The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the training grounds as the recruits moved through their drills. Dust clung to their sweat-slicked skin, and the air rang with the rhythmic thwack of wooden practice blades striking straw dummies.

The physical training was relentless, designed to forge their bodies into weapons as much as their magic.

Running Circuits. They sprinted laps around the perimeter of the courtyard, their boots kicking up dirt as they pushed through burning lungs and trembling legs. The nobles, used to horseback riding, lagged behind, while the commoners, accustomed to hard labor, found their second wind quickly.

Then the strength drills. Heavy sandbags were hoisted onto shoulders, carried across the yard, and dropped with a thud before turning back to do it again. Lira, with her stablehand's strength, outpaced even some of the guards, her freckled face set in grim determination.

And lastly weapons practice. Blunted swords and spears were thrust into their hands, and they drilled the same motions over and over, parry, thrust, slash, block. Felrin, despite his noble upbringing, moved with surprising grace, though he muttered curses under his breath with every repetition. Ryna, ever the scholar, adjusted her grip minutely each time, as if testing for the most efficient angle.

Lonk moved through the exercises with quiet efficiency, his muscles remembering drills he never spoke of learning.

As the others continued their rotations, Instructor Hark, with her dark skin glistening with sweat, her tightly coiled hair pulled back in a practical knot, signaled for Lonk to follow her to the shaded edge of the courtyard.

She studied him for a long moment, her sharp eyes missing nothing. "You move like someone who's been fighting longer than you've been talking," she said finally.

Lonk wiped his brow with the back of his hand. "Had a lot of siblings. Arguments got physical."

She snorted. "Try again."

"Raised by wolves?" he offered, flashing a grin.

"Closer," she said dryly. "But I'm not here to dig up your past. I'm here because you're wasted just running drills."

Lonk raised an eyebrow.

She crossed her arms. "You've got instincts the others don't. And we don't have time for them to learn the hard way." She jerked her chin toward the recruits. "Help me train them."

Lonk hesitated. "I'm not exactly the teaching type."

"Don't care," she said bluntly. "You know how to survive. That's what they need."

A pause. The sounds of training filled the silence, wood clacking against wood, labored breaths, the occasional shout of frustration.

"Why me?" Lonk asked finally.

Hark's expression darkened. "Because the easterners aren't waiting for us to catch up. Because half of these kids will be dead in a year if they don't learn faster." She met his gaze. "And because you fight like someone who's already seen war."

Lonk held her stare for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"Fine. But I'll not be called 'teacher.'"

Hark smirked. "Wouldn't expect you to."

When they returned to the group, Hark barked for attention. "Listen up! From now on, Lonk here is your new sparring partner. Try not to die."

Felrin groaned. "Oh, wonderful. Now he'll be insufferable."

Ryna adjusted her grip on her practice sword, eyeing Lonk with wary curiosity. Lira just cracked her knuckles.

Lonk rolled his shoulders and stepped forward, a faint smirk playing at his lips. "Alright. Who's first?"

The groans were almost unanimous.

The sun dipped below the castle walls, painting the training yard in long shadows as the recruits limped back to their quarters. Every muscle ached, every bruise throbbed in time with their heartbeat. The middle-tier recruits, neither pampered nobles nor hardened commoners, had been given meager rations: a heel of stale bread and a single cup of thin ale that tasted more of sour oats than barley.

Lonk's sparring partners, Felrin, Ryna, Lira, Edric, and the quiet logging twin Jaren, trailed behind him like wounded soldiers. Felrin leaned heavily on Ryna's shoulder, his usual swagger reduced to a wince with every step.

"I think," Felrin groaned, "my legs have officially declared independence from the rest of my body."

Lira, despite her own exhaustion, smirked. "That's what you get for trying to show off with that spin move."

"It was a tactical flourish—"

"It was a disaster," Ryna corrected, though her own arms trembled from hours of sword drills.

Edric, ever the pragmatist, was already cataloging his injuries. "Bruised ribs. Sprained wrist. And I'm fairly certain my left knee is plotting a mutiny."

Jaren, who had spoken maybe ten words since they arrived, simply collapsed onto his cot with a muffled grunt.

Lonk, unsurprisingly the least battered of them all, tossed his bread onto his bedroll and stretched, rolling his shoulders. "Could've been worse."

Felrin gaped at him. "How? Unless the next part of training involves being trampled by horses—"

"It might," Lira said cheerfully.

Felrin groaned louder.

They ate in weary silence at first, the bread dry and the ale barely enough to wet their throats. But as the last of the daylight faded, replaced by the flicker of a single candle, the conversation turned, as it always did, to survival through humor.

