As Ashton and the others turned toward the maps and scattered gear, sunlight slipped across the walls of the West Barracks, catching on worn edges and faded markings. Leo's pulse settled into a calm rhythm. In Eclipse of Astral, he wouldn't be handed a path — he would have to carve one himself.

And from the first glance, he knew this was exactly where he was meant to be.

***********

Chapter 12 — The First Task

The room seemed to sink into silence after the final introduction.

Lantern-light pooled softly along the walls, washing the old stone in muted amber. Shadows stretched and swayed with the trembling flame, long and restless, as though the darkness itself refused to remain still. The faint crackle of the lamp filled the air, its warm, smoky scent mingling with the dry, earthy smell of parchment and the quiet musk of aging leather-bound tomes.

Ashton leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His eyes remained fixed on Leo. It was the gaze of a man who measured, who weighed, who observed every subtle flicker of expression and every unguarded shift in posture.

"So," Ashton began, "I suppose it's time for you to learned exactly what you've walked into."

Leo instinctively straightened, his fingers curling against his knees.

Ashton reached for a small wooden box on the table beside him. Its lid was carved with unfamiliar patterns—sweeping arcs intersected by jagged lines, like constellations broken apart and reformed into some hidden design. He opened it with a soft click, and inside lay a bundle of papers tied with twine, their edges frayed from use.

"We aren't like the other units in the military," Ashton said, untying the bundle with a careful precision that made Leo suspect this was a practiced gesture, something the captain had done many times before when inducting newcomers. "We mostly work with the ordinary people—merchants, travelers, even petty thieves—because danger rarely announces itself where you expect it.

His voice lowered, the weight of the words settling heavily into the room.

"And the threats we deal with aren't the kind you can fight with swords or rifles alone."

Ashton shifted slightly in his chair, the movement slow, deliberate. His gloved fingers interlaced.

"Aberrants."

The word fell into the silence like a stone into still water.

He held Leo's gaze.

"Though beyond these walls… people prefer other names."

A brief pause.

"Veilspawn."

Leo blinked.

"…Monsters?"

Ashton gave a short nod. "From the Outer Realms. Places that should never touch ours, but... sometimes, the veil between worlds grows thin. And when it does, things crawl through. Beasts twisted beyond the rules of our nature. Shadows that move without light. Voices that should not exist."

Leo felt a faint chill trickle down his spine.

"But it's not only the creatures themselves we must worry about," he continued, his voice deepening, 

"It's the ones who welcome them."

"Some organizations," Ashton continued, his voice steady, yet threaded with quiet contempt. "Fanatics who worship some evil gods older than time — and far more merciless. They do not see the monsters as threats, but as sacred messengers."

His gaze did not waver.

"They would sacrifice entire cities to prove their devotion."

Leo's thoughts lurched.

Fragments of half-heard whispers resurfaced from his earliest days within these walls — murmurs of unexplained disappearances, strange symbols etched into stone, and the faint, metallic scent of blood lingering in places untouched by battle.

"And these... cults," Leo said slowly, "they have weapons?"

Ashton's lips curved in something that was not quite a smile. "Weapons. Powers. Rituals passed down through generations—blood-forged contracts with things that should not answer. To wield such things, a person must be... qualified. They must reach a certain rank in their order, prove their loyalty through rituals that would break most people."

Leo could tell from his tone that whatever those trials were, they were not meant to be survived.

He set the first stack of documents on the table before Leo. "These," he said, "are the last few years of cases we've faced. Read them. Study them. You'll find records of incidents, encounters, and even transcripts of interrogations. You'll see what we've fought, and what we've lost."

The paper felt cold in Leo's hands, as though it had been stored somewhere far from the warmth of the room. He glanced down and caught glimpses of the headings—Outer Gate Breach, Mawrech Perimeter, Incident at the charwood Chapel, Subject X Testimony—Partial—before setting them carefully on his lap.

Ashton wasn't finished. He rose from his seat and crossed the room to a tall bookshelf pressed into the far wall. It was an imposing thing, its wood stained nearly black, its shelves crammed with volumes of varying sizes. He ran his hand along the spines until he found what he wanted, pulling free several thick tomes bound in cracked, deep-red leather.

"These," he said as he placed them beside the documents, "are written in the Vorak tongue—an ancient language. It's the foundation of most rituals we use, whether for defense, sealing, or... other purposes."

Leo opened one at random and saw pages filled with twisting characters that seemed to shimmer faintly if he stared too long.

"You'll need to learn it," Ashton said simply. "We still use it in the field. Not because we're traditionalists, but because sometimes, the right word spoken in the right language can change everything. Close a gate. Bind a creature. Or call something to you."

The way he said that last part made Leo's skin prickle.

Ashton's expression softened—slightly. "But before all of that... there's something else you need to understand about our unit."

He returned to his seat, folding his hands on the table. "Every military unit has its own hideout. Most of them are known—visible, even. Not ours. Our is different. You can't just stumble upon it. You can't force your way in."

The captain leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "If someone wants to enter... they need a keyword. Without it, you could walk right past our door a hundred times and never see it. That keyword changes over time, and only those who prove themselves earn it."

Leo felt the weight of his gaze and realized this wasn't just information—it was the beginning of a test.

"That," Ashton said, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, "is your first task. Find the keyword. Find our base. Only then will we officially welcome you into our ranks."

The other officers exchanged knowing looks. One by one, they stood, their movements almost perfectly synchronized. Without a word, they raised their right hands, snapped their fingers—and to Leo's astonishment, their figures began to fade, vanishing into thin air as though dissolving into mist.

The captain's voice followed, growing fainter as his body began to disappear. "Read those documents. Study the books. Connect what you learn. The pieces will point you toward the word you seek."

One by one, they were gone. The last of Ashton's voice faded into the air like smoke. "We'll be waiting."

And then... silence.

Leo sat frozen in the now-empty room, the stack of papers and ancient books weighing heavy in his hands. The air still held the faint trace of whatever magic had just been used, like the echo of a storm long after the clouds had gone.

He looked down at the first file. His mind buzzed with questions, with the enormity of the task ahead. Find the keyword. Find the base. Earn his place.

Somewhere in these documents—in the details of old battles, in the whispers of language—was the answer.

And he would have to find it.