Corvin rose early the next morning, though he barely remembered falling asleep. How could he, he was constantly thinking about the unavoidable march ahead of him. Dawn had just begun to stretch its pale fingers across the sky, casting a soft grey light through the windows. The house was still and quiet—his father had already gone to the docks. That part of the morning never changed. It was a silence Corvin had grown used to, but today it pressed heavier on his chest.
He dressed slowly, pulling on his worn coat and brushing the dust from his sleeves. The smell of bread, slightly burnt, came from the kitchen. He joined his mother and Jelena at the table. The bread was old but warm, and they ate in silence, as if words might shatter the fragile calm holding them together.
Jelena, eyes still heavy with sleep, finished first and excused herself with a half-hearted mumble about washing clothes. His mother lingered a little longer, her eyes tracing Corvin's face like she was trying to remember it.
"I won't be long," he met her gaze and managed a faint smile.
She nodded and reached to take his plate.
The morning air outside was sharp. Corvin tugged his coat tighter and set off toward the town square, boots scuffing against the cobbled road. The sky above was cloudless as if nothing had changed. But the town knew. The tension seeped into every corner of the town.
The square was already full. People stood in a long, slow-moving line that curled around the mayor's platform. Everyone tried to act normal—chatting, laughing, telling the same tired jokes—but Corvin could see it. The stiffness in their posture. The way they clutched their coats. The laughter didn't quite reach their eyes.
He groaned under his breath.
'This line is moving slower than a crippled old person. If war doesn't kill me, bureaucracy will.'
He joined the end of the line and took in the mixture of faces: boys his age and older men with missing teeth and grim stares. None of them looked like soldiers.
And then, just a few places ahead, a figure caught his eye.
Catherine.
Or at least, someone trying very poorly not to be Catherine. The familiar posture, the confident stride, and that unmistakable scowl when someone jostled her. Her long black hair was gone, chopped short in a way that screamed "I did this myself with kitchen scissors." She was wearing baggy clothes clearly stolen from an older brother, and she was standing just a few paces ahead of him.
Corvin blinked. Once. Twice.
'Oh, come on. At least make it difficult for me.'
"Catherine?" he said, blinking.
The figure stiffened, then turned dramatically.
"Victor, is it?" he said, voice barely containing a grin. "You look awfully familiar for someone I've never met."
She stiffened, turned slowly, eyes wide and guilty.
"I-I'm Victor," she said with all the subtlety of a toddler hiding behind a curtain with their feet sticking out. "Definitely not Catherine. Nope. Totally unrelated. Just a normal, manly, draftable boy."
"Right," Corvin said, deadpan. "And I'm the King of the Valerian kingdom"
Catherine groaned, face flushing beneath the dirt she'd smudged on her cheeks.
"I should've padded the shoulders more. Damn it."
He laughed, quietly.
"You look like a walking laundry sack."
"Oh, hush. It was either this or let my brother go. He's the only one earning money now. Dad's stuck in bed, Mom's not far behind."
Corvin's smile faded a little.
"So, this is your grand plan? Playing soldier?"
"Better than doing nothing," she said, lifting her chin. "And besides, it's not like they'll be throwing us into frontlines."
Corvin snorted. "You don't know that."
"Do you?"
He paused.
"No. But still. You could've told me."
"And give you a chance to talk me out of it?" She gave him a knowing look. "You'd make a very persuasive coward."
"That's... accurate."
The line crawled forward. When Catherine reached the clerk's table, the man behind it blinked at her outfit, sighed deeply, and stamped her form anyway.
"Next."
Corvin stepped forward, still amused.
"Why'd you let her through?" he asked quietly, nodding toward Catherine's retreating form.
The clerk barely glanced up. "You think she's the only girl in disguise today? Half the 'lads' in that line don't even shave. The call was too sudden, too strict. We're not about to lampoon desperate families trying to survive. Besides... it's not frontline duty."
Corvin nodded, lips tight.
He scribbled down his information—name, age, height guess—and was handed a form for medical examination. The exam tent was a short walk away, past a few chatting recruits and one very loud chicken.
The examiner—a balding man with a quill behind his ear—measured him quickly.
"160 centimeters… about 50 kilos. No visible issues," the man muttered, squinting at Corvin's arms. "You don't lift, do you?"
The man sighed, wrote something down, and handed him a paper with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for folding laundry.
"Take this to the town hall. You'll get your marching orders there."
Corvin stepped back out into the square. The line hadn't moved much. He glanced around, but Catherine was already gone.
He looked down at the parchment.
It felt heavier than it should.
Then, with a quiet breath, he started walking.