The rain had ceased by morning, yet the scent of damp earth still clung to the yard. The recruits stood in circles, each group facing a set of polished wooden logs.
Sergeant Halj's voice cut through the chill:
— "Today there will be no sword, no shield. Today you will learn the meaning of weight."
He gestured to the logs.
— "Any fool who thinks a knight fights with his arms alone knows nothing. A sword is worthless if your legs cannot hold the ground, if your back cannot bear the burden."
Kaizlan and Milo heaved their log from the dirt, their backs bowing nearly to breaking. Sweat began to drip before they had reached the yard's center. Toren roared aloud, hoisting his log as if defying gravity itself, while Eiron clenched his teeth, unwilling to show strain.
Serin's steps were steady, though her pale face betrayed the cost. Each time her footing faltered, her grip on the log tightened, as if refusal alone could keep weakness from sight.
Captain Raun stood at a distance, unmoving. He barked no orders, offered no shouts—only watched, letting wood and weight and silence do their work.
When Milo dropped to his knees, the log slipping from his grasp, he did not rise at once. But Serin reached down, pulled him to his feet, and together they continued. He looked at her briefly, then pressed on without a word.
⸻
By sunset, they sat near the same small fire, hands trembling, shoulders swollen from strain. Little was said among them.
Across the yard, older soldiers whispered in hushed tones, believing their voices carried no farther than the flames.
— "Have you heard? Our northern border is not what it was. The Empire of Carmin is moving quickly… and Astoval's banners were seen there as well."
Another replied:
— "If that is true, the High Council will not remain silent. Here we drill with wood, while there they redraw the world."
The five exchanged a brief glance. Kaizlan did not grasp every word, but he felt the weight of something looming beyond the camp—heavier than any log they had carried.
⸻
That night, when the fire had burned low, Kaizlan sat alone, slowly rewrapping the bandage around his hand. He stared at the raw cuts across his palm and whispered to himself:
— "Strength is not in the sword… but in bearing the weight so the one beside you does not fall."
Then he rested his head against his arm and drifted into uneasy sleep.