Gai woke with a start, his heart hammering against his ribs as if jerked from sleep by an unseen force. The dormitory lay quiet except for soft breathing and wooden bedframes occasionally creaking. Something felt wrong—his instincts screamed it. Someone was coming. Straining against the silence, he caught faint footsteps growing louder, more purposeful. He leapt from his narrow cot without thinking, fingers finding the sword beside his bed. The cold hilt steadied him despite his racing pulse.
Before he found his footing, the dormitory door crashed open, slamming against the wooden frame with a boom that startled several boys upright, their faces blank with shock. Oswald dominated the doorframe, military uniform crisp despite the hour, his green cloak marking his rank. His weathered face set in familiar lines of disapproval as he advanced, methodically striking each bedframe with a metal rod, the harsh clanging slicing through lingering drowsiness.
"Wake up, lads!" Oswald bellowed, voice thundering through the room. "You've got ten seconds to get on your feet before I tip you out myself!"
Boys scrambled to comply, limbs tangling in blankets as they fought to rise. Some jumped to attention instantly while others rubbed sleep-crusted eyes, caught between dreams and harsh reality. Gai stood ready, sword gripped tight as Oswald approached. The man paused at his bed just long enough for a curt nod—a recognition without warmth but perhaps a flicker of acknowledgment.
"Get your arses out of bed!" Oswald shouted again, each word sharper than the last. "Bottom bunks, stand at the left of your bed; top bunks, at your right! Move it!"
Chaos erupted as boys stumbled into position, movements clumsy with sleep and fear. The slow learners faced swift consequences—beds upended by Oswald's iron rod, bodies tumbling to hard wood, others yanked upright by calloused hands that could break their necks as easily as they now shattered hopes of more rest. Metal struck wood in rhythmic discipline, playing over rustling blankets and pained groans from those who'd learned too late that in Oswald's world, hesitation brought only suffering.
Gai stood rigid at attention, spine straight, chin high. Around him, others struggled to match the posture Oswald demonstrated—chin up, chest out, shoulders back, stomach in. The man stalked between them like a predator, sharp eyes catching every slumped shoulder and misaligned stance. He shoved bodies into proper position and barked corrections until even the groggiest recruits stood straight.
When sunlight finally crept through the high, narrow windows, it felt like ages had passed. Golden rays lit dust motes floating in the air, an oddly peaceful contrast to the room's tension. Just as Gai's legs began to ache from standing so still, another figure entered.
Sir Maric walked in with effortless authority that silenced even Oswald's commands. His uniform gleamed—every clasp polished to perfection—and his boots struck the wooden floor with precise, sharp clicks. His confidence needed no shouting; it radiated from him naturally.
"Recruits," Sir Maric began, his voice calm yet commanding enough to grip every attention without effort. "I am Sir Maric of the Royal Knights of Arieruro." He paused briefly, gaze sweeping the room as his words settled. "I am in charge of this green barracks and hold absolute command."
Though quiet, each word carried weight that seemed to compress the air. Unlike Oswald's thunderous approach, Sir Maric's authority came from something colder, more calculated—the certainty of a man who never questioned whether his orders would be obeyed.
"You will all remain under my charge for half a year," Maric continued evenly, "and you will be tested on your abilities. At the conclusion of your basic training, you will be transferred to other military occupations as deemed fit by your masters." He paused before adding with finality: "Until then, this is your home."
Those words hung heavy. Some recruits exchanged nervous glances; others stared ahead, faces pale but determined. Gai glanced at Louis beside him whose expression flickered between excitement and terror.
"Good luck," Sir Maric said simply, turning and leaving as quickly as he'd arrived.
Oswald resumed command instantly. "Recruits," he growled, "you are no longer seen as children and will be held fully accountable for your actions as men of this army."
The statement hit like a physical blow. Some boys straightened with pride at being called men perhaps for the first time; others looked ready to be sick from anxiety. Gai felt both emotions churning inside him—fear and determination settling into resolve.
"That is all," Oswald declared after what felt like forever under his scrutinizing gaze. "Now follow me—and do not fall behind."
