The morning air was cold enough to sting. It bit at bare skin and crawled beneath thin shirts, the kind that never quite dried after rain. The training yard smelled of iron and ash, of sweat soaked deep into the dirt. Rows of children stood in silence, motionless as posts, their breath fogging in the pale light.
Lucen stood among them, feet pressed into the mud, hands locked behind his back. He'd long stopped shivering. The cold wasn't new — it was a part of the air here, like the smoke or the screaming.
Somewhere behind him, a chain clinked. A whip cracked once, sharp and hollow, the sound carrying through the morning haze. No one moved. The instructors liked silence. They said it taught obedience.
Lucen didn't look up when they passed between the rows. He'd learned not to. A glance, even a twitch of the eye, was enough to draw attention — and attention meant pain.
The instructors were dressed in black coats, their faces hidden beneath masks of steel mesh and soot. Only their eyes were visible, flat and colorless, like things carved from glass.
The day usually began with drills. Wooden spears, sand-filled packs, shouting until throats burned raw. But today, something was wrong.
The overseer was already in the yard.
Lucen saw his shadow first — long, thin, cutting through the fog like a blade. He always walked slowly, deliberately, the way a predator circles something already bleeding. The children straightened, every one of them, as his boots struck the mud with measured rhythm.
Two empty spaces broke the front line.
Everyone saw them. No one dared to look directly at them.
"Two gone," the overseer said at last. His voice was soft, almost conversational. "Found before dawn. The dogs did their work."
He stopped, letting the silence stretch until the cold itself seemed to tighten around them. Then:
"Formation three."
The command cracked through the air like a gunshot.
Children moved all at once — too small, too weak, too scared — tripping into lines until the field was filled with them. Lucen didn't move until the boy beside him stumbled. He caught his arm, steadying him, then straightened again, every motion controlled, careful, invisible.
"Eyes forward."
He obeyed. They all did.
The overseer's boots sank into the mud as he walked. "Two of our soldiers thought they could run," he said, tone still light, almost mocking. "We found them before dawn. They begged, of course. They always do."
He stopped again. Turned.
His shadow slid across the ground and fell over Lucen's feet.
"Funny thing," the overseer said. "You were on watch last night, weren't you?"
Lucen didn't lift his head. "Yes, sir."
"And you saw nothing?"
"No, sir."
The overseer tilted his head, studying him. "Then either you're blind, or you're lying. Which is it?"
Lucen's throat tightened. His fingers dug into his palms. "I didn't see them leave."
"Didn't see," the overseer repeated, pacing behind him now. "Or didn't stop them?"
The yard was so silent it felt alive. Children held their breath. The sound of wind over the fence crept between them, soft as whispering ghosts.
Lucen said nothing.
He had seen the two run. Seen their faces streaked with soot, their bodies pressed flat against the mud as they crawled beneath the fence. He'd looked away — not out of fear, but because some part of him refused to watch hope die.
The first strike came without warning.
The baton cracked against his shoulder, the sound loud enough to startle the smaller kids into flinching. Pain flared, sharp and white. Lucen swayed but stayed upright.
The overseer's voice remained calm. "Again."
Another instructor stepped forward, eyes blank behind his mask, and struck. The second hit drove air from Lucen's lungs, but he didn't fall.
"Hold formation," the overseer said softly. "Watch."
The younger ones trembled. A few cried silently, but no one looked away. They all watched because if they didn't, the overseer would make them.
Lucen had learned to take pain quietly. Screams were currency here — and the instructors loved to collect.
The third strike sent him to his knees. Mud splashed his face. He stayed down for a breath, tasting iron, before forcing himself upright again.
"On your feet," the overseer hissed.
Lucen obeyed. His legs shook, but he stood.
The mark on his arm — the small sigil burned into his flesh years ago — throbbed faintly under the skin, glowing like an ember deep beneath ash. The god inside him stirred, just enough to remind him it was still there.
The overseer stepped close, breath heavy with smoke. "See that?" he said to the others. "Like wolves. You break the alpha, the rest remember their place."
He circled Lucen, boots leaving wet prints. "Tell me, boy," he said at last, quiet enough that only Lucen could hear, "were they worth dying for?"
Lucen met his gaze for the first time. His eyes were a strange color — amber shot through with faint red light, like sunlight bleeding through smoke. "Yes, sir," he said.
