Crowe's Rebellion

Known simply as The College, this institution arose from a stark necessity: to train mortals and near-Fae as soldiers against the pure-Fae, who had deemed mortal lives unworthy. Established in response to this threat, The College became a symbol of resilience, preparing its students to defend humankind with unyielding skill and resolve.

– “Mortal History: Volume XVII” by Sr. Ange Arroyo

Bastian

It was easier to grip her by the neck — her hair was cropped too short to tangle in my fingers, leaving me with the smooth, vulnerable line of her throat. My hand settled there, just enough pressure to keep her still, and the way her breath caught as I pinned her against the cold stone wall was, admittedly, satisfying.

“Let… me…go,” she rasped, her voice ragged with defiance.

I smirked, slipping my knee between her legs to halt her attempts to wriggle free. Any inch of space she found, she’d exploit it, so I allowed her none.

“But you didn’t say please, Lochlan,” I murmured, my fingers tightening ever so slightly to remind her that, in this moment, she wasn’t going anywhere unless I allowed it.

“Choke… on iron,” she spat, eyes blazing even as she struggled against the hold. Fiercely defiant, as always.

Still hadn’t learned a damn thing from me.

Lochlan braced her weight for a moment, the slight shift of her hips signalling her intent, and in an instant, her knee jerked up toward my side. But I caught her leg with ease, shifting my stance to trap her limb with mine, forcing her back against the wall.

“That won’t work,” I said softly, amused at her resilience. “I’ve seen you try it enough times.”

Her eyes narrowed, the challenge in her gaze sharpening. “You think you’re untouchable?”

She feinted to her left, twisting sharply as if to break free, but I was quicker, blocking her with my shoulder and locking her in place.

Every move she made, I countered with a familiarity that came from hours of sparring, and her growing frustration was all the sweeter because of it.

“I’ve found and discarded every last one of your daggers,” I said, almost conversationally, tightening my grip as she squirmed against me. “Nearly broke your wrist in that last take-down. And now, here you are. Pinned against a wall. What else should I do?”

“Take… my… dignity,” she ground out.

I sighed, letting a flicker of mock disappointment cross my face. “The one thing you’ll never surrender.”

I released my hold, and she instantly doubled over, gasping for air as if she’d been drowning, taking in gulps like a waterfall’s rush.

“Do you always have to be such… an asshole?” she huffed, breath still catching.

“I could’ve killed you by now.”

She managed a weak, sarcastic laugh. “Fair point.”

I cocked my head, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. “So, what am I, then?”

She gave me a hard look, the fire in her gaze undiminished despite her defeat. “Still an asshole. Just not the murdering kind.”

I shrugged, stepping back to let her gather herself. “If I had to, I would. But I’d rather not kill someone on my side.”

It had only been two weeks since Evelina Lochlan had joined my ranks, but already she’d managed to keep me on my toes, her refusal to submit drawing my attention more sharply than I cared to admit. She’d fight until she was breathless, cornered, and out of options — and somehow still make me work for every inch.

And she had already found other ways to keep me paying attention to her. Not that she meant to, of course.

Someone made a comment about her long hair that first day, so she took a blade to it the next, chopping it short. After a sparring match, someone told her that her daggers were far too dull to do any real damage. By the third morning, her hands were raw from sharpening her blades against stone.

She took advice to the point of pain — except, it seemed, when it came to fighting me. She took the pain, sure, but none of the training I offered. I’d share a few pointers on technique, suggest a shift in stance or a way to minimize strain, but she’d only square her shoulders, give me that look of hers, and ignore it completely. She’d do it on her own terms, especially if I was the one dishing out advice.

And somehow, that only made her more impressive.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it — at least at first. The way she reacted made it entertaining: the sharp retorts, the sparks of defiance in her eyes, the subtle curl of her lip when she thought I was being insufferable.

But lately? Lately, her defiance wasn’t just amusing — it was something else entirely. Hell, it was almost… arousing. The woman didn’t just fight back. She challenged me.

Lochlan was one of eight dragged in from the wreckages of Brighthael and Clarwatch, towns that the Reckoning War had turned to ruin within a month. She’d come in unconscious, hadn’t woken for three days. And when she did, she didn’t shed a single tear.

The healers noticed, of course. How could they not? Here was a woman who had seen her entire world turned to rubble, who learned she was the only survivor of her town, and didn’t so much as blink.

She adapted faster than most of the first-year recruits. Quicker than anyone I’d seen, she figured out the one truth that ruled this place: empathy had no currency here. No one cared if you were orphaned, widowed, or had lost a child. Because we all fucking had.

All that I had left were my bones, tattooed skin, and scars.

“Commander Crowe, the General wants to see you,” Instructor Karomi called from across the sparring arena.

Oh, right. And my goddamn father.

“’Til next time,” I said to Lochlan with a smirk. “Try to be more of a challenge.”

“Maybe try to actuallyteachme something next time,” she shot back.

I didn’t bother turning around. “Where’s the fun in that?” I called over my shoulder, my voice deliberately lazy. I didn’t need to look to know she’d have some kind of smart-ass response. Sure enough, a quick flick of my second sight confirmed it: her middle finger shot up high, bold as ever, earning a ripple of low chuckles from the recruits watching.

I rolled my eyes, and let them do what no one else’s could — swivel in their sockets until my field of vision tunnelled backward. Past the grey haze of brain tissue, through my skull, the cropped edge of my dark hair framing the edges of the image like a moving portrait. The view locked onto her mutinous expression as she stuck her tongue out at my retreating back.

It’s probably what’s kept me alive all these years — seeing things others couldn’t, avoiding literal back-stabs.

