The medical examination room at Fort Harrow Military Academy was a grim little cave of sterility, dimly lit by a flickering overhead bulb that buzzed like a dying wasp. The air carried the sharp tang of antiseptic, barely masking the musty undertone of outdated equipment shoved into corners—rusted scales, cracked stethoscopes, and a cot that looked like it had seen more tears than a confessional. Into this uninspiring den stepped Lysander, a 13-year-old cadet who looked more like a cherub misplaced from a Renaissance painting than a soldier-in-training. His delicate features—porcelain skin, soft golden hair curling at the nape of his neck, and wide, nervous blue eyes—seemed at odds with the stiff, oversized uniform that hung off his slight frame. He fidgeted with the hem of his jacket, fingers trembling as he scanned the room.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the academy’s newest angel,” came a gruff voice from the corner, thick with dry amusement. Dr. Hector Varn, a middle-aged surgeon with a face like weathered leather and a penchant for cutting humor, leaned against the examination table, arms crossed over a stained white coat. His salt-and-pepper hair was cropped military-short, and his dark eyes gleamed with mischief as he sized up the boy. “You look like you’d faint at the sight of a needle, kid. Don’t tell me they’re recruiting choirboys now.”
Lysander’s cheeks pinked, but he squared his shoulders as best he could, his voice a soft stammer. “I—I’m tougher than I look, sir.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Dr. Varn drawled, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Let’s see if that holds up. Strip off that jacket, cadet. Let’s get this over with before you melt into a puddle of nerves.”
Lysander hesitated, his fingers fumbling with the brass buttons of his heavy outer uniform jacket. Dr. Varn watched with an arched brow, tapping a pen against his clipboard. “Come on, boy, the academy’s supposed to turn scrawny lads like you into men—or at least give it a damn good try. Can’t do that with you hiding under all that wool.”
With a shaky breath, Lysander shrugged off the jacket, letting it fall to the cold tile floor with a muted thud. Beneath, his thin, pale frame was barely hidden by a threadbare undershirt, his collarbones sharp under translucent skin. He hugged his arms to his chest, eyes darting to the floor as if it might offer some escape.
Dr. Varn stepped closer, his boots echoing in the small room. “Stand up straight, cadet. Let’s see what we’ve got to work with.” He circled Lysander like a hawk, muttering under his breath as he prodded at the boy’s bony shoulders and arms. “Scrawny twigs, these. You planning to lift a rifle or a feather duster with ‘em?”
“I—I’ll get stronger,” Lysander mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You’d better,” Varn shot back, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. “Boots off next. Let’s see if your legs are any more promising than the rest of you.”
Lysander bent down, struggling with the laces of his stiff leather boots, his face flaming as he felt the doctor’s gaze on him. Once the boots were off, he stood awkwardly in mismatched socks, toes curling against the icy floor. Dr. Varn knelt with a grunt, his calloused hands gripping Lysander’s calves with clinical precision, then moving up to his thighs. The boy squirmed, his breath hitching at the unfamiliar touch.
“Hold still, kid,” Varn muttered, though there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Not much to work with here either. You been skipping laps or just hiding under your bunk? Gotta build something worth inspecting if you’re gonna survive drills.”
Lysander’s ears burned. “I... I run! Sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” Varn echoed, snorting. “Well, ‘sometimes’ ain’t gonna cut it. Socks off now. Let’s see if your feet are as dainty as the rest of you.”
With trembling hands, Lysander peeled off his socks, revealing small, pale feet that seemed almost too fragile for the rough life of a cadet. Dr. Varn took one foot in his hands, poking at the arch and wiggling the toes with a mock-serious expression. “Well, damn, boy. You been marching or tiptoeing through life? These look like they’ve never seen a proper hike.”
Lysander bit his lip, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m... I’m working on it, sir.”
Varn grunted, his tone shifting as he scribbled notes on his clipboard. “Condition’s fair, but you’ve got a long way to go, cadet. Legs are weak, feet untested. We’ll get you there, even if I have to drag you through the mud myself.” He stood, towering over Lysander, who shivered in the cold room, half-dressed and feeling more exposed than ever.
Then came the moment Lysander had been dreading. Dr. Varn fixed him with a steely gaze, one eyebrow quirking upward as a smirk played on his lips. “Alright, cadet. Time for the last bit. Drop the briefs. Can’t skip the full check, no matter how much you blush.”
Lysander froze, his face turning crimson. His hands clutched at the waistband of his worn underwear, knuckles white. “I—I’m fine, sir. Really. You don’t need to... to check everything. I’m good. Promise.”
Dr. Varn crossed his arms, unimpressed, his smirk widening into a full grin. “Oh, come off it, kid. Modesty’s got no place in a military med exam. You think I haven’t seen it all? Drop ‘em before I do it for you—and trust me, I’m not half as gentle as you’d like.”
Lysander’s heart pounded, his eyes glued to the floor as he reluctantly slid the briefs down, letting them pool at his ankles. His small, underdeveloped member was exposed to the cold air, and he instinctively tried to cover himself with trembling hands, his mortification a living thing in the room.
“Hands at your sides, cadet,” Varn ordered, his tone firm but not unkind. He stepped closer, his touch professional yet unavoidably intimate as he began the delicate examination. Lysander’s breath came in shallow gasps, every second stretching into an eternity as the doctor worked in near-silence, only a low hum of concentration breaking the tension.
Just as Lysander thought he might die of embarrassment, the door swung open with a bang, and a booming voice filled the room. “How’s my little soldier holding up?” Colonel Aric, Lysander’s father, strode in, his broad frame filling the doorway. His sharp green eyes took in the scene—his half-naked son, red-faced and trembling, and the doctor mid-examination—and a storm cloud of awkwardness descended.
Dr. Varn straightened, unfazed, a sly grin creeping across his face as he met the colonel’s gaze. “Well, sir, he’s holding up about as well as a wet noodle in a hurricane. Care to join the inspection, or you just here to cheer him on?”
Lysander wished the floor would swallow him whole.
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