Two weeks in, and boot camp had already wrung the comfort out of Gilbert and Kael's bodies like water from a rag.
Mornings were the worst. The shrill whistle would pierce the barracks before dawn, and seconds later the instructors' voices would roar through the door, barking orders like they'd been awake for hours just waiting to make everyone miserable.
For Gilbert, the early runs and endless push-ups were exhausting but bearable. For Kael, they were a personal vendetta.
"Up! Faster!" the lead instructor shouted one morning as Kael lagged behind.
Kael muttered under his breath, "If I go any faster, I'll be running backward in time…"
"What was that, recruit?!"
"Nothing, sir!" Kael yelled back, but Gilbert caught the smirk.
It didn't help that the instructors were relentless about discipline—boots polished to a mirror shine, uniforms pressed without a wrinkle, weapons spotless. Any slip-up was met with "corrective training," which was a nice way of saying more pain until you learn your lesson.
In between drills, Gilbert began noticing the other recruits. That's when he met Ellior.
Ellior was tall, clean-cut, and carried himself with the posture of someone who'd been raised in a noble household. He spoke with quiet confidence, but without arrogance, and his determination seemed to radiate from every word he spoke.
When Gilbert introduced himself, Ellior tilted his head. "No surname?"
Gilbert shook his head. "Orphan."
Ellior's smile didn't falter. "Then you'll make your own name here. Sometimes, that's better than inheriting one."
Those words stuck with Gilbert. It wasn't flattery—it was conviction.
Meanwhile, Kael managed to make himself memorable to every instructor… just not in the way anyone wanted. Whether it was accidentally blowing dust into a drill sergeant's face during magic spell practice or mouthing off at the wrong time, Kael seemed determined to collect punishments like trophies.
By the end of each day, Gilbert's body ached, Kael's ego had taken at least one dent, and the two of them were still standing—barely.
Boot camp was harsh, but it was shaping them. And for Gilbert, meeting people like Ellior made him wonder if this place might do more than just train soldiers—it might be where he started building the life he'd never had.
The barracks were supposed to be a place of rest after drills.
Supposed to be.
Instead, the air was thick with the noise of half a dozen overlapping conversations, the scrape of boots, and the occasional clatter of someone's gear hitting the floor.
Cassian Draven sat at one end of the room, flashing his usual self-assured grin at a pair of recruits passing by.
"Hey, ladies—did you know I once boiled a river just by standing in it?"
They didn't even slow down.
"That's a no? You'll come around."
Gilbert almost felt bad for him. Almost.
Kael, however, wasn't so merciful. He leaned on his bunk with an expression that screamed what a weirdo.
Cassian caught it instantly. "You got a problem, Wind Boy?"
"Only that you're—"
"Say that again and I'll take you in the ring right now."
Kael's grin widened. "You're on."
Before fists—or worse—could get involved, Gilbert slipped between them with an awkward smile. "Let's… not get thrown into extra drills for brawling in the barracks, yeah?"
Across the room, three girls had their heads together in a quiet gossip huddle.
Clara Brightspar's voice was impossible to miss—bright, upbeat, and carrying the kind of enthusiasm that could fill the whole room. "I'm telling you, Kael's going to get himself killed before week three."
Sienna Thornfield, lounging beside her, smirked but didn't add much, simply nodding as if she'd seen this all before.
Marina Calloway stood with them too, soft-spoken, her input quieter but carrying just enough to make the others laugh.
Nina Frostbloom sat nearby, reserved and watchful, speaking only when she felt the need—which, apparently, wasn't now.
Aira Lockwood was perched at the edge of the group, silent as ever, content to listen without being pulled into the chatter.
In the farthest corner, Vera Falker leaned against the wall with her arms crossed, cool eyes scanning the chaos without a single word.
The rest of the men were scattered, minding their own business. Ronan Steelheart polishing his boots with methodical precision. Victor Dreadmoor sat in his bunk, sharpening a dagger with slow, deliberate strokes. Ezra Nightshade lounged like he had all the time in the world, while Reynand "Rey" Gallant swapped exaggerated adventure stories with Garrick Bloodaxe. Theo Ironhood hunched over a maintenance kit, his focus unshakable.
Near the center, Ellior and a wiry young man named Finn Vern had been cornered by the noise. Finn seemed awkward, caught between wanting to leave and not wanting to be rude, while Ellior looked like he was silently questioning every life choice that brought him here.
