The rain had ended sometime in the night, but the parade ground was still damp when the morning horn sounded. The recruits shuffled into line, boots squelching in the softened dirt, steam rising from the ground as the first weak rays of sun broke through the cloud cover. Squad Four stood shoulder to shoulder, each of them still shaking the stiffness from their limbs after the past week's grueling patrols.
"Instructors to the front!" someone called.
Halvren strode across the ground, cloak trailing behind him. Beside him walked Kael, posture sharp, eyes scanning the gathered recruits with the same precision he might use to appraise a blade. A folding table had been set up at the front, and on it was a broad, leather-backed map. Its surface gleamed faintly with protective oil, edges weighted down with metal clamps to keep the wind from playing with it.
"Eyes front," Halvren said, voice carrying easily over the mutters of conversation. "You've been stomping around the mud without knowing much about the land you're defending. That ends today. Consider this your introduction to the continent you live on ... Highmoor."
He stepped aside so everyone could see the map.
Highmoor was painted in deep earth tones. Green swaths marked forests and plains; jagged brown lines cut through the middle where mountain ranges lay like scars; pale yellow patches represented the sunbaked southlands. Small, stylized banners indicated the major realms, their colors bright against the muted backdrop.
Kael tapped the largest banner, a crimson-and-gold emblem in the center of the map. "This is the Tarkin Empire — your home, your paymaster, and the reason you're not already something's dinner in the Beast Glades or dead in the slums. You're standing in one of the eastern border provinces. Our land stretches from the northern Frostline Hills to the southern Mirren Coast. We hold the heart of Highmoor, which means trade runs through us — and so do the problems."
He dragged a calloused finger eastward until it landed on a blotch of dark green. "This is the Beast Glades. I've said it before, I'll say it again: you don't wander in here unless you've got orders, a death wish, or both. Monsters are plentiful. Beasts — the thinking kind — rarer but far more dangerous. Most of you have already had the fortune of seeing just how close this place lies to our roads."
Riken shifted, murmuring under his breath, "Fortune's one word for it."
Halvren's eyes flicked over, catching the comment, but he let it slide. Instead, he moved Kael's hand further south, to a band of pale yellow. "Here, the Dunwaste Expanse. Dry, brutal country, full of scattered settlements and nomadic traders. No empire, no central law. Sometimes they sell us grain in dry years; sometimes they raid our caravans. You'll hear them called a land of knives and lies."
To the north, Kael rapped a blue-silver banner. "This is the Magistrate Kingdom of Velbraith — not a monarchy in the usual sense. Their rulers are elected from the ranks of their highest mages. They've got more spellcasters per street than we have in the entire Imperial Academy. They keep to themselves unless they think magic's being 'misused'… which usually means they show up where they're not wanted."
Liora's gaze lingered on the neat border lines Velbraith had drawn on the map — as if magic could be contained with ink.
Halvren shifted the focus to the west, where a wide, pale-green sweep was dotted with small, triangular marks. "Out here are the Beastlands. Not a nation, not even truly a territory. Roaming beastmen tribes claim it, though claiming might be too strong a word. They move with the herds, fight each other, and occasionally raid our far western borders. They're dangerous in their own way, but politics keeps the Emperor from ordering a full sweep. Trade is possible if you're brave and lucky — or if you smell like one of them."
A faint chuckle rippled through the recruits. Riken leaned toward Brayden and muttered something that earned him an elbow in the ribs.
"And finally," Kael said, tracing a line along the far north coast, "the Frostmark Holds. Independent city-states bound together by defense pacts. They don't have the numbers to fight wars alone, but they're stubborn, and their fleets are unmatched in cold seas. We trade timber and steel for their fish and ice harvests."
Halvren straightened. "You'll notice most of these lands aren't exactly friends. They're not enemies either — at least, not officially. Borders here aren't just lines on a map. They're the edges of where one way of life meets another. And edges are where the blood spills first."
He stepped back, folding his arms. "This is the ground you stand on. These are the people you might fight beside or against. Forget the names, and you'll be as blind as a man without eyes."
The briefing ended with a sharp clap of his hands. "Break."
The squads dissolved into looser groups, the stiffness of formality replaced by murmured conversation. Riken exhaled loudly, tipping his head toward the map as if it might bite him. "So, we've got magic zealots, sand rats, and fishmongers who like the cold. Great neighbors."
Brayden smirked. "Don't forget the beast men. Imagine the smell if they camped upwind."
Danya, silent through most of the talk, finally spoke. "Borders mean fighting. If they're telling us this much now, it's because something's coming."
"Paranoid," Riken replied, but his tone lacked conviction. He glanced toward Liora. "What do you think?"
She was still looking at the map, tracing invisible lines between the territories. "I think…" she hesitated, "I think the edges are closer than they want us to believe."
That earned her a few raised brows, but before anyone could press, Kael's voice cracked across the field. "Squad Four! Since you've all got breath to gossip, you've got breath to run. Two laps — and fix your spacing, unless you enjoy tripping over each other!"
Riken groaned but moved first, jogging into motion. "See? This is why I hate knowing things. It makes him notice me."
Brayden tripped over his own boot lace before the second turn, and the chorus of laughter that followed carried them through the first lap. Even Liora found herself smiling despite the heavy thoughts still lingering.
Behind them, the map lay under its clamps, the inked borders stark against the painted terrain and somewhere far east, past the Beast Glades, a birdlike gaze turned toward the west.