The horn blew before dawn.
Its long, deep echo rolled through the fortress like thunder. Recruits scrambled out of their beds, armor clanking, hearts pounding. They all knew what it meant.
It was time.
The Black Forest trial.
By sunrise, nearly 3,000 recruits stood assembled in the southern courtyard—gear packed, weapons ready, nerves high.
Garran stood atop the stone steps, arms folded behind his back. His voice, as always, carried without effort.
"One year ago, you were just townsfolk. Farmers. Street rats. Nobodies."
He let the silence stretch.
"Today, you march into the Black Forest. With your group. One month. Survive. That is your final test. No reinforcements. No magic. No mercy."
Someone in the back swallowed loudly. A few shook.
"When you return alive…" Garran continued, his gaze hard, "you'll be official imperial reserves. Soldiers of the realm."
Adel stood beside Finley and Troy, his sword strapped tightly to his back.
He wasn't shaking.
But he wasn't calm either.
It wasn't fear.
It was focus.
The gates of Silver Spear groaned as they opened at dawn.
Mist rolled in from the west, blanketing the earth like a veil. Beyond the wall, a stretch of dark woodland awaited—quiet, unmoving, alive.
The Black Forest.
Adel stood among a group of fifty. Not recruits anymore—just boys and girls with weapons, hope, and maybe enough fear to keep them sharp.
Each unit was assigned a zone. Adel, Finley, Troy, and 47 others had been sent to Sector West-3, a heavily wooded region with rough terrain. No trails. No markers. Just instinct and grit.
Commander Garran stood atop the rampart, voice loud over the wind.
"This is your final trial."
He paced.
"Each group of fifty is on its own. No reinforcements. No help. You will survive, you will gather information, and you will not leave your dead behind."
He stopped and pointed toward the treeline.
"The forest is home to trolls. Goblin warbands. And beasts we do not name—monsters that grow stronger the deeper you go. Avoid them if you can. Fight if you must. Survive at all costs."
His voice dropped into something colder.
"When you return alive, you'll be official Imperial Reserves."
The trek began at midday. Sector West-3's unit moved like a long serpent through the trees—quiet, tense, alert. Finley walked near the rear, glancing over his shoulder every few steps. Troy stayed in the middle, casually twirling his axe, eyes half-lidded but ready. Adel walked point with five others, sword strapped tight to his back.
Every sound mattered. Every snap of a twig. Every gust of wind.
No one talked.
Not until they made camp at dusk.
A fire was lit—small, controlled, low enough not to draw attention.
"That forest feels like it's watching us," Finley said, sitting on a log. "No birds, no bugs, no tracks. Just silence."
"It's too quiet," a girl from another squad added. "And the trees... they're wrong. Like they grew around something they don't want us to see."
Troy threw a piece of meat on a stick into the flames. "They say trolls live in the outer forest," he said, voice light. "But goblins too. They're smarter than they look—set traps, build camps. Hunt in packs."
"Great," Finley muttered. "And what's deeper in?"
Adel answered softly, gaze fixed on the fire.
"Things even the soldiers don't understand. Beasts with no names. Shadows that change shape. There are reports of entire units disappearing—no bodies, no signs of struggle. Just gone."
Silence settled like ash.
"We survive," Adel said at last. "No matter what's out there. We stick close. We don't split."
"And if something finds us?" Troy asked.
Adel's eyes didn't waver. "We fight. Together."
The fire crackled low, casting flickering shadows on the twisted bark of ancient trees. The group of fifty had split into shifts—ten on watch, the rest trying to get what sleep they could.
Adel's eyes remained open, even as he lay on the cold ground. His hand rested near the hilt of his sword. Something felt wrong.
Too still.
Too quiet.
Then came the howl.
Low. Distant. Not wolf-like. Not anything that should exist.
Everyone woke at once. Finley sat up fast, spear in hand. Troy didn't speak—he was already standing, axe ready, scanning the dark with sharp eyes.
"What was that?" someone asked in a whisper.
The next sound was closer. Heavy. Like claws dragging across bark. Then a snap. A tree branch? A bone?
The outer perimeter lit torches. Adel rushed to the front.
Three shadows moved between the trees. Not goblins. Too tall. Too hunched.
Then one stepped into view.
A troll—but not like the stories.
Its skin was pale, like wet stone. Its eyes glowed faint green in the firelight. Long arms hung low, nearly dragging the ground. Its mouth opened unnaturally wide.
It screamed.
Everyone flinched.
"Form up!" a recruit shouted. "Frontline brace! Spears out!"
Adel, Finley, and Troy rushed forward. Others followed, trembling but determined.
The troll charged. And two more behind it.
The clash was brutal.
The first troll slammed into the spear wall, but it didn't slow down. Spears shattered. Men screamed. One was grabbed and thrown like a ragdoll into a tree.
Troy roared and leapt in, axe swinging. He struck its arm—deep, but not enough.
"Hit the joints!" Adel shouted, slashing at the creature's exposed knee. The sword sank in. The troll howled and dropped to one side.
Finley darted in, thrusting his spear into its neck.
It gurgled. Fell still.
The second troll hit from the side. Another recruit screamed as claws raked across her back. Blood sprayed.
Adel didn't think—he moved. Steel flashed. A clean slash across the leg, then another at the arm. He ducked under a wild swing and stabbed upward.
It stumbled, shrieking.
Troy finished it with a brutal swing to the head.
The third troll paused… then turned and fled into the dark.
Silence returned.
Bodies lay in the mud. Some groaning. Some still.
They had survived. But at a cost.
Five dead. Nine wounded. Morale, shaken.
Troy leaned against a tree, panting. "Hell of a first night, huh?"
Finley sat on the ground, staring at his bloodied hands.
Adel cleaned his blade in silence.
"We'll bury them at dawn," he said.
No one argued.
The forest whispered again. And they knew this was only the beginning.
The sky bled orange and gray as dawn broke over the Black Forest.
Five shallow graves marked the clearing.
Adel stood before one, his hands stained with dried blood. Not all of it was the troll's.
He didn't speak.
Didn't blink.
He just stared.
"Adel," Finley said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I wanna go home adel"
Adel didn't respond.
He remembered the scream. Not the troll's.
The recruit who got torn apart.
He had looked right at Adel. Reached for him. Mouth moving, but the words lost in the chaos.
And Adel had frozen.
Just for a moment.
But long enough.
He walked away from the graves. Past the camp. Past the edge of the torchlight.
Finley tried to follow, but Troy held him back. "Let him breathe, brother."
Deeper in the woods, Adel knelt by a stream. His reflection rippled.
His eyes looked… different.
Red from lack of sleep. Haunted.
"I'm scared" he muttered.
He tried to grip his sword—but his hand shook.
"I was trained. I'm ready. I…"
His voice cracked.
A branch snapped behind him.
He spun, sword half-drawn—only to find nothing.
His heart pounded.
"Get it together," he whispered.
But his hand wouldn't stop trembling.
And when he finally did fall asleep later that night, he dreamed of that moment again.
The screaming.
The reaching hand.
The blood.
And Adel couldn't move.