Not just instructions but a clear threat that sent every recruit hurrying to keep pace as they filed from the dormitory into cool stone corridors. Torchlight cast shifting shadows on damp walls, and chill air bit at skin beneath thin tunics.
They emerged into a sunlit courtyard, squinting against brightness that felt like an assault after days of dim interiors. Gai drank it all in—this new world with its raw edges and brutal clarity. The morning air bit his lungs with each breath, carrying the scent of sweat-soaked earth. Officers barked commands across the grounds while recruits scrambled to obey, their boots pounding rhythmically against packed dirt. Metal struck metal nearby as training swords clashed, the sound carrying clearly across the yard. This place had one purpose: to strip away weakness.
"Keep your eyes open," Gai murmured to Louis, voice barely audible. His gaze never stopped moving, assessing everything. "We're just getting started."
Louis managed a quick nod, his throat working visibly as he swallowed. "I can handle it," he whispered back, but the slight waver in his voice said otherwise. Gai noticed but offered only a short nod. His father would say that some lessons couldn't be taught—only survived.
They fell into formation with the others, lines forming with growing precision. Gai set his jaw and squared his shoulders against the heat bearing down on them, sun reflecting harshly off the stones beneath their feet.
"Move out!" Oswald's command sliced through the murmurs. He pivoted sharply and set off at a punishing pace along the well worn track. Behind him, dozens of boots thundered against stone as the recruits followed.
The track revealed itself as no mere path but a testament to countless drills before theirs—hard-packed and smooth from years of relentless use. As he ran, Gai took in the layout he hadn't noticed before: twelve barracks forming a half-circle around the massive training grounds, each topped with a different coloured pennant snapping in the breeze. Everywhere he looked, recruits were training—running in tight formations, navigating obstacles, or locked in sparring matches that echoed with grunts and sharp commands.
Oswald set a merciless pace, his movements economical and tireless. Gai matched him stride for stride, breathing controlled despite the exertion. Around him, others weren't faring as well—faces reddening, breath coming in harsh gasps.
"Come on!" Oswald shouted without looking back or slowing. "This will feel like a leisurely walk compared to what's coming!"
The threat only hardened Gai's resolve. He pushed harder, jaw clenched tight. Behind him, Louis stumbled, caught himself, and pushed on, his breathing ragged but determined.
By the time they completed the circuit and Oswald led them toward a large building at the compound's center, every recruit was drenched in sweat. The wide doors of the hall stood open, revealing rows of tables and benches waiting inside.
"This," Oswald announced without preamble once they'd entered, "is the green mess hall. Your meals will be taken here." His instructions came rapid-fire, brooking no questions. "From dormitory three, use the unmarked door between dormitories four and five. Or exit through your dormitory's rear onto the training field."
Without another word, he strode to a large table at the front where other officers sat talking quietly. The table's size and craftsmanship stood in stark contrast to the plain furnishings that filled the rest of the hall.
"He's not much for conversation, is he?" Sorren appeared beside Gai, grinning despite the sweat plastering his dark hair to his forehead.
"Man of few words. Mostly the shouted kind," Gai replied, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
Behind them, Mack and Louis staggered forward, leaning on each other. Mack's face was bright red under his blond mop, while Louis looked one step away from collapse.
"I could eat a horse," Sorren announced cheerfully as they approached the serving line where a bored-looking boy barely older than themselves stood behind a trough of food.
"Here," the server muttered, handing each of them a platter with watery porridge, water, and bread that looked hard enough to serve as a weapon.
Mack stared at his meal in disbelief. "Incredible," he said, holding up the bread. "I've seen better food in pig troughs."
The server flicked his eyes toward a bin of scraps. "Don't want it? Dump it there. No one's forcing you to eat."
Mack opened his mouth for a retort until Sorren shot him a warning look. With a mutter about "gourmet slop," he followed the others to an empty bench near the back.
The hall filled quickly with noise—excited chatter from some corners, nervous silence from others. Guards stationed at each door intercepted the few recruits who tried to leave early, sending them back with curt orders and stern glares.
