The Camp – Before Entering the Valley
Night crept over the camp, the cold biting harder as the hours passed. The fires scattered through the yard burned low, while the whistling wind through the tents sounded like a long, drawn-out lament.
The trainees tried to sleep, but sleep did not come easily.
Each of them carried their own private fear.
⸻
Nightmares and Restlessness
Kaizlan lay on a thin bed of straw, eyes fixed on the ceiling of the tent. Every time he closed them, he saw the face of the prisoner he had thrown to the ground—the eyes that clung not to mercy but to life itself. He clenched his fist, imagining that if he fell asleep, he would wake to find himself on the ground instead, another man's blade descending toward his neck.
Milo twisted restlessly on his cot, clutching an old rope in his hand, tugging at it whenever the memories returned. In his dream, he saw his farmer father staring at him in disappointment while blood covered his hands. He woke gasping, swallowing hard against the weight in his chest.
Serin did not sleep at all. She sat upright near the tent's entrance, her eyes locked on the darkness outside. In her mind, the same words replayed over and over: "My daughter… my daughter…"—the last plea of the prisoner she had killed. Her face betrayed no emotion, but her fingers tapped ceaselessly against the wood beside her, as if punishing herself with an endless rhythm.
Ilda pressed her fingers into the dirt beside her bed, moving them slowly as she whispered:
— "One… two… three…"
She counted even in her dreams, as though keeping tally might keep the world from collapsing around her.
Torn managed to drift off for moments, but his sleep brought only visions of himself laughing in the middle of a real battle—swinging until his hands shattered, blood filling his mouth. He woke with a hazy grin, unable to decide whether it had been a nightmare… or a beautiful dream.
⸻
Preparation Before Dawn
Just before sunrise, soldiers' voices roused them. Each trainee dressed in haste.
Clothing: dark cotton tunics beneath light leather armor, reinforced with small iron plates laced tightly.
Boots: tall, thick brown leather, flexible enough for running over rocks.
Belts: strapped with pouches carrying dry bread, a waterskin, and a short dagger for each trainee.
Weapons: wooden swords, heavier than before, coated in black resin to mimic the weight of steel.
Kaizlan pulled his armband tight, feeling the sword heavier than it should be. Milo adjusted his chest guard twice, as though searching for reassurance in its fit. Eiron tied his dagger to his side with meticulous precision, every motion too exact to be casual.
Even their appearance spoke of change. They no longer looked like boys in loose training garb, but the shadow of an army still in the making.
⸻
The Capital
In a hall lit by oil lamps, Lord Dargon—broad as a mountain rock—sat before a group of knights. His voice rumbled like thunder:
— "Children are sent to fight in the valley, and we waste our time with talk? War will not wait for them to grow."
An old man of House Ilmaris, his face gaunt like autumn leaves, replied:
— "But they are the future. If they fall now, then we fall tomorrow."
Dargon let out a short, harsh laugh:
— "The future shows no mercy. Those who cannot master blood when they're young… will be buried young."
⸻
The sky began to pale with the first threads of dawn as soldiers prepared the horses to carry the trainees to the valley. They lined up in formation, each of them carrying not just their weapons and armor… but the nightmares of the night before, clinging to them like an extra burden on their shoulders.
None of them knew that those nightmares might still be gentler than what awaited them in the shadowed forest ahead.