For a moment, the overseer said nothing. Then he smiled behind the mask. "Then you'll wish you'd gone with them."
He turned away. "Resume drills."
The children obeyed, though none spoke. Spears slammed against the dirt. Commands echoed, harsher now, sharper. Every motion hurt. Every breath was a fight.
Lucen's body screamed, but his mind had already drifted elsewhere — to the two who had run, to the faint hope they'd made it past the dogs, past the lights, past the screaming. He wondered what it would feel like to breathe without fear, to feel the wind not as punishment but freedom.
By noon, his shirt stuck to his back, soaked in blood and sweat. His arms burned with exhaustion. When the overseer finally called for rest, Lucen didn't move.
Kairen, the pale-haired boy beside him, slid down onto the mud. His voice was hoarse when he whispered, "Why'd you do it? You knew they'd come for you."
Lucen's jaw tightened. "Someone had to make it out."
Kairen looked away. "They'll kill you next time."
Lucen didn't answer. His eyes drifted to the far fence — the same one he'd watched the others crawl beneath. The light caught on the wires, gleaming like fire in the haze.
The mark under his skin pulsed once, faint but alive.
"They can't afford to," he murmured.
———
The next morning, the bells rang before dawn.
No one spoke at first. The sound was different this time — not the harsh rhythm of drills, but something slower, deeper, echoing from the tower at the edge of camp. It rolled through the barracks like thunder, shaking the thin walls and the children inside.
Lucen was already awake when it began. He sat on his cot, boots unlaced, staring at the mark beneath his sleeve. The faint pulse had faded overnight, leaving only the ache — that dull reminder of the power chained inside him.
When the door burst open, cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of rain and smoke.
"Up," an instructor barked. "All of you. Formation by the gate."
Kairen blinked sleep from his eyes, confusion flickering across his face. "It's not drill day," he whispered.
Lucen didn't answer. He'd learned long ago that questions only brought pain.
They lined up outside in the half-light. Rain fell in a thin drizzle, whispering against the mud. Beyond the fence, the horizon burned faintly — a flicker of red through the fog that wasn't dawn. It was fire.
The overseer stood near the transport wagons, coat buttoned high, gloves spotless despite the mud. His mask gleamed wet with rain. Soldiers moved behind him, loading crates, checking weapons. Real soldiers — not the hollow-eyed men who trained them, but uniformed enforcers of the Coil's patron army.
Lucen felt it then — the tension in the air. Something was different. The instructors weren't shouting. They were quiet. Focused. Almost reverent.
The overseer's voice cut through the drizzle. "You've trained for six years," he said. "Today, you'll earn the reason."
No one moved.
He gestured to the wagons. "You're being deployed. A border skirmish near the southern ridge. You'll serve as support to the legion's third line. Consider it an opportunity to prove your worth."
A murmur rippled through the ranks — fear disguised as breath.
The younger ones didn't understand, not really. The older ones did.
Lucen's stomach tightened. He'd heard whispers about the ridges — places where demons still crawled from cracks in the earth, remnants of the old wars.
The kind of battle that devoured even grown men.
Kairen leaned close. "They're sending us to die."
Lucen said nothing. His jaw clenched until it hurt.
The overseer began walking down the line, inspecting them. "No crying," he said softly, almost gently. "No hesitation. You're soldiers of the Coil now. Weapons don't fear the hand that wields them."
He stopped in front of Lucen, gloved fingers brushing a speck of mud from his sleeve. "And you, little wolf," he said. "You'll remind them what happens to broken tools."
Lucen didn't respond. The man smiled behind his mask and moved on.
By sunrise, the wagons rolled out. The camp disappeared behind them, swallowed by mist and distance. The air grew colder, heavier. Every jolt of the wheels sent mud splashing against the boards. The children huddled close for warmth, clutching dull blades and dented shields.
Some prayed under their breath.
Some stared blankly, already gone inside themselves.
Kairen's hand trembled against his knee. "Lucen," he murmured. "If we—"
"We'll survive," Lucen said, too fast. "All of us."
But the words sounded foreign, like something borrowed from another life.
By midday, thunder rolled across the hills. Except it wasn't thunder.
The first explosions shook the ground as they neared the ridge. Shouts echoed down the trail — men barking orders, the clash of metal on metal. Smoke coiled upward from the valley below, thick and black.