Gai felt it before he saw it—tension building like pressure before a storm. Every hushed conversation, every nervous glance toward the officers' table told him something was coming. His instincts rarely failed him.
Sure enough, moments later ten officers rose from their seats and formed a line facing the recruits.
"Recruits!" A massive officer by the door bellowed, his voice powerful enough to rattle the rafters. "Stand to attention!"
Benches scraped across stone as everyone leapt to their feet. The hall fell instantly silent except for the rustle of movement as all eyes turned toward Sir Maric, who entered through the main doors with an authority that needed no announcement—a presence that commanded the room without effort.
"Recruits! At ease," the commanding officer ordered, his voice slicing through the nervous chatter. "Take your seats."
The sea of youths snapped to attention before awkwardly shuffling back to their benches. The officer strode to center stage, each boot strike against the wooden platform demanding respect. His rigid posture and weathered face told stories of battles these recruits had only heard in tales. Behind him stood a row of officers, faces impassive, their scars and bearing testament to campaigns fought for their kingdom.
Once the last recruit settled, silence fell. The officer's calculating gaze swept across the hall, seeming to assess each recruit individually before he spoke.
"This is Green Barracks at full capacity—four hundred of you seated here today." He gestured toward them with a practiced sweep. "Each of the twelve barracks surrounding the field holds the same."
Whispers rippled through the room as recruits processed the numbers.
"That's nearly five thousand other kids out there," Sorren muttered to Gai, eyes wide.
Louis leaned in, nervously glancing around. "Not just kids—an army in training."
"Silence!" The officer's voice cracked like a whip. "This training ground is merely one piece of our military. Three other castles across our nation maintain similar operations. We do this because we are surrounded by threats—major powers to the north, Draconian tribes raiding from the south and alliances of convenience to our east." His tone hardened. "When your training concludes, you will face combat. Many of you won't return."
The room went still. Gai noticed white knuckles and pale faces all around him as the words sank in.
"These officers," the commander continued, indicating the line of veterans behind him, "have faced what awaits and survived to guide you. Their instruction isn't advice—it's survival knowledge paid for in blood. The defence of our nation must become your only priority."
He paced the front row, scanning their faces. "Now for the ground rules."
Every recruit leaned forward, tension palpable.
"By nightfall, you'll receive soldier's kits—your lifelines in training and eventually in battle. Treat them accordingly. Ignorance about their care won't be tolerated."
Murmurs died quickly when he raised his hand.
"Second—while training facilities are available for your use, don't mistake access for freedom. Leaving these grounds without authorization is forbidden. Guards patrol constantly. Attempts to leave will result in immediate detention."
Gai's stomach tightened. No way out until they'd served their purpose.
"Lastly," the officer halted, his gaze harder than steel, "each of you will receive an army brand marking you as part of this force. This identifies your allegiance and rank. Direct any questions to your dormitory officer."
"Does it hurt?" Louis whispered to Sorren, barely audible.
Sorren shrugged. "Can't be that bad," he replied with false confidence. "Just a tattoo, not hot metal or anything."
"My father has one," Gai whispered, glancing between them. "Intricate design covering his back."
"Pop mentioned that once," Sorren nodded. "Said the fancier it is, the higher their rank."
"Yeah," Gai said with quiet pride. "They add to it with each promotion. Most soldiers just end up with marks down their arms. He wouldn't tell me what rank he held though"
"Dormitory One!" barked an officer suddenly. "Rise and follow!"
They jumped to their feet amid hushed whispers, falling into line behind their designated officer as they filed out toward their quarters.
Gai and his group trudged back to their now familiar quarters, the room's distinct blend of leather, oil, and straw mattresses greeting them like an old acquaintance. They crowded around wooden crates that hadn't been there before—their promised soldier's kits.
Each crate yielded identical treasures: a polished spear resting atop everything, a bow and quiver filled with red and black fletched arrows, a bone-handled knife that caught the light, and a short sword in a plain scabbard wrapped with cloth strips for better grip. Beneath the weapons lay two rough woollen tunics, a sturdy leather belt and sandals with straps thick enough to withstand miles of marching.
