A new morning dawned over the camp.
Three full weeks had passed since their first steps onto the training ground.
Faces had changed: some had grown lean from the relentless strain, others looked harder, forged by the days of effort. Even their steps no longer wavered as they once had—there was rhythm now, a hint of discipline, though fatigue still clung to their eyes.
Commander Raun stood before them, his voice carrying across the yard:
"You have learned single combat, fighting shield-to-shield, and even the burden of armor.
Today… you face your first true test: a military maneuver. Rank against rank, in the open field. Remember… the swords are wood, but your mistakes will hurt as much as iron."
⸻
The recruits split into two groups.
Kaizlan and his companions—Eiron, Serin, Torn, and Milo—were placed in the first.
The second was led by Darius Reynold, an arrogant noble youth with cropped brown hair and piercing eyes, already regarded as a serious rival within the yard.
Each side was given a small wooden banner. The rules were simple: protect your own banner, seize the enemy's.
⸻
The horn sounded, and both teams surged forward.
Kaizlan lifted his shield, his heart pounding harder than ever. This was not a duel—it was a test of trust, of five standing shoulder to shoulder.
Eiron, as always, broke slightly from formation, charging ahead with savage aggression.
Serin remained close to the line, her eyes darting, analyzing the battlefield like a chessboard.
Torn pressed forward with brute force, his bulk absorbing the first blows without hesitation.
Milo trembled as an opponent rushed him—his shield rose sluggishly, and he nearly collapsed before Kaizlan covered his side just in time.
⸻
The clash grew loud and chaotic.
Darius himself tore through the opposite line, felling one of Kaizlan's allies with two swift strikes. It was clear he carried training and skill beyond the rest.
Kaizlan shouted,
"Hold the line! Don't break formation!"
But the ground heaved with confusion. Dust billowed, voices shouted, blows rained down on shields.
Kaizlan spotted Milo on the ground, crying out as he tried to fend off a strike.
For a heartbeat Kaizlan hesitated—then he lunged, blocking the incoming blow though it left his other side open.
A sword struck his shoulder. Pain flared hot, but he held his ground.
"I won't let anyone fall because of me!"
⸻
Meanwhile, Eiron had carved his own path through the fray. Two opponents lay toppled behind him, and his eyes locked on the banner.
Raun's shout thundered across the field:
"Stop him!"
But Eiron was too fast. He vaulted over one fighter and tore the banner free.
The horn blared—the maneuver was over.
Team One had won… but half their line was broken, bodies scattered in the dust.
⸻
Commander Raun stood still, his face devoid of triumph.
"Your victory is fragile. The banner was raised… but your formation nearly collapsed.
War is not a race for quick glory… it is the struggle to endure beside those who stand with you."
His gaze lingered on Eiron for a long moment before he turned away without another word.
⸻
That night, Kaizlan sat with Milo and Torn. His shoulder still ached from the blow, but he ignored it.
Inside, a tangled feeling gnawed at him: joy in the victory… and fear of the price they had nearly paid.
"If this is only training… what will a real war be like?"