The carriage ground to a halt just outside Caldith Hold's imposing Giant's Gate. Unlike Thalara, civilian carriages weren't permitted inside the fortress walls. They'd stopped at a designated wooden shelter near the gate, currently empty except for their transport and a sign swinging lazily from rusted chains – most carriages had departed earlier.
Corvus stumbled out, blinking against the harsh daylight. Grogginess clung to him like a second skin after only a few hours of cramped, uncomfortable sleep. Before he could fully orient himself, Kiera bounded out behind him, stretching like a cat awakening. Her jagged teeth flashed in a wide, unnervingly eager grin. She grabbed his arm with surprising strength.
"C'mon, slowpoke! Adventure awaits!" she declared, practically dragging him towards the gate.
The entrance was guarded by two hulking figures encased in plate armor so thick they resembled moving fortresses. Their halberds, taller than their own imposing frames, crossed with a resonating clang as Kiera approached.
"HALT!"
The command boomed, echoing off the stone. Kiera skidded to a stop, releasing Corvus. He took a grateful breath, straightening his duster collar and forcing his posture upright.
Beside the armored giants, a smaller man emerged. His scalp showed through thinning white hair, and his face was etched with lines of permanent disapproval, looking even sterner than the knights.
"PRESENT YOUR PAPERS AND APPROACH IN AN ORDERLY MANNER!" he bellowed, his voice carrying the force of a battering ram.
Corvus flinched, clapping a hand over one ear. "Damn, does he practice that?" he muttered under his breath.
Kiera snorted, hand theatrically covering her mouth but her voice carrying perfectly. "Loud ones usually compensate for... other shortcomings." The white-haired officer's eye twitched violently.
"See you inside, buddy!" Kiera chirped, waving her parchment. She presented it. The officer scrutinized it, his expression souring further before he gave a curt jerk of his head. She sauntered past the halberds and vanished into the shadowed gateway.
Buddy? Since when? Corvus thought, bewildered.
He stepped forward, presenting the paper Captain Cesara had given him. The officer scanned it, nostrils flaring slightly. "Clearance granted. However," he stated, pointing a rigid finger at the sheathed blades at Corvus's hip, "you will surrender your weapons here. Only active military personnel bear arms within Caldith Hold."
Corvus stiffened. " I sail tomorrow. I need those blades."
"Your weapons will be delivered to your assigned quarters by nightfall. This is policy. Non-negotiable." The man stood ramrod straight, arms clasped behind his back, offering no opening for argument.
Corvus gritted his teeth. Tch. Reluctantly, he unbuckled the belt holding his precious aether-blades. The weight leaving his hip felt like losing a limb. He handed them over.
The officer took them, his grip surprisingly careful despite his demeanor, and handed Corvus a small, smooth wooden token engraved with the number 05. "Proceed."
Inside Caldith Hold, the contrast with Thalara was jarring. Gone was any hint of opulence or civilian life. The fortress was a maze of stark, symmetrical buildings built from unyielding grey stone. Streets were narrow, barely wide enough for two to pass comfortably. Everywhere Corvus looked, soldiers moved with purpose: drilling in courtyards, marching in patrols, maintaining grim-faced vigilance. The few shops visible catered purely to war – blacksmiths ringing with hammer blows, apothecaries smelling sharply of herbs and chemicals.
Consulting his paper, Corvus saw his destination: Training Hall 02. Following the sparse, utilitarian signs carved into stone walls, it took him twenty minutes of navigating the claustrophobic streets to find it.
The hall was a massive, square structure, its high roof supported by visible steel beams reinforcing the thick stone walls. A deep, jagged scar marred one section of the outer wall – the unmistakable mark of a violent breach, long repaired but never erased.
Another document check at the heavy doors, and Corvus stepped inside.
Instantly, the cacophony assaulted him: the sharp clang of steel on steel, grunts of effort, shouted commands. The central space was a vast rectangle, cleared for combat. About twenty figures sparred within. Some wore the drab greens and greys of the Kaaraore military; others, like Corvus, were clad in varied gear – his fellow expedition recruits.
Spotting Kiera already circling the edge of the sparring area like a restless predator, clearly seeking a victim, Corvus swiftly averted his gaze. Not today. He headed for the relative sanctuary of benches lining one wall, where a handful of others observed.
Leaning against the cold stone, Corvus began assessing the recruits. His eyes drifted to the figure sprawled behind the bench he stood near – a young man lying flat on the floor, a dark cloth pulled over his eyes, seemingly asleep amidst the din.
"Everyone thinks sharpening blades or trading blows is the key before a journey like this," a calm voice murmured from the floor. The man lifted the edge of the cloth, revealing sharp green eyes and short, ashen hair. He offered a lazy smile. "But sleep? Sleep is the true whetstone. Undervalued."
Corvus raised an eyebrow. "Restlessness tends to win out the day before sailing into the unknown."
The man sat up smoothly. "Only if you lack confidence in your self" He extended a hand. "Mikel. From Waylend Fields."
Corvus clasped it. The grip was firm, calloused, but relaxed. "Corvus Fuller. Thalara."
Mikel's smile widened. "Ah. Was wondering who trailed the faint scent of salt and despair. Should have guessed."
Corvus gave a half-shrug. "Nah. That'd be the other Thalaran."
"The loud one with the fists?" Mikel asked, glancing towards Kiera's spiked crimson hair bobbing near the sparring circle.
Before Corvus could confirm, a flicker of movement registered in his peripheral vision. Instinct screamed. He ducked – not a moment too soon.
CRUNCH!
Something heavy and fast slammed into the stone wall precisely where his head had been a fraction of a second earlier. Dust exploded in a choking cloud. Fragments of stone pattered onto the bench and floor. A deep, spider-webbed crack now marred the reinforced wall.
Silence fell abruptly across the training hall, all eyes snapping towards the impact point and the figure who had narrowly avoided being brained. Corvus slowly straightened, his gaze locking onto the source of the projectile – and the figure standing at the edge of the sparring area, hand still outstretched from the throw, a look of cold appraisal on their face