Felrin held up his empty cup. "To our esteemed instructors," he announced, "for teaching us that pain is just weakness leaving the body. Or possibly sanity."

Ryna snorted into her book. "I'd settle for a lecture on how to heal blisters."

"Page forty-two," Edric said, pointing to her hydromancy text. "Water magic can reduce swelling. Hypothetically."

"Hypothetically," Ryna repeated, shooting him a dry look. "Because of course I've mastered advanced healing in between nearly dying in drills."

Lira stretched out on her cot, arms behind her head. "At least you didn't get thrown into a wall today." Looking at Felrin with a mocking smile.

"That was one time," Felrin muttered.

"Twice," Lonk corrected.

"Thank you, Lonk."

Jaren, to everyone's surprise, spoke up. "Three times."

Felrin gasped in betrayal. "Et tu, Jaren?"

The room dissolved into tired laughter. Even Ryna, usually so reserved, let out a quiet chuckle as she marked her place in her book.

Lonk leaned back against the wall, watching them. It was strange, this camaraderie. Unfamiliar. But not unwelcome.

Felrin caught his expression and raised an eyebrow. "What? No witty remark?"

Lonk shrugged. "Just thinking how easy it'd be to rob all of you right now."

"Ah, there it is."

Lira yawned. "If you steal my boots, I'm breaking your nose."

"Noted."

One by one, the candle burned lower, and the room settled into the quiet rhythms of exhaustion. Bruises would fade. Muscles would heal. And tomorrow, they'd do it all again.

But for now, in the dark, they were just six kids pretending they weren't afraid.

Dawn crept over the castle walls, pale and indifferent. The recruits ate their breakfast in near silence, their bodies still heavy with yesterday's exhaustion. The bread was stale, the porridge thin, but no one complained. Complaining wasted energy, and energy was in short supply.

Lonk chewed methodically, his gaze distant. Beside him, Felrin nursed a bruised rib, wincing every time he shifted. Ryna scribbled notes in the margins of her book, her brow furrowed. Lira and Edric traded quiet remarks about the day's likely drills, while Jaren, as usual, said nothing at all.

Then the instructor, Hark, appeared in the doorway, her arms crossed. "Up," she barked. "We're training outside today."

Felrin groaned. "Of course we are."

The morning sun cast long shadows across the castle grounds as Hark strangely led her recruits through the nobles' courtyard. The air here smelled of citrus and lavender, a stark contrast to the sweat and iron of the training yards. Highborn recruits lounged beneath silk canopies, their laughter sharp and effortless, their hands unmarked by calluses.

Lonk kept his gaze forward, but he felt the weight of their stares like a physical touch.

"You."

The voice cut through the courtyard like a blade. The broad-shouldered noble from the bridge, the one whose finger Lonk had shattered with the exploding ring, stepped into their path. His hand was healed now, but his expression was anything but forgiving.

"I owe you a rematch," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

The courtyard fell silent. Even the Montclair heir paused, a grape halfway to his lips.

Lonk didn't stop walking. "Pass."

The noble's lip curled. "Coward."

Hark didn't slow. "Keep moving."

But then the noble's instructor, a tall, silver-haired man with the bearing of a retired general, stepped forward. "Enough, Cadmus. This isn't the time."

Cadmus ignored him. His eyes burned into Lonk's back. "You think you're clever? Slipping around like a rat? Fight me properly."

Lonk exhaled through his nose but kept walking.

Then Hark stopped. She turned, slow and deliberate, and studied Cadmus with the detached interest of a hawk eyeing prey.

"You want a duel?" she asked.

The noble's instructor stiffened. "That's not—"

"Yes," Cadmus snapped.

Hark's smile was a razor. "Good."

Lonk turned sharply. "What?"

Hark ignored him, addressing Cadmus instead. "Here's the deal. You fight him now, in front of everyone. No tricks. No excuses. And when you lose—" She tilted her head. "—you don't bother him again."

Cadmus's grin was feral. "When I win, he admits what he is."

"And what's that?" Hark asked, though her tone suggested she already knew.

"A fraud."

The courtyard held its breath. Hark looked at Lonk. "Your call."

Lonk met Cadmus's gaze. The noble was bigger, stronger, better fed. But his eyes burned with something reckless, something untempered by real hardship.

Lonk cracked his neck. "Fine."

The nobles erupted into cheers.

Hark's expression didn't change, but somethingin her eyes said, Prove me right. 

Chapter 8 - End