Lucen peered through the slats in the wagon. What he saw didn't look like war. It looked like hell.
Bodies lay half-buried in the mud, faces pale under falling rain. Horses screamed somewhere beyond the ridge.
And through the smoke, shadows moved — not human, not entirely solid. Crawling things with too many limbs, their movements jerky and wrong, like broken puppets still trying to dance.
Lucen's breath caught. The stories had been true.
The wagon stopped. Orders were shouted. The doors were thrown open.
"In position!" an officer yelled. "Push forward with the legion's flank!"
The children stumbled out into the mud. The air was thick with the stench of blood and rot. The sky glowed orange from fires still burning on the ridge.
Lucen forced his legs to move. The sword they'd given him felt too heavy, his fingers numb from cold. Kairen stumbled beside him, muttering prayers to gods that had never answered them.
"Stay low," Lucen said. "Don't break line."
They advanced in small groups — twenty children, each with a single instructor shadowing them from behind, whip in hand to keep them moving.
When the first demon broke through the fog, the line wavered.
It moved like smoke, its form shifting — a body made of claws and ash, a face that wasn't a face at all.
One of the younger boys froze. The thing hit him first. The scream that followed didn't sound human.
Lucen's world narrowed. Sound dimmed. Instinct — not training — took over. He shoved Kairen aside and swung, steel cutting through the creature's form. It burst into smoke, reforming an instant later.
"Run!" someone shouted. "Run, damn you!"
But there was nowhere to run.
The older soldiers pushed forward, spells lighting the sky — flashes of blue and gold tearing through the fog. Each explosion illuminated the chaos for a heartbeat — men and demons, children and corpses, all swallowed again by the dark.
Lucen could barely see through the rain. His arms ached. His legs felt carved from stone.
Still, he moved. Still, he fought.
Not because he believed he'd win — but because if he stopped, the others would fall too.
By nightfall, the ridge was silent again.
The Coil's banners still stood. Barely.
The children who remained were fewer now — faces hollow, eyes wide and unblinking.
Lucen sat in the mud, sword still in his hand, staring at the horizon.
The overseer walked among the bodies, his boots clean even in the muck. He stopped when he reached Lucen.
"Efficient," he said softly. "The rest… will be replaced."
Lucen didn't answer. His voice was gone. His hands shook, but not from fear.
The overseer leaned close. "You see now, little wolf? This is the world you serve. The strong live. The weak feed the ground."
He straightened, turned away. " ok back to the wagon."
Lucen looked at what was left of his unit — Kairen limping, another boy half-conscious, the youngest gone completely.
He rose on unsteady legs. The mark beneath his sleeve pulsed once, faint and hot, like something deep within him was waking — something that would not forget.
The wagon rocked with the rhythm of tired horses.
Every creak in the wood seemed louder in the silence, every rattle of the chains a reminder of what they'd left behind. The air inside was thick and sour — sweat, wet straw, and the faint rot of old blood. No one spoke. The children had learned long ago that silence was safer than sound.
The wagons creaked over the wet ground, carrying what was left of them — bodies bundled in tarps, limbs tied with rope, faces hidden from the rain. The smell followed them: copper, smoke, and something older, the scent of death left too long in the air.
Lucen sat in the back of the last wagon, head bowed, sword still resting across his knees. It had stopped raining, but the mist lingered, clinging to their clothes like another skin.
Kairen sat beside him, a bandage wrapped around his thigh. His lips were cracked, his eyes dull. "We did it," he whispered, though it didn't sound like victory.
Lucen didn't answer. His throat felt scraped raw from smoke. Every time he blinked, he saw the ridge — the faces that had gone still, the children who hadn't screamed long enough to be heard.
Across from them, a boy coughed weakly. Another whispered a prayer. The smallest girl, Mira, clung to Lucen's sleeve. Her fingers were cold and trembling.
"Is it true?" she asked softly. "That we're going to fight again?"
Lucen didn't look at her. "We do what we're told."
"But real soldiers?" she pressed, her voice barely a breath. "With swords and—"
"Quiet," he said, sharper than he meant to. Her hand flinched back, and guilt pricked through him. "Just… don't talk. The driver can hear."
