Fort Stonereach was built partially into the side of Mount Drazhale, anchoring it with terraces of steel and blackstone. The towers rose in layers, like thorns carved into the cliff face, while the interior halls burrowed into the mountain's root, kept warm only by aether-lanterns and the will of its defenders.
The sun dipped low over Fort Stonereach, casting long shadows across the yard where over a hundred new conscripts stood in formation. The northern wind whispered across the snow-packed stone, slicing past cloaks and armor alike. Sid stood near the rear of the formation, silent and still, his breath barely visible despite the cold. Around him, others shifted and murmured. Some were awed, others were anxious, but everyone was bound for the same uncertain path.
They had come from every stretch of the northern territories. Common-born and noble alike. The first wave of recruits had arrived two days earlier. The last had rolled in just before sunset. And now they were all gathered, lining up like pawns before the board.
Sid kept his eyes forward, but his thoughts drifted.
This was it. The real beginning.
He had always imagined this moment might feel heavier, more triumphant. He'd fantasized, once, as a child, that he would march proudly under banners, with applause waiting at the gates. That dream had long since died. What stood before him was not glory.
Only the Wall.
The Lord Commander Bastian Varron, the Duke's elder brother and a looming figure within the military structure of the North stepped onto the wooden platform that overlooked the field. His cloak was black trimmed with red, his spear ceremonial but his posture anything but decorative. He looked over the crowd as if searching for something. He was a lean man, with the sharp-eyed scrutiny of a career soldier and the gravel-rough voice of someone who had spent too long barking orders through winter storms. As a master-level aura knight just one step away from the pinnacle, he serves as the strongest deterrent in the North, save for the Duke.
"You stand here," the Fort Lord began, "not as sons or daughters of privilege. Not as bearers of names or heirs to nothing. Not as people of lower statures of society. You are recruits of the Wall. Your blood matters less than your breath. Your name is less than your next step. From this point on, only one thing separates the living from the dead. Discipline."
Sid exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting upward to the Wall beyond the fort. Towering. Endless. As if it could swallow the sky. He could barely make out the silhouette of the watchtowers along its length. That had once seemed distant and untouchable. Now he was beneath its shadow.
"Some of you will rise to serve in the garrisons. Others will be sent elsewhere to do manual labor. Some will not survive at all," the Fort Lord continued. "I won't dress this up. This is not a place for valor. It is where we fight because no one else will."
The wind shifted, whistling down through the high spires of Stonereach. Behind the Fort Lord, four figures stepped forward. All master-level aura knights, their imposing aura hung heavily over the heads of the recruits.
Sid's eyes narrowed.
General Varick Stormeater was the first to step forward. His wild hair was streaked with silver, his body cloaked in furs and his great gauntlets etched with claw-like motifs. His eyes blazed like coals beneath his heavy brow.
"The Wall does not ask," General Varick said in a voice that cracked like ice. "It takes. And those who serve must give bone, blood, and resolve. You will not be coddled. You will not be saved. Earn your survival."
Sid recognized him from the old tales. The Stormeater, who once wrestled a mountain beast into submission. No one had ever proven the story, but few doubted it.
Commander Haldren Vex followed. He swaggered forward, arms folded behind his back, and his wide grin spoke of too many battles and not enough patience. His armor clanked noisily even when standing still.
"Well? Look at you all," Haldren bellowed. "Thinking this is some academy honor roll. Tch. Half of you will break before the climb. The other half'll piss yourselves during it. But hey! Try to prove me wrong. I get bored if no one cries."
Snorts and chuckles broke through the tension, but Sid didn't join in. Vex reminded him of some of the instructors back at the academy exactly like men who enjoyed watching others squirm more than teaching.
Marshal Elira Thorne moved next. She did not speak right away, only studied the recruits with sharp, dissecting eyes. Where Haldren was noisy and Varick imposing, Thorne was a scalpel, basically an instrument that is precise, efficient, and unreadable.
"Inconsistency," she said at last, "is the root of death. It's not your strength I care for. Not your legacy. Only your ability to hold the line when everything breaks around you. If you can't, we will not waste the rations."
Sid caught her gaze, just for a moment. He didn't flinch, but something cold curled in his gut. This woman had no patience for weakness. And unlike the others, she didn't seem to find any of this remotely impressive.
Scoutmaster Kelra stepped forward from the shadows beside the main line. She was lean, clad in dark greens and grays, the sigil of her recon garrison stitched into her cloak. Her eyes were sharp, distant, like someone always scanning a horizon others couldn't see.
"Not all threats march toward you. Some hide. Some wait. My garrison doesn't look for the strongest. We look for those who notice what others don't. Who survive when they're alone. Those who can fight in silence and win in it."
A hush followed. Sid felt something stir in his chest at that. Her words weren't loud. But they stayed.
Bastian stepped up once more.
"You may have come from noble lines," Bastian said, his voice smooth and quiet compared to the others, "or you may be no one at all. It does not matter here. Out there—" he pointed toward the Wall "—there are no pedigrees. Only steel. And only those who wield it well will stand again."
Sid's heart tightened.
He knew that voice. Not intimately. But he'd heard it once, on a day he wished to forget. Lord Bastian had been among those his family served. A distant superior. Now just another pair of eyes weighing his worth.
The speeches ended. The Fort Lord gave one final command.
"Dismissed. Rest tonight. Your first trial begins at dawn."
The field broke into scattered motion. Recruits moved to barracks, trainers shouted directions, and banners were lowered for the night.
Sid did not follow immediately.
He stood there for a moment longer, absorbing it all.
The weight of names.
The absence of his own.
As others began forming into groups of old friends from the Academy reuniting, noble heirs beginning to circle their own, Sid slipped away. He made no alliances. No introductions. He moved to a training ground behind the mess hall and drew his wooden sword.
The cold was a bit deeper here, but he welcomed it. It cleared the mind. Anchored the body.
He moved through drills slowly practicing sword arcs, stances, counters. His body still ached from the journey, but the repetition helped. Form. Function. Foundation.
What he lacked in aura, he would forge in precision.
The moon rose. The yard grew quiet. Inside, laughter echoed from barracks. But Sid remained outside, alone.
He struck the training dummy one last time, then looked up toward the great silhouette of the Wall.
"Tomorrow," he murmured, lowering the sword. "No more hiding."