At the training camp outside the capital
As night fell, most of the torches were deliberately extinguished. Sergeant Halj arrived with four officers, each carrying small wooden boxes. They placed them in the center of the yard, and Halj's voice cut through the silence:
— "The second phase does not test your muscles alone. Tonight… we test your silence."
The boxes were opened, revealing small brass bells tied to thin black strings. Halj pointed toward the short grove of trees beyond the earthwork.
— "We've strung wires between the trunks. Your task is to cross the grove in groups of five without making a single bell ring. One sound, and your team is struck off tomorrow's roster."
The recruits split into teams. Kaizlan's group was not the only one — more than fifty boys and girls stood in line, their faces tense beneath light helmets. Among the new names beside them were Harik, broad-shouldered with restless eyes; Bartol, tall and thin, avoiding everyone's gaze; Reiman, marked by an old scar; and Ilda, short yet quick on her feet.
The first team moved. After only three steps, a bell rang, and Halj whistled sharply:
— "Out."
Kaizlan's team breathed slowly. Milo whispered:
— "I'll stay at the back and watch the ground. If I spot a wire, I'll raise my hand."
Serin answered calmly:
— "Eyes on the knees, not the swords. Kaizlan leads with half-steps, Eron just behind him to the left, I'll take the right, Torn at the rear with Milo."
Torn gave a faint grin:
— "If the bells ring, it's not my fault. I'm too heavy to walk like a cat."
They entered the grove. The air was damp, thick with the smell of wet soil. Kaizlan stepped forward lightly, his shield brushing his thigh instead of his shoulder to avoid scraping. Serin's hand shot up — a black string stretched from trunk to trunk at knee level. Kaizlan crouched, gauged the distance with his blade, then leapt cleanly. The others followed.
At the rear, Torn's armor almost grazed the wire, but Milo pressed a hand to his shoulder, holding him steady so the shield slid beneath without sound.
A few steps later, three bells rang sharply somewhere to their left. Everyone froze. Eron whispered, steadying his boot on a raised root:
— "Another one to the right… lower."
The minutes dragged like hours. Four times they stopped for wires, once for a stone hidden under wet leaves. At the last, Milo lost his footing. Kaizlan reached to steady him, but the buckle of his belt nearly scraped. Serin caught his wrist, pressing his finger against the metal clasp to keep it still, and motioned for Milo to crawl instead of jump.
No sound came.
They emerged from the far side of the grove, breaths held tight, and stood once more in the dim torchlight. Halj nodded curtly:
— "Kaizlan's team… clean passage."
One by one, the other teams attempted the run; most failed within moments. Among those who succeeded was Ilda, who led three city-born recruits as nimbly as dancers, and Harik, who nearly made it through before a slipped buckle rang against a slick trunk.
Near midnight, Halj gathered everyone in the yard. Out of the darkness, Commander Raon's presence emerged like part of the night itself. His words were low but carried weight:
— "Tonight you learned that the sword is not your first weapon. Your first weapon is to be unseen and unheard. Tomorrow… it will not be silence alone."
Before dawn
Short whistles woke them. Each team was issued ropes and short wooden planks. Raon ordered them to build a temporary bridge across a muddy trench and cross it in full armor. No instructions were given.
The attempts were clumsy. Knots slipped, feet sank deep. Bartol cursed as he plunged to his knees:
— "The rope's sinking!"
Reiman drove a stake into firmer soil near a trunk and barked:
— "Anchor higher — not in the mud!"
In Kaizlan's team, Serin's voice cut steady:
— "Two stakes at stride's width, rope above the knee, the plank for balance."
Eron moved first, carrying the plank like a shield. He laid it over the rope, Kaizlan following close to guard his side, while Milo secured the knots above the mudline. Torn stumbled halfway and the plank wobbled; Kaizlan pressed his shoulder against him, steadying his weight, while Milo called softly from behind:
— "Lean inward, not into the void."
They made it across. Others failed. Harik sank waist-deep in the sludge, dragged out by his companions, his face twisted in shame and quiet fury.
At sunrise
The recruits lined up, eyes red, bodies sagging. Halj read the results: only three teams had succeeded. For the first time, Ilda's name was listed alongside Kaizlan's.
Raon addressed them, his tone cold but clear:
— "This is not a test of cleverness. It is a test of control under fatigue and filth. Those who failed today… will try again. Those who passed… do not fool yourselves into thinking you are soldiers."
They dispersed for a short rest. Harik sat by the earthwork, scraping mud from his armor, Bartol beside him letting out a cracked laugh. Kaizlan approached, handing Harik a rough cloth.
— "Here. This works better than leather."
Harik didn't lift his eyes.
— "Thanks."
A pause, then with bitter resolve:
— "Next time, I'll make it."
Kaizlan nodded and moved on. He had no more words to spare; exhaustion had carved them away more surely than steel.
In the capital — House Lorenval by the river
Lady Lorenval sat before a wide window overlooking the docks. Ships unloaded crates sealed with various crests. The steward entered with a leather ledger.
— "The third shipment of raw iron has arrived. Demand has risen these past two weeks. Lesser houses are offering extra payment for priority."
Her voice was smooth, almost detached:
— "Give priority to those with crowded training grounds. Chaos is coming… and those who train more will buy more."
She closed the ledger with cold fingers.
— "And send a sample to House Mortani, free of charge. Small gifts ignite large debts."
At the doorway, a well-dressed man passed like a shadow unnoticed. No one asked his name.
Back at the camp
By dusk, targets of straw covered in old leather were set up at the yard's edge, each with a bell hanging at its center. Halj announced:
— "Final exercise for the day: clean cuts at marked height — without touching the bell. Iron learns precision, not violence."
The recruits lined up. Reiman went first: his opening strike was clean, the second brushed the edge with a tremor, the third rang faintly. He returned to the line with clenched jaw.
Ilda stepped forward next — her strikes short, rapid, unexpectedly clean, as though she was weaving threads rather than wielding a blade.
Eron's turn came; each swing rattled the air so fiercely the bell nearly shattered. Halj chuckled without smiling:
— "Strength is fine… when bound by a hand that knows when to stop."
Kaizlan began unsteady, his wrist trembling. Then he recalled Serin's half-step in the grove — a relaxed shoulder, a grip that held without crushing. Three strikes followed… the leather quivered, but no bell rang.
When the torches were doused, the air was cold, muscles burning. Yet in many eyes — Harik's, Ilda's, Bartol's, Reiman's — there was a faint glimmer born not of pride, but of surviving one more day.
As Kaizlan turned toward his tent, Commander Raon's voice came from the shadows:
— "Tomorrow, we test you in what no arm can be trained for."
Kaizlan stopped, glanced back, but saw only the dying glow of a pipe ember fading into the dark. He asked nothing. In this camp, too many questions only led to harsher trials.