The penal legion's days settled into a grinding, repetitive cycle: cold, dark, and hungry. The only constant was the drilling.
However, Aris's calculated approach began to yield small, vital dividends.
Sergeant Rath, the master of cruelty, operated on a few predictable principles: speed, efficiency, and zero waste. Aris quickly identified Rath's primary weakness: complacency in logistics.
The gruel and the daily bread—thick, stale slices of rye—were dispensed by two exhausted quartermasters who cared only about getting rid of the long lines of conscripts quickly. They often dispensed rations unevenly, and since no one was allowed to complain, the stronger conscripts often bullied the weaker ones out of their full share.
"You're watching them again," Doran muttered, as he and Aris stood in the ration line during the evening meal. Doran's face was grimy, but his posture was visibly improving. He no longer slumped; he stood with a defensive, heavy stance, always covering Aris's smaller frame.
"The Quartermaster Rylan starts with the large loaves," Aris whispered back, nodding towards the mess tent. "He gets tired by the middle of the line and cuts faster, meaning the bread slices get thinner. When he reaches the end, he realizes he's short and cuts the last few slices thick again to empty the barrel quickly."
"So?"
"So we need to be either first, or very last," Aris explained. "The risk of being last is getting cut off, but the reward is a thicker, denser piece of bread—more calories."
"But getting last means punishment for slowness," Doran worried.
"No," Aris countered, his eyes bright. "We need to appear accidentally slow. We need an interruption."
When they reached the front of the line, Aris suddenly 'tripped,' sending a small cascade of mud onto the Quartermaster Rylan's freshly polished boots.
Rylan roared, dropping his knife and staring murderously at the two boys. "You filthy rat! Out of the line! You'll eat last!"
The guards cuffed Aris and Doran, shoving them to the very end of the line. The surrounding conscripts jeered, seeing the boys' loss as their gain.
Doran, rubbing his bruised arm, looked at Aris, despairing. "We got beaten, and we're last, Aris. We failed."
"We succeeded," Aris corrected, ignoring the burning ache in his arm. "Watch."
They waited forty minutes. The sun was gone. The line was reduced to the final fifteen recruits—the true dregs. Rylan was visibly exhausted and eager to lock the tent.
When Aris and Doran finally reached the counter, Rylan snatched up the knife and savagely hacked off two final pieces of bread to clear the bin. The slices were nearly an inch thick, heavy with rye and seeds. At least double the size of the slices in the middle of the line.
He slammed them onto their trays. "Get
out!"
Aris nodded, picked up his tray, and walked out, his face impassive.
Doran stared at the bread. It was a victory. A ridiculous, tiny, life-affirming victory.
"You did it," Doran whispered in awe as they found a dark, dry corner of the barracks to eat. "You knew he'd get tired."
"I calculated his tolerance for annoyance against his desire to finish his shift," Aris said, breaking his portion into four equal squares. "His desire for comfort is greater than his diligence."
They ate their bread slowly, meticulously chewing each bite thirty times, savoring the richness.
"I need your extra calories, Doran," Aris said, once they were finished. "You're built for brute force. I need to get faster, not bigger. We train."
"But we got the big bread!" Doran protested. "Can't we just sleep?"
"No," Aris said, already standing. "Sleep is death. The moment you are comfortable, you are vulnerable. Every ounce of energy must be spent on two things: survival and skill."
Later, when the camp was quiet, they practiced their "Stick King" drills, replacing the sticks with their short-handled shovels. They worked in the tiny, dark space between their straw mats and the wall, using muted, slow motions.
Doran, despite his bulk, was learning to block and parry. Aris was teaching him the concept of using his size not as a target, but as a wall of controlled friction.
"Block low!" Aris hissed, tapping Doran's ankle with the shovel handle.
"I don't get it, Aris. Why all this focus on blocking? We're infantry fodder. We just stab," Doran whispered.
"The soldier stabs," Aris corrected. "The survivor doesn't get stabbed. You are the shield, Doran. If you break, I break. So you learn to conserve, to defend, to outlast."
As they were practicing a sweep-and-block maneuver, a loud snort came from the straw pile next to them.
A lanky, older boy named Jev, a petty thief from a Northwatch city who had been conscripted for stealing a horse, sat up. He had the sharp, cynical features of someone who had survived solely by his wits.
"You two," Jev drawled, his voice a low sneer. "Playing 'war' with shovels? You look like twin squirrels burying nuts."
Doran immediately bristled, stepping forward to defend their practice. Aris put a calming hand on Doran's forearm.
"We were stretching," Aris said calmly. "The Sergeant teaches the need for flexibility."
"The Sergeant teaches the need for pain, runt," Jev scoffed. "And speaking of pain... you two got the fat bread tonight. I saw it. And I'm hungry."
Jev stood up, towering over Aris. He was armed with a long, heavy belt—a formidable weapon in the tight confines of the barracks.
The other nearby recruits shifted away, not wanting to get involved. Jev was a known bully.
"Hand over whatever scraps you saved," Jev demanded.
Aris met his gaze without flinching. "We ate the bread. There are no scraps."
"You lie well," Jev said, raising the belt. "But I'm going to beat the truth out of you."
Doran stepped fully between Aris and Jev, his posture heavy and deliberate, just as Aris had taught him. "Leave him alone, Jev. Go back to sleep."
Jev laughed, swinging the belt lazily. "Oh, the big dog protects the puppy. Fine. I'll beat you both."
As Jev swung the belt forward, Aris didn't hesitate. He shouted one word.
"Low!"
Doran, whose body had been trained by two years of Aris's secret drilling, instinctively dropped into a deep crouch, bringing his hands up to protect his head and chest.
Jev's belt whistled harmlessly over Doran's head, smashing into the straw mat behind him. Before Jev could recover his balance from the missed swing, Aris moved. He was fast, low, and precise.
He didn't swing a weapon. He didn't punch. He simply drove his head, low and hard, into the soft spot of Jev's stomach, just beneath the ribs.
The impact was shocking. Jev gasped, the air rushing out of his lungs in a wheezing shriek. He dropped the belt and stumbled backward, clutching his gut.
Aris stepped back and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Doran. They were small, but
they were ready.
Jev, dizzy and winded, stared at them. He saw the cold resolve in Aris's eyes and the unwavering defense of Doran's massive body. He realized this wasn't an easy fight; it was a desperate, calculated ambush.
"Next time, you'll regret it, slave," Jev wheezed, stumbling back to his mat.
Aris watched him go, then turned to Doran. "He won't try again. He is afraid of pain he can't predict."
"We won," Doran whispered, adrenaline coursing through him. "We beat a bully."
"No," Aris corrected, picking up the fallen belt and tucking it under his own mat—a useful, heavy length of leather. "We survived a test. Now, let's get two more hours of sleep before the bell rings. And tomorrow, we try for the center of the ration line."