It was chaos—loud, restless chaos—until the door slammed open.
Darius Stonehelm, their squad leader, stormed in like a thunderclap. Built like a fortress and twice as immovable, he scanned the room with the glare of a man already out of patience.
"What," he barked, voice like gravel grinding against steel, "is going on in here?"
The room froze.
Kael's smirk vanished. Cassian straightened. Clara's voice cut off mid-sentence. Even Ronan paused in his boots polishing.
Gilbert had the sinking feeling they were all about to regret whatever this was turning into.
The room was silent after Darius's bark, every recruit standing stiff as a row of pikes.
He strode to the center, a thick stack of papers in hand. The folder was battered, corners bent from heavy use. He flipped it open without looking up.
"My name is Commander Darius Stonehelm," he began, voice steady but loud enough to carry to the farthest bunk. "I am your batch leader. I've survived three wars, four sieges, and more skirmishes than I care to count. I've been in the dirt long enough to see men better than you buried in it. And for the next four months, I will turn you all into real soldiers and join me in hell. You'll either break out there and survive or I'll send you back home as a corpse."
He raised the first sheet. "Batch 1939. That's you. Every one of you will remember that number, because it will be shouted at you every time you screw up—which will be often."
His eyes narrowed as he scanned the first name.
"Elior Thunderstrike. Twenty-one. Electrical magic—channels lightning through sword or hands for rapid strikes and ranged attacks."
He glanced up. "Sounds impressive. Try not to fry yourself."
Next page.
"Gilbert. Eighteen. Water magic—novice in offense, competent in defense, and healing. Water manipulation , barriers, adaptive tactics." Darius grunted. "We'll see if that adaptability of yours survives the mud."
Flip.
"Kael. Eighteen. Wind magic—agility, airflow control, wind blades, a disrutor." His gaze locked on Kael. "Perfect for causing trouble, which I'm sure you'll excel at."
Next.
"Cassian Draven. Twenty. Fire-enhanced swordsmanship—devastating close-range combat and medium-range slashes." Darius didn't even look up. "Save the bragging for after you win a fight."
Another page.
"Nina Frostbloom. Twenty. Ice magic—freezing, barriers, slowing movement. Battlefield planner." His eyebrow twitched. "Good. Maybe you can cool down the idiots in this room."
Flip.
"Marina Calloway. Nineteen. Water magic—healing and defensive support, limited offense." He tapped the page. "You'll be keeping a lot of these morons alive. Don't let that go to your head."
Next sheet.
"Aira Lockwood. Twenty. Illusion magic—creates false images to confuse enemies." Darius snorted. "I've met illusionists who fooled themselves. Don't be one of them."
He continued.
"Ronan Steelheart. Twenty-two. Ground magic—bolsters strength, creates crushing attacks. Defensive type. We'll see how well you hold when the ground's actually moving under you."
He set aside the magical group and moved to the rest.
"Vera Falkner. Twenty-one. Non-magical—expert in hand-to-hand and grappling. No magic means no excuses."
"Garrick Bloodaxe. Twenty-four. Non-magical—dual-axe fighter, brute force." Darius gave him a once-over. "Try not to chop off your own foot."
"Reynard Gallant. Twenty-three. Non-magical—shield-bearer, defensive combat. Good. You'll be a wall. Just don't be a door."
"Victor Dreadmoor. Twenty-four. Non-magical—assassin, stealth and traps." Darius's tone flattened. "You'll have your uses… if you can keep your mouth shut."
"Theo Ironwood. Twenty-two. Non-magical—brawler with immense strength." He flicked the page. "We'll see if those muscles last longer than your breath."
"Finn Vernn. Eighteen. Non-magical—novice archer, ranged combat." Darius's eyes flicked toward Finn. "Novice means useless until proven otherwise."
"Ezra Nightshade. Twenty-two. Non-magical—stealth and reconnaissance." He nodded once. "Scouts live longer than idiots. Usually."
"Clara Brightspar. Nineteen. Non-magical—sniper, exceptional precision." Darius didn't smile. "Don't miss. That's it. Don't miss."
"Sienna Thornfield. Twenty. Non-magical—former thief, skilled in traps." His voice hardened. "If anything goes missing in this camp, I'll know where to start looking."
He closed the folder with a snap. "That's all of you. You're Batch 1939. You're mine until you either end this war or die. And trust me—you'll pray to graduate before you ever see me smile."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush bone.