In the dirt yard outside the town, dozens of youths and men stood in formation. Some wore plain noble garments, others the clothes of their daily labor. The swords were short and worn, the spears carved from rough wood, and most of the shields bore scars from older wars.
Commander Raun stood before the lines, his hand resting on the hilt of his long sword. His eyes moved over the faces without expression, as though measuring each man's worth before a single step was taken.
He spoke clearly, without raising his voice:
"Battle is no game. If any of you believe glory is enough, leave now—before you see blood.
In war, it is not the cleverest or the bravest who survive… it is those who hold the line."
⸻
The first drills began.
The ranks were to march in a single line, steady step, halt at command.
Most failed at once:
One young noble tripped on his polished boots, falling in the dust to the laughter of others.
A heavy farmer could not lift his spear for more than a few minutes.
Complaints and groans rose quickly.
Raun's voice cut through the noise:
"In battle, the laugh you use to mock your comrade today… may be the last sound you hear before he falls tomorrow.
You are one line. Either you stand together… or you fall together."
A heavy silence settled, then the feet began moving again, still unsteady, but slower, more cautious.
⸻
Kaizlan Valric stood among them. He was not stronger than the rest, but his focus on rhythm made him steadier. He raised his shield when told, lowered it at the command, making no attempt to show off.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Eiron Levara in another line. The young noble made no effort to follow. His movements were sharp, individual—discipline seemed a burden on his ambition.
When the sergeant shouted:
"Spearmen to the front! Shields behind them!"
The ranks shifted sluggishly, all but Eiron, who surged ahead too quickly, stepping past his place.
"Stop!" Raun's voice snapped across the yard.
The line froze.
Raun walked forward slowly, stopping before Eiron, his gaze sharp as steel.
"Breaking formation opens a gap for the enemy. A gap kills ten men before it closes.
If you want to be a hero, go to the poets.
Here… you will either learn to be a stone in the wall, or be buried beneath it."
Eiron gave no answer. He smiled faintly, coldly, and stepped back into place.
⸻
At the edge of the yard, Deril watched quietly, standing near water carriers with clay jars.
He jotted notes into his small ledger:
"A shield breaks if not balanced.
The swords are old, but enough for those who know where to strike.
Most collapse from fatigue within the hour… War is not just fighting—it is staying on your feet."
⸻
By sunset, Raun ended the day's drill.
He stood before the weary lines and said:
"Today you did not learn to fight—you learned only that your bodies are weaker than you imagined.
Tomorrow begins combat… man against man. Then you will learn: a shield does not protect if your hand fails, and a sword does not wound if your heart falters."
⸻
Kaizlan returned home, his body heavy but his mind alert.
In his notebook, he wrote:
"Discipline is not a chain… it is what keeps chaos from swallowing us.
I feel myself part of a wall, but the question remains: is the wall meant to protect those within… or to hide what waits outside?"