off a right damn peachy day, there’s Loac.

​It’s not even like he’s doing anything –he’s just there, leaning against a pillar out of the worst of the rain, staring out at them –but the fact that he’s there at all pisses him off.

And he’s not the only one affected by their audience. All around, it’s clear that the other soldiers –especially the ones who hadn’t heard about the showdown this morning and gotten up especially to watch their prince get his ass handed to him –are unsure what to make of this.

​It’s not every day of training that their First Captain is in attendance, after all.

​Montrel can’t remember the last time, in fact. If there even ever was a time.

​He sets up camp at the head of the steps some time whilst they run, and by the time they settle into drills the whispers and the sidelong looks have well and truly made themselves at home.

There’s always a level of tension here –when it came to their line of duty, that was inescapable –but today it’s heightened.

​Today, despite the rain, their shield walls are the tightest, and their drills are the crispest they’ve ever been.

As much of a hardass as Drogger is, he always gives credit where credit is, and today –excepting the odd poor soul that earns his ire –he seems positively impressed with their effort. He’s even there to witness Montrel gets the cleanest win over Jaga he ever has, and his own stellar performance rankles Montrel so much that he can’t even revel in the sharp, approving nod the Captain sends in his direction.

He wants to blame the mud, and the fury from the rain, or his body begging for him to end his suffering for his effort, but the fact is that they are in the presence of a truly incredible swordsman –one who had completely, and utterly outclassed him, and his pride demands that he, in no uncertain terms, prove his worth.

That he is stronger, better, more than that one defeat.

​From the expressions on his comrades’ faces, and the steel in their eyes, he’s not the only one who feels that way.

​They were at the same tournament. They saw what Loac Trent was capable of. And they don’t want to lose face now.

​He was fearsome, but fuck was he something else.

​But he’s not looking at them.

​" –Are you sure you didn’t do anything to him, Khobi?" Rogard wheezes, motionless in the mud where he’s fallen and clearly using it as an excuse to catch his breath.

No one calls him out for it.

They all do it, and anyone committed enough to literally wallow gets a pass. Not to mention the medics had been very clear that he was meant to take it easy on his ankle.

He probably could’ve milked another couple of days’ rest, but he’d been insistent, and it hadn’t given out yet, so they hadn’t reported him.

​It was obvious he was itching to fight Khobi again.

​After having his chance at the tournament torn from him, who could blame the kid?

"He’s just staring." For someone who had been tripped, dragged, or knocked off his ass no less than six times during their laps, to a chorus of laughter each time, he’s oddly chipper.

​Montrel –among others –find Rogard’s attitude towards someone creepily watching Khobi from a distance particularly rich.

​"Uh, isn’t that what you used to do?" he scoffs back, trying in vain to wipe the mud off his hands and having them come away dirtier than before.

If Rogard’s face wasn’t smeared with mud, he would’ve seen it redden.

​"That was different!"

​"Tell me exactly how that was different."

​"It just was!"

​It’s always fun watching Rogard splutter.

​"He’s not doing any harm," Jaga points out –ever a voice of reason in their echo chamber of chaos –although it’s clear that like the rest of them, he too finds Loac’s presence there disconcerting.

He takes each Montrel and Rogard by the hand and hauls them both to their feet to get them moving again before they arouse suspicion.

​"Yeah, yet," Montrel barks back, glaring over his shoulder in the direction of his prince. It must’ve been hours, but he’s barely moved.

"I don’t like it."