The wagon hit a rut and lurched. A few heads knocked against the wall; a muffled cry cut short. Lucen braced himself and swallowed the ache in his stomach. They hadn't eaten since yesterday— dry rations that tasted like chalk.
Outside, rain began again — soft, steady. It pattered against the roof, washing dust into thin streaks that dripped through the cracks. The smell of wet earth filled the space.
After a while, someone at the front began humming — a low, tuneless sound, the kind people make when they've forgotten what songs are supposed to feel like. The overseer's hand slammed against the boards a moment later. "Quiet!"
The sound died instantly.
Time blurred after that. The children drifted between waking and half-sleep, rocked by the motion of the wheels and the rhythm of hooves on mud. Lucen tried not to think of what waited at the end of the road — whether it would be drills again, or punishment, or worse.
When the wagon finally slowed, the air inside changed. He smelled smoke first — and food. Meat, salt, something rich and warm that twisted his stomach in hunger. Then came the noise: voices, horses, the distant clang of metal.
The overseer stood and threw open the doors. Light poured in — not bright, but blinding after hours in the dark.
"Out," he said.
The first few children hesitated, blinking against the light. A whip cracked against the wood beside them. "Now!"
They stumbled down into the mud. The rain had stopped, leaving the ground slick and cold. Lucen landed last, steadying Mira when she nearly slipped.
Ahead, through the thinning mist, lay rows of tents — a military encampment. Real soldiers moved between them, armor glinting dully beneath the gray sky. They turned at the noise, confusion rippling through the ranks as they saw the small, ragged figures stepping out of the wagon.
Lucen could feel their eyes — the weight of their disbelief. These were men who'd seen war, who'd buried brothers and burned villages. But they'd never seen this.
The overseer dismounted slowly. He carried himself like a man who wanted to be watched. His coat was spotless despite the mud, his gloves polished, his hair tied back with military precision.
He strode toward a group of officers, a folded parchment in hand. Lucen couldn't hear what was said at first, but he saw the moment the officer read the royal seal. The man's expression shifted — surprise, then something darker.
The captain of the fort hesitated, glancing between the masked instructors and the children behind them. "We weren't told you'd be sending…" His voice trailed off. He cleared his throat. "Reinforcements."
"They held the southern ridge earlier today," the overseer replied. "Losses were within acceptable range."
The captain's jaw tightened. "Acceptable?"
The overseer tilted his head slightly. "War consumes, Captain. Be grateful it consumes them before it consumes you."
"Children?" the officer said finally, voice carrying over the quiet. "You brought us children?"
"Recruits," the overseer replied. His tone was smooth, almost bored. "They've been trained for years under royal sanction. His Majesty funds the initiative himself. You're to deploy them as directed."
The officer's eyes moved over the line of shivering figures — ribs showing through thin shirts, faces hollow from hunger. "They look like ghosts."
"They fight better than most of your men," the overseer said lightly. "They don't need comfort, or praise, or fear. Only orders."
He turned toward Lucen. "Line formation. Eyes down."
The children obeyed instantly, their movements mechanical — a single practiced rhythm.
The soldiers around them murmured, unease flickering like wind over grass.
When the overseer finally stepped back onto the wagon, he spoke without looking at the officer. "Feed them if you like, but don't coddle them. They've outgrown mercy."
Then he snapped the reins, and the wagon rolled away down the muddy road until the sound of wheels faded into the hills.
The soldiers just stood there. Watching.
One man muttered, "They can't be older than twelve."
Another said, "Is this what the king's doing now?"
Lucen kept his head low, his heart pounding. He could feel the heat of their stares, the way pity mixed with disbelief.
The officer with the parchment — a broad-shouldered man with gray hair and eyes tired from too many winters — finally spoke. "Get them near the fire," he said. "And for god's sake, find them blankets."
The camp shifted back to life, though more quietly now. Someone fetched water. Someone else brought scraps of bread. The children moved where they were told, silent, their eyes hollow and watchful.
When Lucen finally sat near the flames, the warmth stung his skin — too hot after so long in the cold. Mira sat beside him, chewing slowly on her bread as though she might have to give it back.
Across the fire, a young soldier leaned toward his captain. "They're like little ghosts," he whispered.
The captain glanced at Lucen — at the faint mark glowing beneath the dirt on his forearm. "No," he said quietly. "They're something else."
The captain's words hung in the damp air long after he said them.
