Night in the Drassos Cradle was cruel.
Cold winds slipped through cracked stone, biting harder than hunger. Most of the pit-born boys huddled close for warmth, but Throy sat alone on the old training column that overlooked the south wall. His ribs still ached from yesterday's duel, and his system messages lingered like embers in the back of his mind.
"Establish Foundational Command Unit — Progress: 0/5."
He needed more than strength now. He needed people. The right ones. Not the strongest. Not the loudest. But the ones who wouldn't break.
He started with Tharn.
Not just because of the bond they already had—but because Tharn was chaos incarnate. Reckless, fast, and fearless. The kind of warrior who punched before thinking, but never ran.
Throy found him in the cook tent, stealing bread from a distracted quartermaster.
"You want to build a unit?" Tharn asked between chews.
Throy nodded.
"A real one. Bound by more than command. Brotherhood. Purpose."
Tharn smirked. "Brotherhood sounds soft. But if it means fighting something that makes the Stormfangs piss themselves, I'm in."
The second was Elarin.
A wiry girl with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue. Officially, she wasn't even allowed to train—Drassos Cradle discouraged female recruits. But she shadowed the drills anyway, mimicking forms with a stick from the shadows, faster and more precise than half the trainees on the field.
Throy found her tending to a cracked practice blade behind the armory.
"You fight better than half the pit-born boys," he said.
"I'd say more than half."
"You want a place in something real?"
"How real?"
"Steel. Blood. Fire. And freedom at the end of the road."
She considered him. Then nodded.
"You get me armor that fits, and I'll kill whoever stands in our way."
The third was Ralkon.
Big. Silent. Always watching. The boys called him "the stone" because nothing moved him—praise, pain, or punishment. Most left him alone.
Throy didn't.
He approached him during the morning weapons drill, where Ralkon trained alone with a slab of iron that passed for a practice blade. When their eyes met, Throy only said one thing:
"Not everyone needs to talk. Some of us just stand."
They stared at each other in silence.
Then Ralkon nodded once.
The fourth took longer.
His name was Kel. A healer's apprentice assigned to the pits, barely older than Throy, and far too clean for Cradle life. But he had two things Throy needed—knowledge and nerve.
Kel had once stitched a wound on Tharn's shoulder without flinching, despite Tharn threatening to bite him the whole time.
Throy approached him after training.
"I'm not a fighter," Kel said, hands deep in a tub of antiseptic paste.
"No," Throy said. "But when this world cuts us open, we'll need someone who knows how to put us back together."
Kel hesitated. "And if I say no?"
"Then we'll still bleed, but slower."
Kel cracked a grin. "Fine. But I want a different bunk. I'm not sleeping near Tharn."
[SYSTEM LOG UPDATED]
Action: Recruit Foundational Unit
Unit Established: Iron Vow (Provisional)
Members: Throy, Tharn, Elarin, Ralkon, Kel
Reward Unlocked:
– Squad Interface: Activated
– Leadership Tree: Tier 1 Access
Passive Bonus: Shared Struggle — Squad members gain +5% experience from group combat and +10% resistance to morale loss.
Title Path Option Unlocked: Commander of the Unforged
Progression Tree Updated…
They trained in secret at first.
Drillmasters wouldn't understand—or worse, they would. The Cradle bred lone wolves, not packs. The kind of unity Throy was building was a threat.
So they trained at night, near the shattered wall at the Cradle's edge. No lights, no instructors, no safety.
Only grit.
Elarin sparred Tharn and taught him finesse. Tharn taught Ralkon how to take a hit and swing through it. Ralkon taught Kel how to block, and Kel taught Throy how to stitch a wound with torn thread and boiling water.
And Throy… watched. Adapted. Forged.
One night, while the five of them circled the fire, Elarin leaned in.
"Why do you care?"
Throy didn't pretend not to understand.
"Why not climb up yourself? Take the tests. Join the Stormfangs or the Fang Vanguard. Why drag us with you?"
Tharn looked over. Curious now.
Throy stared at the flames for a long time before answering.
"Because there's no one waiting at the top."
They went quiet.
"I don't want to fight beside people who are there for the name. I want to fight beside people I trust to take a spear for me if it comes to it. People I'd bleed for too."
He looked up.
"That's not a unit. That's a vow."
Later that week, the rival unit revealed itself.
They called themselves the Ashbinders.
Led by a boy named Vekar—tall, cruel, with a voice like oil. The drillmasters liked him. So did the Stormfangs. He was already marked for recruitment.
He made it clear the Cradle didn't need a "pitborn prince and his strays."
One of the Ashbinders jumped Ralkon in the middle of gear duty. He didn't win—but Ralkon broke his nose and the water trough behind him.
After that, it was war.
Throy didn't rise to the bait.
Not yet.
He watched. Waited.
The Ashbinders trained out in the open. Obvious moves. Sharpened steel. No spirit. No bond.
They were a unit only in name.
The Iron Vow, though—they moved together. Sparred without calling commands. Covered weaknesses, shifted stances mid-fight, flowed.
By the end of the month, even the drillmasters began to notice.
Stormfang scouts returned for another round of selections.
And Throy knew—
The trial was coming.