Gai ran his fingers across his equipment, the coarse fabric of the tunic and cool metal of the sword pommel grounding him in this new reality. Across from him, Louis was already fumbling with his bow, fingers tangling in the string as he tried to nock an arrow.
"Twist it tighter at the notch," Gai said, stepping over to help.
"Thanks," Louis muttered, embarrassment colouring his voice as he handed it over. "Never handled one before."
"You'll learn quickly enough," Gai replied with a slight smile. "Not like we have options."
A throat cleared sharply, drawing everyone's attention to Oswald standing centre-room, hands clasped behind his back. The recruits straightened instinctively, though he made no move to scold their chatter.
"Recruits," he began, his deep voice commanding without hostility. "Stand at ease and listen." His boots clicked softly against stone as he paced. "This training kit is simple but sufficient. Based on your skills, some may transfer to specialized units—archers, cavalry, engineers, magisters." His sharp eyes caught those who fidgeted or avoided his gaze. "Treat this equipment as your lifeline—because soon it will be."
Only creaking wood broke the silence as someone shifted nervously. Oswald's expression softened marginally, though nobody would mistake it for warmth. "Most of you have already formed friendships. Good—we encourage squad camaraderie. Men fight harder beside brothers." He paused before adding, "Anyone wishing to rearrange sleeping quarters to be near trusted companions, do so now by mutual agreement."
Glances were exchanged, some nodding subtly while others hesitated.
"Decide quickly," Oswald snapped, not unkindly. "And one more thing." His tone dropped, carrying an unmistakable warning beneath practical words. "You'll each be branded today."
Uneasy whispers spread through the room. Gai's stomach tightened at the word. He'd imagined military hardships—gruelling marches, harsh discipline—but not this permanent marking of his skin.
"Won't take long," Oswald said matter-of-factly as three knocks sounded at the door. When he opened it, an older man entered carrying a leather satchel that clinked with tools. His lined face showed the efficiency of someone who'd performed this task countless times.
The tattooist set up quickly at a corner table. One by one, recruits were called to receive their mark—a wing with a single line beneath it etched onto their inner forearm. When Gai's turn came, he stepped forward with reluctance but didn't hesitate.
As he extended his arm across the table, Oswald watched silently until the needle pierced skin. Only then did he speak quietly to Gai alone.
"The wing represents Arieruro—the capital garrison you now serve—and the single line marks your rank: recruit." He paused, seeming to weigh his next words before continuing in a voice cold as steel, "This identifies you throughout our nation—and beyond. If you ever abandon your post..." He let the threat hang unfinished but perfectly clear.
Gai nodded stiffly; words seemed pointless under that piercing gaze.
After everyone was marked and dismissed to lunch, nobody discussed what had happened—not yet. Instead, they focused on their meal: spiced bean stew with warm crusty bread. The hall hummed with subdued conversation interrupted by occasional laughter as tension slowly eased.
Their break ended quickly. After scraping their bowls clean, they were herded to training fields where Oswald's endless drills awaited.
"Feet wider apart!" he barked at one struggling recruit before turning to another fumbling with sword grip. "No—like this!" He grabbed the weapon, demonstrated with fluid precision, then thrust it back.
Gai threw himself into each movement with practiced ease, his father's relentless training evident in every strike. While others winced from fresh blisters, his calloused hands gripped the weapon firmly, muscle memory taking over. Sweat dripped into his eyes, but he blinked it away without breaking form. Around him, the training yard filled with a symphony of struggle—pained grunts, muttered curses, and the satisfying thud of practice weapons finding their marks.
By dusk, exhaustion clung to everyone as they trudged to dinner: roasted meat with vegetables and bread—modest but welcome after the day's trials.
That night in their quarters, most fell asleep instantly; snores filling the room in uneven rhythm. But Gai stayed awake longer, mentally reviewing Oswald's instructions and visualizing each drill until sleep finally claimed him.
So began weeks that blended into one relentless routine: pre-dawn marches before breakfast followed by hours of weapons training until muscles burned and minds sharpened.