A few soldiers shifted uneasily, the sound of armor brushing leather. The smell of rain and cooked grain drifted through the camp, heavy with smoke. No one seemed to know what to do with the small, silent line of children huddled by the fire.
Lucen sat stiffly, his eyes fixed on the flames. The crackle reminded him of the burning ridge — of the way screams had turned to silence when the smoke grew too thick to breathe. His stomach knotted as someone approached.
Boots stopped just behind him.
"Here," a man said. His voice was rough but not unkind. A bowl of stew appeared in Lucen's peripheral vision, the scent of meat and herbs thick enough to make his head swim.
Lucen didn't move.
The soldier crouched, trying to meet his eyes. "It's food, kid. You can eat it."
Lucen's fingers tightened around his knees. He didn't trust it. Food was a reward, or a trap, or both.
A smaller boy beside him — Mairen — reached for the bowl instead. The man smiled faintly, handing it over. Mairen brought it to his lips too fast, burning his tongue. He didn't stop.
The soldier's smile faded as he watched the boy devour it like an animal. "Gods…" he murmured under his breath.
Another soldier came with more bowls. Mira's eyes flicked between them, wary. When one of the women knelt and held out a hunk of bread, Mira hesitated, then looked to Lucen — waiting for a signal.
He gave the smallest nod.
Only then did she reach out and take it, clutching it tight, as though someone might tear it from her hand.
The woman's face softened. "It's alright," she said quietly. "You're safe here."
Safe. The word barely meant anything anymore.
Lucen's stomach twisted. He forced himself to take the stew the soldier still offered, more because the others were watching than from hunger. The warmth of the bowl burned against his palms, and for a moment he didn't know if it was the heat or his own shaking.
Behind them, a few of the older soldiers muttered among themselves.
"Trained for years, they said?"
"They look half-dead."
"Poor bastards probably don't even know how to sleep."
Lucen ignored them, staring at the gray clouds drifting above the camp. The smoke from the cookfires rose to meet the mist, blurring the line between sky and earth until it all felt the same — heavy, breathless.
Kairen sat nearby, his leg stretched awkwardly in the mud. One of the camp medics knelt beside him, checking his bandage.
"How'd you get this?" the medic asked gently.
"Fell," Kairen muttered.
The medic frowned, clearly not believing it but not pressing further. "We'll get it cleaned properly tonight. You'll be alright."
Kairen just nodded, eyes down.
The soldier rose and looked toward the captain. "They need rest," he said quietly. "And real food. Some of them are shaking so bad I doubt they'll make another march."
The captain exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temples. "Set up a spare tent near the inner circle. Keep them close to the fires."
He paused, glancing at the group of children — how they sat shoulder to shoulder, too still, too quiet. "And put guards near them. Not to keep them in," he added after a moment, "but in case they wake screaming."
Lucen didn't miss that.
By midday, the camp had half-accepted their presence. The soldiers went about their duties — sharpening blades, cleaning armor, checking horses — though their glances lingered every time they passed the children.
Mira followed Lucen like a shadow, her small hand brushing his sleeve every so often to make sure he was still there. Mairen and two others sat carving sticks into makeshift weapons, not from fear, but habit — they didn't know what else to do with their hands when not ordered to fight.
A young soldier, no older than twenty, crouched beside them. He had an easy grin and curious eyes. "You kids know what a game is?"
The children blinked at him.
He frowned a little. "You know — throwing stones, tag, anything like that?"
No one answered.
The boy soldier sighed and tossed a pebble toward a bucket a few feet away. It clinked against the metal. "See? That's one. You throw, try to hit—"
Mairen flinched when the stone flew.
The soldier froze, guilt flooding his face. "Hey, hey — it's okay. I wasn't—"
Lucen stood slightly, stepping between them, his expression unreadable. "We're fine," he said, voice flat.
The soldier swallowed and backed off.
Lucen didn't sit down again until he was gone.
He felt Mira watching him. "They don't know," she whispered.
"No," Lucen said quietly. "They don't."
He looked toward the line of wagons fading into the distance — the one that had brought them here, the one that would one day come again to take them somewhere worse.
And though the soldiers moved around them, offering food and warmth, Lucen knew better than to mistake this place for safety.
Because sooner or later, orders would come.
And when they did, the overseer would return.
And they would fight again.