By the time the second sun rose above the Tarakin banners hanging over the South Garrison, the training yard was already filled with the clatter of armor and the dull thump of boots on packed dirt.
There were thirty-six of us.
Some looked barely older than I was—seventeen, maybe eighteen. A few were pushing thirty, already hardened by street life or labor camps. Most were human, scraped from villages, alleyways, or noble houses looking to be rid of their second or third sons.
I was the only Aelarian.And I could feel it in every glance.
"Form ranks!"
Halvren's voice cracked through the air like a whip.
We lined up in rows of six. Dirt stuck to our boots. Our breath misted faintly, though the sun had already begun to burn the morning cool away.
The drill officer from the day before, the one with the twisted nose and lazy eye, stepped forward with a roll of parchment.
"Roll call. When I say your name, step forward, shout your number, and hold."
The first name was barked.
"WELLEN!"
A broad-shouldered farmboy with hay-colored hair stepped out. "One, sir!"
Next.
"GAVREN!"
"Two, sir!"
And so on.
I waited, heart steady but slow, watching each one take their place in the ranks. When he finally hit "Liora," there was a pause.
He didn't say a surname just "Liora. Refugee."
I stepped forward. "Nineteen, sir."
After roll call, we were grouped into squads of six, meant to train, sleep, and march together for the next 3 months.
Of course, I ended up in Squad Four.
And we were… different.
Squad Four Roster:
Liora – me.
Riken – still rubbing the rune on his arm like it itched. "We're the cursed squad, huh?" he whispered.
Danya – a pale girl with long, uneven black hair and a burn scar across her jaw. She hadn't spoken yet, but she watched everyone like a hawk.
Brayden – gangly, too tall for his gear, and always fidgeting. His voice cracked every third word.
Malric – bald, heavy-browed, arms covered in prison tattoos. Said he was "just here to avoid the rope."
Vell – small, soft-spoken, but strangely calm. Her eyes were the palest green I'd ever seen, and she walked like she was used to silence.
We stood apart from the others. Not by choice. Just by how the lines had been drawn.
Riken leaned toward me. "Either we become the Empire's deadliest squad…"
"Or?"
"Or we die hilariously on day two."
Before training resumed, Vaelen arrived again.
This time, he stood beside a massive chalkboard covered in Imperial sigils, strange looping glyphs, and elemental diagrams. Behind him sat the crystal orb from yesterday—still faintly glowing.
"Each of you who showed magical resonance will report here at midday, after physicals," he announced. "Do not miss it. And do not fake it. The orb remembers."
Riken sighed beside me. "I was hoping that was a fever dream."
"Too late," I said.
He glanced sideways. "You're not nervous?"
I didn't answer.
Truth was—I was terrified.
Not of magic.Of what it meant if I had it.Of what they might do with it.
Training that morning was brutal.
Halvren made good on his promise. We sparred again—but this time in full squads, iron blades in hand. No helmets. No padding. Just instinct and pain.
We didn't win a single match.
Malric nearly knocked Brayden out cold in the first clash. Danya refused to attack unless cornered. Vell dodged everything but wouldn't strike. Riken got winded fast. And me?
I was fast.
But not fast enough.
Tessa's squad wiped the floor with us during rotation. She barely glanced at me as her blade smacked into my ribs again and again.
But she didn't smirk. Didn't insult.
Just moved on.
"Squad Four!" Halvren called as we dragged ourselves to the shade. "You're raw. Soft. Sloppy. But you've got room to grow. Barely. Make something of yourselves or get reassigned to trench digging by frostfall."
Brayden groaned. "I can already feel my dignity dying."
"You had dignity?" Riken asked.
"I'm trying to be positive."
At midday, the rune-marked were called aside.
Only five out of thirty-six had been marked.
Riken and I stood among them.
So did Vell from our squad—though no one had seen her touch the orb. When I asked her, she just shrugged and said:
"I was born in a storm. Sometimes it follows me."
The other two were from elite-looking squads and didn't even glance at us. One wore gold-threaded cuffs under his training leathers.
"Great," Riken muttered. "We're the discount mage club."
Vaelen had us gather in a narrow chamber behind the training yard. Stone walls, spell-scribed chalkboard, and five wooden stools.
"We begin tomorrow," he said. "No formal spellwork yet. Just theory, shaping, and meditation. If your spark grows, you continue. If not—you go back to steel."
He looked at me last.
"Some sparks are buried. Some are... dangerous."
I met his eyes.
His voice dropped to something quieter.
"You are Aelarian. You carry the sea in your bones. Be careful what wakes with it."
That night, Squad Four gathered in silence on our shared bunk floor.
Malric was snoring before lights-out. Danya sat sharpening her blade with quiet intensity. Vell braided a strip of cloth with her eyes closed. Brayden practiced footwork with a shadow. Riken doodled runes on the wall with a bit of chalk.
And me?
I watched the rune on my wrist.
Still faint. Still warm.
Liora. Recruit. Mage-in-training. Squad Four misfit. And for the first time in years... not alone and possibly accepted, at least as a out cast.