The days diverted Varek’s focus to training and practice.

The morning sun had barely risen when he strode onto the training grounds. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of iron and sweat. Rows of new recruits were lined up, wooden training staves clutched tightly in their hands, eyes wide with both fear and determination. Their instructors moved among them with heavy hands and louder voices, barking orders, striking without mercy.

Varek’s eyes swept across the yard, settling on one boy who had just taken a particularly hard blow. The boy stumbled, dropping his weapon with a clatter, clutching his shoulder. An enforcer raised his arm for another strike, the muscles in his jaw tight with pride.

Varek’s jaw tightened as he watched, a cold dread coiling low in his stomach. Every swing, every shout of encouragement for cruelty, made his stomach twist. This isn’t teaching. This is making killers. And yet… here he was, tasked to mold the next generation of zealots. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat, stepping forward. Someone had to temper this madness, if only to save what little humanity remained in these boys.

“Enough,” Varek said, his voice cutting through the morning air. Even over the clash of wood on wood, the command carried weight. The enforcer froze, mid-motion, his strike halted in midair.

“Yes, Marshal,” the man said, lowering his arm but still frowning, “but we were told not to hold back. If they are to survive in the field—”

“I said this is enough,” Varek interrupted, stepping forward. He did not raise his voice, did not let his eyes blaze. His presence alone shifted the air, silencing the yard. He held out a hand to the young boy, pulling him to his feet.

He turned back to the enforcer. “If you want to test your strength, fight me.”

The enforcer hesitated, pride battling logic. Around them, the recruits watched in wide-eyed silence, unsure whether to breathe. Then, with a growl of frustration, the man attacked.

Varek moved with measured precision. He did not charge. He did not strike recklessly. Every block and parry was calculated, efficient, almost effortless. He guided the enforcer’s momentum, redirecting it, using it against him. Within moments, the man was off balance, tripping on his own misjudgement, and fell hard to the ground.

Varek extended a steady hand. “Lesson’s not in brute force. It’s in knowing when to strike, and when to hold back.”

The enforcer swallowed, chest heaving, pride bruised more than body. He took the hand with reluctance but acceptance. “Understood, Marshal.”

Varek’s gaze swept over the yard again. The new recruits stood straighter, eyes bright with newfound respect. The other instructors lowered their voices, exchanged glances, muttering acknowledgements of his skill and restraint.

He breathed in, a slow, controlled inhalation, letting the rhythm of the yard settle. He observed the smallest details: a young recruit’s uncertain grip, a shadow of doubt flickering across an older trainee’s face, the careful sway of the enforcer now humbled on the ground.

It was quiet, but not still. The clang of weapons continued, the shuffle of feet, the occasional grunt. Varek’s mind, however, was far from noise. He considered each movement, each choice. Here, control mattered. Here, one misstep could cost someone their life.

He glanced at the recruits again, noting the subtle shift in the older instructors’ approach. They were careful now, restrained, if only slightly. Respect had been earned, not demanded.

A moment later, he walked between the rows of young soldiers, correcting posture, offering small adjustments, showing how a block could redirect energy rather than break bones. His hands moved precisely, demonstrating technique without aggression.

“Remember,” he said to a boy whose arm trembled from overcompensation, “strength is nothing if it cannot be controlled. You will survive this training, but survival alone is not enough. You must learn to move as if your mind guides your body, not the other way around.”

The boy nodded, blinking back awe. Around them, whispers carried: Marshal Varek moves like he’s not even touching them. The Marshal doesn’t break you to teach you.

Varek felt the weight of their gazes but did not flinch. This was his element: calm, precise, commanding respect without cruelty. He knew it was a rare thing, even in the Arcanum.

By midday, the yard was quiet again. The recruits had been rotated out, the instructors reminded to temper their hands, and Varek stood alone, examining the worn practice staves, the faint traces of blood already wiped away. He rubbed a hand across his temple, letting the tension ebb.

No one had seen him falter here. No one had seen the fleeting thought at the edge of his mind: the image of a small herbalist shop, of hands that healed and soothed rather than struck. He shook it away and picked up the notebook at the edge of the training area. Reports awaited, assessments to complete.

He rolled his eyes with a silent groan. He hated this place. Its cruelty, its certainty, its righteousness. Every report, every drill, every assessment felt like a stitch in a uniform he no longer wanted to wear. Yet he continued. His loyalty had withered long ago, once he saw their truth, but he hoped that there was still a way out that didn’t require him to die.

There had to be a way for him to have a life beyond these walls, away from these murderers, away from his past. A life where his hands could protect, rather than harm.

And somewhere in the back of his mind, like a faint whisper he couldn’t quite grasp, he remembered a pair of gentle hands, the warmth of a quiet smile, and the small jar that smelled of honey and sunlight.

He exhaled, deep and quiet. Somewhere, impossible and stubborn, lived a thought he could not push away: that life could be different. He could be different.

He let the thought linger just long enough to make the world seem slightly less empty.

_______

Author note:

Varek's patience and resilience are tested every day in the Arcanum. Will he find a way out, or is he trapped in the order?