The new uniforms were worse and better than anyone expected. Kael stood at attention as bolts of black cloth unfolded under the morning light: tailored jackets cut close to the chest, silver piping running the seams like rivers of quicksilver, and a silver tassel that connected the shoulder flap to the chest in an imperial arc. The cap — stiff and flat with an engraved emblem — felt like history pressed down across the forehead.
"We look like walking proclamations," Riken said, trying to make his voice light as he adjusted the cap on his head.
"Or like a funeral," Brayden muttered, but even he tugged at the sleeves as if sizing up the weight.
The uniforms were ceremonial but built with small practicality: hidden pockets, reinforced seams at the shoulders, close fits to minimize snags. Halvren had insisted on that. "You will wear your pride," he told them, "but know how to move in it."
Squad One took the field in their own polished black, silver threading brighter with the sun. Tessa stood at their front like a carved statue — posture perfect, gaze steady. There was an undercurrent of rivalry that tastefully left cracks where humor could slip in, but everyone knew this was the final mock that would be used to evaluate compensatory readiness.
Vaelen and Halvren watched from the platform, and Vaelen's expression was unreadable. A line of officers stood to one side; Liora caught a glimpse of faces she'd only ever seen in passing: commanders, aides, the men who made decisions that bent lives.
Riken leaned over in the line and hissed in Liora's ear. "We show them a jester's grace, right?"
"Just don't draw the wrong kind of applause," Liora said, adjusting her silver tassel without breaking form.
The match began. Wooden blades sang against shields. Squad One moved with a polished, predictable efficiency; Squad Four moved with an improvisational rhythm now honed into effectiveness. The uniform didn't hinder them — it made their movements look sharper, more official. Liora's tail was tucked neatly beneath the hem, scales catching the light when she turned. Riken flashed a grin before he punched forward, a controlled thunderbolt of energy channeled into the tip of his strike — a small, bright arc that made contact with an opponent's helm and caused the man to stumble back hard enough to miss his step.
Vaelen did not shout a correction. He only inhaled.
Tessa matched them blow for blow. Her strikes were disciplined, and she found the squares and gaps like a cartographer. When she and Liora met with blades crossed, it was quieter than the rest, close and probing. Liora felt something like old rivalry and new respect pass between them.
At one point, the match stalled in a tangle. The light was dropping and a shadow fell across the yard as if on cue — an effect of the lateness of day, but to Vell, the idea felt like a door. He let a soft shroud of shadow pool behind an advancing squad member, blurring the man's outline long enough for Brayden to find his balance and counter. It wasn't full magic; it was an edge, a trick that bought a heartbeat.
Riken's thunderclap was used sparingly — a hit that crackled and shouted and did its work without spectacle. Liora's ice was used to guard rather than to wound: a short spear of frost dropped to the ground to catch a wheel of a practice cart, stopping its roll and giving the squad a chance to regroup. Each use had been calculated to avoid mortal harm but to show decisive effectiveness.
When the whistle blew and the match ended, the yard felt as though a storm had passed. Sweat and dust clung to uniforms. Officers murmured. Vaelen descended and approached the squads. Halvren's lips were set; his eyes were not unkind. Kael made a subtle, approving nod at the field.
Vaelen's voice carried. "Squad Four. You have integrated your drills, your tune, and your team into something functional. You've shown restraint and creativity. That was precisely what I wanted to see."
Tessa's squad collected themselves with professional quiet, but Liora noticed the faint brightness of acknowledgment in Tessa's eyes when she met Liora's gaze. The rivalry had not died; it had simply matured into something that might, one day, be brotherhood.
After dismissals and preparations, an officer approached Vaelen. They spoke in low tones for a few heartbeats, and then the officer looked over at where Squad Four stood and nodded once. Vaelen's jaw tightened, and Liora felt the old flutter of expectation that never left the pit of her stomach.
"We'll do the final inspection at dusk," Halvren said. "Wear the caps properly. Keep your tassels straight. And do not let the uniform teach you arrogance."
Riken smirked. "Noted. No arrogance. Only subtle domination."
They walked off the field with their heads high and their new uniforms gleaming. For the first time since Liora had signed on for the Legion, she felt as though the Empire had marked them not as expendable fodder but as something to be entrusted — and perhaps feared.