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.