It was the end of the fourth week of training. The recruits were given a single day of rest, and the city gates opened to them as though a crack had split through stone.
Kaizlan Valrik stepped out with his four companions:
Eiron Levara, walking with sharp eyes and confident strides.
Torn, broad-shouldered, his heavy breaths as though the city itself pressed on his chest.
Milo, moving slowly, arms tucked close to his sides.
And Serin Orvan, following a short pace behind, her braided golden hair falling neatly across her shoulder, a young handmaiden trailing with a small satchel.
The marketplace welcomed them with its familiar clamor: merchants thrusting out scarves and cloth, a blacksmith hammering at glowing iron as sparks leapt, and the heavy mix of bread, oil, and spices filling the air until scents were indistinguishable.
Kaizlan noticed prices higher than weeks past, merchants weighing lighter measures than they declared.
Torn haggled with a grain-seller, muttering:
— "People raise their prices when the roads grow dangerous."
Milo answered, worry etched across his face:
— "And fear these days is cheaper than words."
At a street corner, a small crowd gathered around a short man holding a sealed scroll. His voice was louder than his frame:
— "News from the far north! Letters sealed with marks of empire—two powers drawing closer, though I'll not name them aloud. A pact, if true, will press against our borders. And traders will pay the price first."
Faces shifted. Some scoffed, others brooded.
Milo whispered, "If it's true… the roads may be deadlier than training itself."
Eiron scoffed without lowering his voice:
"If it were true, this chatterbox wouldn't bring it first. Wars aren't announced above crates of cabbages."
Serin's gaze lingered on the scroll. She studied the folds, then spoke with quiet certainty:
"The seal can be forged… but not the fold. That is the hand of an official scribe—or someone taught by them."
Kaizlan glanced at her, as though hearing her voice for the first time that day. He wanted to ask how she knew, but she had already turned, nodding for her handmaiden to move on.
As they walked away, a gate guard in the colors of the province paused near the storyteller. His voice lowered, but close ears caught:
"Keep your voice down. No names, no seals. The city cannot bear unrest."
The man muttered compliance, quickly shifting his tale to the price of salt.
Torn leaned toward Kaizlan:
"If they silence him, then either he lies and they fear the panic… or he nears a truth they don't want spoken."
Kaizlan didn't reply. He stored the thought the way he stored a blow from training—painful now, but useful when the moment came.
⸻
They bought dry bread, a strip of cured meat, and a few leather straps for armor. Torn paid more than he should despite his haggling.
Eiron smirked: "You bought fear, not bread."
Milo murmured: "Fear is the coin of all men now."
Near sundown, they took a quieter road back. Serin walked beside her handmaiden, silent, but her eyes moved constantly across doorways and high windows, as though reading words no one had written.
At last Kaizlan asked, "What do you see?"
Her reply was calm: "More guards in the narrow alleys. Merchants hiding part of their wares inside their homes. When goods are hidden, either the roads will close… or someone waits for prices to burn higher."
Eiron added, "Or both."
⸻
At the camp gates, Sergeant Halg stood recording the returnees. He raised his head as they approached, then spoke low as he wrote:
"Keep your wandering brief. Sleep early. Tomorrow—training under the rain, if dawn keeps its word."
Torn grinned despite his fatigue:
"Since when has dawn kept its word, Sergeant?"
Halg answered without a smile:
"Since it began to look like war."
⸻
That night, the camp was quiet save for coughs and the groans of strained muscles.
Kaizlan sat by a faint wick of flame, pulling out his notebook:
"The city speaks two tongues: one of trade, one of fear. We saw a seal that may be real or false. We saw guards silencing words instead of dispelling them. If a pact lies beyond the horizon, its echo will reach us—even if whispered beneath doors.
In training, they teach us to lift the shield, to hold the line. In the marketplace, we learn why we'll need to."
He snuffed the light, leaning back against the ropes of the tent. Inside him, no fire of pride, no sting of dread—only a sharpened awareness that tomorrow would not mirror yesterday, and that every whisper in the market might be the beginning of a moving wall.
⸻
Author's Note
To every reader who has followed these words—thank you.
Your time, your eyes, your presence give breath to this story. May every page carry you further, and may the journey ahead be worth each step.