Figuratively? My eyes couldn’t help much there.

I wove through a group of nervous first-years trying to get their bearings. One of them looked like he was about to ask me something, but his friend pointed to the wicked scar curling up my jawline, and whatever courage he’d had vanished.

They scattered, panic-stricken, and I couldn’t help but chortle.

Reaching the General’s office, I paused just outside the heavy oak door, as I always did, and rapped my knuckles against it twice. Sharp, deliberate. No matter how strained our relationship, he was the General, and I knew better than to barge in unannounced.

“Enter,” came the clipped voice from within.

Pushing the door open, I stepped inside, letting it click shut behind me. “Reporting for… whatever you need,” I said, keeping my tone neutral as I forced down the bitterness that surfaced every time I had to call my own father General.

General Alistair Crowe — my father. His name carried the weight of a legend, the kind of name that conjured images of a towering, shadowy figure forged in war. But the reality couldn’t have been more different. His sleek blond hair, meticulously combed back, and his sharp, clean uniform made him look like he’d stepped out of sunlight, a picture-perfect officer entirely out of place in the gritty, blood-soaked world he commanded.

Without looking up from the papers on his desk, he waved me over. “Sebastian, have a drink with me.”

I nodded, grateful I could at least get a drink from this conversation. Thanks to last month’s attacks, alcohol was scarce unless you had a stash hidden away in the dorms.

My father reached for a bottle on the corner of his desk, its amber contents catching the light as he poured two glasses. The rings on his fingers glinted as he handed one to me.“To all the soldiers we’ve lost,” he said, raising his glass.

I sniffed the drink. One whiff was enough to tell me it was strong enough to knock over a mule — or at least leave one stumbling. “Vod-key?” I asked, frowning.

“They’re mixing it now,” he said with a grimace. “It’s… not great.”

“So whatever you’re about to say is worth forcing this down,” I muttered, bracing myself as I raised the glass and took a sip.

The General’s sharp blue eyes narrowed, studying me over the rim of his own drink. “We lost two dozen soldiers in yesterday’s ambush,” he said finally. “We’ll hold the formal farewell tomorrow morning.” He set the glass down, the clink of it against the desk unnervingly steady. “But we may need to push the covert mission up — two weeks from now.”

I swallowed half the drink in one go, ignoring the burn as it went down. The warmth in my chest did nothing to soften the weight of his words. He knew he was asking for too damn much.

But he also knew I didn’t have the luxury of saying no.

“Any of the new recruits show promise?” he pressed.

I shrugged. “They’re still reeling from losses, every one of them. Except…”

My father leaned forward, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm on his desk. “Out with it.”

I hesitated. Based on her sparring, she wasn’t ready. But I knew he’d get it out of me either way.

“Evelina Lochlan,” I finally replied. I couldn’t deny her tenacity — the way she’d come back again and again, regardless of how many times I’d pinned her down or disarmed her.

He tossed back his drink, sighing with satisfaction. “She goes by Evie, doesn’t she?”

“I call her Lochlan,” I replied, brushing it off.

His brow arched, mirroring my own. It was the only feature we shared. I’d inherited my mother’s dark hair and sharper features; sometimes I wondered if he hated me for it.

“Don’t get attached,” he warned, his voice clipped.

I scoffed. “I’m calling her by her last name. How the hell is that attached?”

He gave me a look, as if I were missing something obvious. “Because everyoneelsecalls her Evie.”

Maybe he had a point. Because Lochlan — Evie — fascinated me in a way few others did.

“Her background’s too clean,” he admitted. “What do you know about her?”

“Not enough,” I replied. “She’s refused any private lessons. Takes extra history, though.”

“So she doesn’t repeat mistakes made on the battlefield?”

“I can find out.”

“Good man.” He nodded approvingly. “I don’t like bringing first-years on missions, but we need more with… covert talents.”

That phrase again. His favourite euphemism for me.

It was his way of sidestepping the truth—the truth he hated acknowledging. My “covert talents” were a byproduct of my near-Fae lineage, something that didn’t come from his side of the family. Crowes were all human, all mortal. My abilities? Those were my mother’s legacy.

But he’d rarely, if ever, say the words “near-Fae” aloud, especially not now. Not when we were twelve years into a full-scale war with the Fae — twelve years of bloodshed, ruin, and desperation, all because the Fae had decided mortals and near-Fae alike were corrupting their world and needed to be wiped out.

It had become twelve years of sheer luck and human desperation.

“Should I ask, tell, or let her figure out where we’re going the day of?” I asked, before gunning the rest of the drink down.

“Never ask,” my father replied, sliding seamlessly into full-on General mode. His voice was sharp, decisive. “Tell her — a week in advance, minimum. She’ll need time to get her bearings. Any decent recruit would.”

“Aye, sir,” I said, setting the glass down on his desk. “Thanks for the drink.”

“I’d say ‘anytime,’” he muttered, eyeing the nearly empty bottle, “but who knows when we’ll get another shipment.”

I nodded and turned to leave. But then, with that odd sixth sense of mine, I saw it before I even heard him move — the subtle shift of his weight, the way his hand dragged through his meticulously combed hair.

A tell. He was holding something back.

“Sebastian?”

“Hmm?”

I didn’t turn, my hand already on the door.

“Don’t die.”

Those two words were the closest thing to “I love you” that existed in this place.

The last time I’d actually heard those words spoken aloud?

Twelve years ago. The day my mother left me.

I don’t believe in those words anymore. Not from anyone.

“Thanks, sir,” I said flatly, and stepped out of his office without another glance.