Captain Raon returned before dusk, his horse soaked to the knees, his cloak dripping with water and mud. He gave no speech, not even a remark. He simply handed Sergeant Halj a sealed scroll, then moved among the rows of recruits, inspecting faces and armor as if counting the losses of a battle that hadn't yet begun.
Quietly, as he pulled off his gloves, he said:
"Starting tomorrow, training won't stay confined to the yard. You'll march with burdens, answer midnight alarms, and conduct full equipment checks. In five days, I'll choose a detachment for an assignment beyond the walls."
He gave no details about the mission. But the way he tightened the knot of his cloak left one meaning clear to everyone: this was no task with room for error.
⸻
At dawn, rolls of linen and leather strips were distributed. Halj stood before them explaining:
"The foot is the first to collapse on a march. Wrap the toes with this cloth, then the sock, then the boot. Ignore this step, and you'll learn what burning coals feel like after ten miles."
Serin Orvan watched closely, then knelt to redo the bandage around Milo's ankle.
"A small gap becomes a deep wound in two hours," she said quietly.
Milo nodded, embarrassed. He didn't want to look weak—but every face was already occupied with heavier burdens than pride.
Each recruit was loaded with a leather pack containing a smooth stone, a folded cloth shield, and a water flask—nearly twenty pounds. They set out across the low hills behind camp.
After the first mile, Torn was already gasping, shifting the strap across his shoulder. Iron Levara walked with steady steps, eyes forward, only glancing aside to make sure he was half a body ahead of the others.
Kaizlan stumbled twice where the mud pulled at his boots, thinking bitterly that a sword never felt this heavy. Then he remembered Raon's words from a night before: "Weight is not punishment—it's what you carry when there is no water, no fire, and no rest."
At their break, Raon ordered them to check their own feet. Milo's toes were raw and red; Serin silently tied a new bandage with careful hands. Torn collapsed onto the ground, muttering:
"If war comes, I'll fight barefoot."
Raon answered without looking at him:
"A man who fights barefoot… won't fight for long."
⸻
That evening, the horn shrieked across camp.
"Midnight alarm! Two minutes to the yard in full armor!" Halj shouted.
Hands fumbled with buckles in the dark. Kaizlan cursed softly as his fingers fought with a strap, while Iron was the first to stand in line, stern as if the night belonged to him. Torn stumbled in after, panting. Serin followed with measured steps. Milo arrived last, apologizing without words.
Raon paced before them, speaking only in numbers:
"Iron: one minute, seven seconds.
Serin: one minute, thirty-five.
Torn: one minute, forty-nine.
Kaizlan: two minutes, thirty-three.
Milo: two minutes, fifty."
Then he added coldly:
"Numbers are neither insult nor favor. Tomorrow they'll be posted on the board. If you want to erase yours—do it with sweat."
They were dismissed. No one spoke much that night; silence pressed heavier than any speech.
⸻
At dawn, Raon called four names into his small tent: Kaizlan, Serin, Torn, and Iron.
On the table lay a map of a road leading north, toward Stone Pass—a name that had echoed more than once in the market.
Raon tapped the spot with a finger.
"In five days, a detachment will escort a supply cart to this point. The road is short, but enough to reveal who understands discipline, and who defies it. The list isn't final. These next days are your balance."
He looked to Kaizlan:
"You cover gaps and leave your own side open. I don't want gallantry—I want survival."
To Iron:
"Strength is measured by how many remain standing beside you, not how many you outrun."
To Torn:
"Ease your force. A shoulder that pushes too hard leaves a back unguarded."
To Serin:
"Your steadiness helps—but steadiness alone doesn't carry the banner. Speak up when your eyes see what others miss."
They left one by one. In Kaizlan's chest, something stirred between fear and resolve. The road to Stone Pass felt suddenly closer than any rumor, heavier than any drill.
And on the edges of camp, traders whispered again of alliances between distant empires. When Raon was asked, he only gave one reply:
"Rumor doesn't change a cart's path… but a cart's path can change the fate of a rumor."
The day ended there. Five suns now stood between them and a road that would not be a drill.