My Drill Sergeant is a Human Siege Engine

"No man is more unhappy than he who never faces adversity. For he is not permitted to prove himself."

— Seneca the Younger

———

The academy bells tolled six times, their bronze voices echoing off stone walls that had witnessed a thousand mornings just like this one. I rolled out of bed, muscles protesting the unfamiliar mattress, and began the careful ritual of becoming Kaelen Leone: third son, disappointment, harmless fool.

The mirror reflected back exactly what I needed it to—a boy who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, fumbling with his uniform buttons and wincing at the early hour. I made my tie crooked and left a single button misaligned. Perfect. The art of mediocrity requires attention to detail.

Lyra had already departed for the servant's quarters, leaving behind only the faintest trace of her presence: a single black hair on my pillow and a cup of tea still warm on the desk.

The western courtyard had packed earth bore the scars of countless training sessions, dark stains that might have been sweat or blood or both. Morning mist clung to the ground, lending the space an almost ethereal quality that would disappear the moment real violence began. The stone perimeter walls loomed like silent judges, waiting to witness today's failures and triumphs.

Twenty-five students from House Onyx stood in ragged formation, their breath visible in the cool air, shoulders squared with the arrogance of those born to power. Some stretched muscles already honed from years of private tutoring, while others checked their equipment. I positioned myself carefully—not at the back where a coward might hide, but not at the front where an eager fool might volunteer for extra punishment. Third row, slightly left of center. The perfect spot to be overlooked, unremarkable, forgettable. Just another face in the crowd of future heroes and villains, none of whom suspected the wolf in their midst.

Then he arrived.

Professor Gideon Blackthorne moved like a siege engine given human form, each step deliberate and weighted with the promise of violence. His bald scalp bore the crosshatch of old scars, and his beard was the color of iron left too long in winter rain. When he looked at us, those pale blue eyes didn't see students—they saw raw materials to be broken down and rebuilt.

"Form ranks!" His voice could have cracked stone. "Three lines, arm's length apart. Move like you have a purpose, or I'll give you one!"

We scrambled into position. I made sure to bump into Theron Ashworth—my target, the boy whose death I was here to prevent—offering a stammered apology that made him wince in secondhand embarrassment. Behind us, Marcus Vellum muttered something about military precision under his breath. Fen stood at the front, chin raised in challenge, while Mira Blackthorn tried to make herself invisible in the back row.

"Basic combat stance!" Blackthorne's command rang out across the courtyard. "Feet shoulder-width apart, dominant foot back, knees bent, guard up. If you don't know which foot is dominant, you're about to learn the hard way."

I fumbled into position, making my stance deliberately too wide, arms held at an awkward angle that screamed amateur. Around me, students adjusted their footing with varying degrees of competence. Fen's stance was perfect—predatory, balanced, ready to spring. Theron looked uncomfortable but determined, while Marcus seemed to be overthinking every muscle placement.

"Excuse me, Professor, where is Professor De Clare? We were told she would be—"

"Professor De Clare," Blackthorne interrupted, his pale eyes fixing on her with the intensity of a hawk spotting prey, "is handling a faculty dispute. Something about jurisdiction and teaching methodologies that's above your station, girl." He took a step forward, his massive frame casting a shadow that seemed to swallow half the formation. "I'll be overseeing your physical conditioning until she deems you worthy of her direct attention."

The way he said 'worthy' made it sound like a distant, impossible goal.

"Now," he continued, rolling his shoulders with the casual ease of a man who could break most of us in half, "Vellum! What the hell are you doing? Plant your feet like you mean to keep them!" Marcus stumbled, nearly falling as Blackthorne adjusted his stance with the gentle touch of a blacksmith's hammer.

"Von Richter! Stop trying to disappear into the ground! If you're going to die, at least make them work for it!" Mira's face went scarlet, but she straightened her spine.

He reached me, and I braced for impact. Those ice-chip eyes took in every detail of my pathetic form, cataloging each flaw with the expertise of a master craftsman examining defective goods.

"Leone!" The way he said my name made it sound like a curse. "Are you trying to court the training dummy or fight it? Fix your posture before I fix it for you."

I fumbled with my stance, overcorrecting in the wrong direction, and managed to look even more incompetent than before. "S-sorry, Professor. I'm still learning—"

"Learning requires a functioning brain. Jury's still out on whether you possess one." He moved on without another glance, dismissing me as thoroughly as if I'd ceased to exist.

Perfect. Exactly where I need to be—beneath notice, beneath contempt.

But then he reached Rhys Blackwood, and everything changed.

Rhys stood near the end of the line, his earth-brown hair falling across green eyes that held depths I recognized from the novel's descriptions. Sixteen years old, commoner-born, carrying the weight of a family's expectations on shoulders that seemed too narrow for the burden. His stance was wrong in all the technical ways—grip too loose, feet positioned incorrectly, shoulders just slightly too high.

But there was something else there. Something that made Blackthorne stop dead in his tracks.

The professor circled Rhys like a wolf examining prey, his pale eyes narrowing as he took in details invisible to the rest of us. "Grip is wrong," he said finally, his voice carrying a note I hadn't heard before. "Stance is too wide. But the balance... the intent..."

He stopped directly in front of Rhys, and for a moment the entire courtyard held its breath.

"You've seen a real fight, haven't you, boy?"

Rhys's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "My father worked the border villages, sir. Sometimes the monsters came too close to home."

Blackthorne nodded once. "Good. Real violence teaches lessons these practice yards can't. Remember that feeling when the soft nobles start preaching about honor and fair play."

The nod of approval lasted perhaps two seconds. But in an environment like this, where respect was rarer than dragon's gold, it might as well have been a royal decree.

And standing three spots to Rhys's left, I watched Vance Thorne's face darken like a storm cloud.