The Camp – At Dawn
The sun rose slowly, mist fading from the camp's walls. The air was thick with the smell of iron, sweat, and dried blood. The trainees stood gathered in the yard, faces worn, eyes heavy from sleepless nights.
Captain Raun stood before them, his broad shoulders draped in a dark cloak. His voice cut through the silence:
— "The second phase is over. You fought as teams. Some of you proved yourselves. Others showed weakness that war will never forgive. Today… the third phase begins."
Heads lifted despite exhaustion, anticipation burning in tired eyes.
Raun continued:
— "From now on, wielding a sword or striking hard won't be enough. The third phase will test your minds before your arms. You'll learn ambushes, scouting, and making decisions in chaos. I'll say this once: a single mistake could mean the death of everyone."
He gestured, and two soldiers unfurled a large map on a wooden board at the center of the yard. The map showed a narrow valley surrounded by forests.
Raun said:
— "This valley will be your battlefield. You'll divide into two sides: attackers and defenders. The fight will not end until one side is annihilated… or surrenders entirely."
⸻
The First Reactions
Milo whispered, swallowing hard:
— "A valley? That means thick trees, uneven ground…"
Torn grinned, blood still crusted on his brow from the day before:
— "Perfect. At last, a real war game."
Ilda raised her hand suddenly and asked in her cold, steady tone:
— "And what about injuries?"
Raun stared at her for a few seconds before answering:
— "Those who cannot rise after a wound… have no place here."
The words froze every face, sharper than the morning chill.
⸻
The Night Before
When darkness fell, the trainees split into small groups around their fires. Each whispered about the possibilities of tomorrow.
Hark sat near his torch, gripping the handle of his dagger with nervous fingers.
Bartol muttered to himself over and over, "I won't fall… I won't fall…" until Milo snapped at him in frustration.
Serin sat silent, staring at her hand as if the wooden sword was still in her grip.
Eiron's gray eyes scanned them all, cold and calculating, as though weighing each step before it was taken.
Kaizlan sat apart from the rest, leaning against a tree trunk. He looked down at his hands, then up at the dark sky, whispering to himself:
— "If this is only the beginning… what will the world beyond these walls be like?"
⸻
The Capital – The Emperor's Palace
In a quiet hall, Lady Lorenvall sat across from Miral Vaizant. Lorenvall's silver hair framed a face carved in stern lines, while Miral's violet gown glimmered with threads of gold.
Miral smiled coldly:
— "I hear the western camp is advancing quickly… as if they're preparing for war before it even begins."
Lorenvall's reply was quiet but sharp as poison:
— "Every camp is an investment. Some invest in gold, others in blood. We'll see which pays better."
Their gaze met for a brief moment. In that silence was more danger than in a thousand swords.
⸻
That night, cold winds swept across the camp. The trainees lay down to rest, but few closed their eyes. Tomorrow they would enter the valley—not as a training ground, but as a trial that would decide who was worthy to carry a sword… and who would be left to the dirt.