Training Camp Outside the Capital
The echo of the final blow lingered in the yard long after the prisoner's body was dragged away. The old surgeon split the scalp with practiced hands, rinsed the wound with thick, salted water, then covered it with rough linen. They buried the man by the outer embankment—no name, no prayer. The recruits watched in silence. No one had ordered them to stay, but eyes learn only when they witness the end.
Kaizlan stood near the rack of spears, his grip still locked on the wooden shaft as if it were steel. The strike he had given yesterday seemed to echo only now.
From behind him, Halj said without turning:
— "Don't stare at the dirt too long. Learn to look above it… or it will swallow you."
Kaizlan only nodded.
Milo sat by the edge of the yard, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, sweat mixed with black soil. He tried to smile at Serin as she passed, but his mouth betrayed him; the smile cracked and died.
Serin adjusted the strap around her wrist and said flatly:
— "Iron teaches the hand. Silence teaches the heart. Save your words today."
Milo lowered his head, as if accepting a prescription.
Morning Assembly
Commander Raon stood at the circle's center, voice steady as stone:
— "Yesterday was your first trial of the third stage. From today, we train not the strike itself, but survival after the strike. Two drills until dusk: holding a position under attack and recovering a prisoner guarded by others. Tonight… we will test whether you can keep watch awake from within, not just with your eyes."
From the rear line, Harik raised his hand—bruises still purple across his ribs:
— "Sir… all this. Is it for border wars… or for something else we're not told?"
The question hung in everyone's chest.
Raon let the silence press down before he answered:
— "This camp is not a classroom. It is a sieve. Our borders are frayed, and inside, men wield daggers as if they were politics. We prepare those who remain standing when the wall falls. That is the reason. The rest… you will know when you stand where we stand."
No further word was added. The weight of it settled like stone.
Drill: Holding a Position
Wooden boards and straw sacks formed a low barricade. Kaizlan's team—himself, Serin, Milo, Eron, and Torn—faced three attacking squads armed with padded clubs and dirt bags.
The whistle shrilled.
The first volley came—bags of dirt bursting into eyes and mouths—then the charge.
"Right side!" Serin's call cut through the chaos. Eron braced his chest into the gap, the blow that could have broken the plank bouncing off his weight.
Milo crawled under the barricade, moving the stake with a wet cord so it wouldn't slip, knees swallowed by mud.
Torn held the top board alone until it tipped—Kaizlan's elbow jammed into place, restoring balance.
From a distance, Halj barked: "Don't watch the collapse… prevent it before it starts!"
The third assault swept around their flank. Clubs hammered from behind.
Serin's voice was calm: "Half a step back… then half a step forward."
They obeyed. The line stiffened, turning fragility into sudden strength.
When the final whistle blew, they were smeared in mud, lungs burning. Raon walked past them slowly:
— "To hold ground is not merely to endure… it is to resist without breaking, while giving space for others to stand."
Drill: Recovering a Prisoner
The next ground was a thicket laced with wires tied to bells, a guarded prisoner deep inside.
Milo whispered: "Threads at the knee… others at chest height."
Serin pointed with a short stick, marking danger before they moved.
Eron took the lead, using his bulk not to hide but to break a hanging branch silently, carving a narrow path.
Torn carried a strip of cloth across his shoulder, muffling every scrape of wood against iron.
At the clearing, three defenders circled the prisoner.
Kaizlan struck first—low at the wrist, disarming the guard instead of the club.
Milo hurled a dirt sack into another's face, then dragged his leg from under him.
The last defender pressed hard, landing two heavy blows on Eron's shoulder. Eron seized his tunic and hurled him against a trunk like a sack of grain.
Serin cut the rope at a knot unseen and gestured toward the return path: "Half step, then angle."
Only one bell chimed as they left—a short, stinging sound.
Halj noted aloud: "One bell… in a real fight, that's an arrow in someone's back. A thread you noticed too late. Fix it."
The sun dipped yellow across the embankment. Their bodies ached, but in their eyes lingered the quiet pride of those who no longer resembled the recruits who had first entered this place.
The Capital — House of Lorenvall by the River
Lady Lorenvall studied a polished hide map, her steward clutching a sealed letter.
"Attacks on iron convoys grow frequent," he reported. "The pattern is the same—an agent with a gray hood pays in advance, faceless hands do the work, blood is left behind."
