The recruits returned to camp at the break of dawn. Their steps felt heavier than their bodies, as if even the earth itself resisted carrying them. The light patter of rain on the tents was louder than their breaths, as though silence had swallowed them whole.
The stench of iron and blood clung to their clothes, their shirts and light armor stained with dark patches the rain could not wash away nor their hands scrub clean.
Kaizlan walked in the center, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword tightly, as if afraid it might slip away. The blade was no heavier than before, yet inside him pressed a new weight he had no name for.
Milo stumbled more than once, unable to lift his gaze from the ground, haunted by the eyes of the dead. His fingers kept tightening and loosening the strap around his wrist, as if trying to hold on to a fragment of steadiness.
Serin, with steady steps, rebraided the hair that had come loose during the fight. Her face remained composed, but at the corner of her eyes trembled a flicker she couldn't suppress.
Torn tried to break the silence with a scoff:
— "They didn't even have real swords… and still, they nearly killed us."
No one answered. His words fell flat, a desperate attempt to escape the weight of the moment.
Eiron entered the yard last, silent, but his gaze sharp and measuring—as though he was testing some new truth within himself.
At the center stood Captain Raun, watching in silence. His eyes held neither satisfaction nor anger, but the hard neutrality of a man who knew that blood was the first lesson in any soldier's life. Behind him, a soldier shoved forward a bound prisoner—one of the surviving bandits.
Raun's voice was low, yet unyielding:
— "This was your first blood… your first enemy to fall before you. It will not be the last."
Milo shivered at the words, while Kaizlan clenched his teeth in silence.
Raun ordered the prisoner thrown to the ground before continuing:
— "In the forest, your killing was clumsy. Panic, fear, trembling hands. Today… we will see if you can face death with awareness, not just reflex."
The recruits exchanged uneasy glances, none daring to speak.
Kaizlan moved closer to the fire blazing in the yard, his eyes fixed on the prisoner. A question burned within him, though he did not voice it: Am I a killer now… or just a soldier defending himself?
Meanwhile, Milo whispered to no one in particular:
— "He didn't want to die… I saw it in his face…"
Serin heard, but did not reply. She only tightened her grip on her spear, as if reminding him that hesitation could mean their deaths next time.
Raun's lips curved into a cold smile as he said:
— "Tonight's lessons are not over yet."
Silence returned, heavier than any battle they had fought.
✨ Author's Note to Readers:
This chapter marks a turning point in the recruits' journey—where blood stains more than just their blades. What did you feel while reading it? Share your thoughts, impressions, and predictions. Your voice shapes how this story grows, and I'd love to hear your reflections.