She traced the river lines with her finger. "A river is moved by pebbles before boulders. Submit a proposal to the Throne Council to expand the training camps. And I will grant a border clan a contract of protection they cannot refuse."
The steward hesitated. "And should we inform the Mortanis?"
Her smile was thin as a blade: "Send them only the shadow of the news. Shadows are enough to make them talk."
In the hallway beyond, a man passed silently, elegant as a drawing. No one asked who he was. Perhaps they were too cold to speak.
Safehouse at the Edge of the City
The door was not broken. It opened the way old tales do—quietly.
Adam stepped in, soundless. Oil jars, short knives, a table scattered with silver coins. Three men slept inside.
The first rose in the night to piss. He never saw the shadow before an arm closed his mouth and another snapped his throat. The crack was a muffled whistle.
The second woke to the smell of oil poured over him. His head was pressed against the table's edge, a hammer falling once. His jaw shattered; his teeth stayed in the wood like beads.
The third reached for a blade but froze—the hand was quicker, striking a nerve that made his fingers betray him. The knife dropped before it rose.
Adam left no words. No emblem. Only half a wooden talisman split down the middle on each chest—a mirror of his broken life. He gathered the coins, spilled oil across the floor, and lit a match.
By the time he stepped into the alley, the fire had already begun to eat the beams. He didn't look back. He walked as if leaving a grave for the second time.
Back at the Camp — A Night Without a Moon
Half the torches were extinguished on Halj's orders.
"The guard who sees only with eyes… is blind. Tonight is the Silent Watch. Call a shadow too soon, and you guard alone for a week. Miss a true shadow, and you guard alone outside the wall."
They scattered.
The first watch was given to the reckless trainee from the hut incident. His hand sweated on the spear. Something stirred thirty paces away—not animal, heavier. He almost blew the whistle, then froze, Raon's warning heavy in his skull. A twig snapped. Only then did he whistle.
The camp erupted—Eron and Torn burst from their tent, Milo fumbling at his strap. Three masked officers slipped from the dark with padded clubs.
Halj's voice cut across the yard: "Three breaths too late. In battle… three breaths is a breach. Write it down."
Short skirmishes followed. Serin cut off a shadow from an angle he hadn't considered, dropping the officer to his knees. Kaizlan didn't chase; he planted himself between the stores and the gap in the wall, steady as if yesterday's tremors never existed.
The frightened recruit stood hollow-eyed until Halj placed a hand on his shoulder, tone cold but not cruel:
— "Alertness is not shouting first… but knowing when to shout. Tonight you were late. Tomorrow—don't be."
By dawn, the torches were dead, and the frost cut into bone.
Near the Commander's Tent, Before Sunrise
Raon and Halj bent over a wooden map of the camp and its borders.
Halj said: "They harden, but their eyes are still small."
Raon replied: "They will grow. For those who don't… there are always doors."
He placed a sealed message on the board: "A delegation from the capital arrives in five days. Nobles, court watchers. They want a display of the third stage."
He paused, eyes fixed on the embankment.
— "Make the next days fire without flame. Let them see men, not boys, when they arrive."
House Mortani, The Capital
Sarafiel Mortani read two letters: one from the Throne Council about camp expansion, another unsigned, bearing only a short line:
"Safehouse burned on the city's edge. Three dead. Half-talismans left behind."
His eyes flickered once, then dimmed. To his aide he said:
— "When the dead start leaving messages… it means the living are late."
He pressed his seal into red wax.
— "Let the people whisper about thieves. Leave for us those who are not thieves."
By the Embankment, at First Light
Kaizlan sat on the cold plank, back against the wall. Milo brought him a cup of water. He drank, then passed it back.
Milo's voice was barely more than a breath: "When they came last night… I wasn't as afraid as yesterday."
Kaizlan answered after a moment: "The first fear dies only once."
Torn kicked a lump of soil, dropping down beside them. "And what remains… stays with us."
Serin walked past, eyes on the thicket. She murmured, as if to herself:
— "The night isn't the enemy… ignorance is."
No one replied. She hadn't asked for one.
Somewhere in a distant alley, a man walked with half a talisman in his pocket. In the camp, the whistle of dawn rose into the air. And between the two, the world was darkening… yet for those who had learned how to see, it was becoming clearer.