The northern plaza was alive with noise and dust when Solen arrived. A crowd had gathered around a cordoned area marked by wooden posts and lengths of rope. Men and women stood in uneven lines — some wearing patched leather armor, others little more than travelers' clothes like his own. Weapons hit each other, voices rose and fell, and the dry wind carried the sharp tang of sweat and steel.
At the center of it all stood a group of merchants beneath a canopy of red cloth, their silken robes starkly out of place against the rugged air of the plaza. Boxes of supplies and rolled maps surrounded them, guarded by men in dull metal cuirasses.
Solen lingered at the edge of the crowd, pretending to study a noticeboard while quietly listening.
"So, these are the ones who want to be guards, huh?" someone muttered beside him. "Yeah. The journey to Valdrun is a long one. It pays well, but most don't make it past the desert."
"Yeah, but this is different, I have heard that the Marrek family's Lord's younger sister has been taken as wife by the 3rd prince of the neighbouring Aringdale kingdom. The Royal family of the Aringdale might not be as powerful as our own kingdom's royal family right now, but their name still caries weight, after all they have existed and prevailed since the Valarian age."
All this info made Solen think about what he knew about the history himself. Most of the older manuscripts and ruins had long since been destroyed. No one knew when or why exactly it had happened but most thought of it as an aftermath of the death of the gods, their curse, similar to what people theorized the pale.
The murmurs deepened when a single man stepped forward from the merchant group. He was broad-shouldered, his black hair tied back with a strip of red cloth, and a faded scar ran from his temple to the corner of his jaw. His presence silenced the crowd instantly.
"That's Garran Voss," someone whispered. "Head guard of the Marrek family. He has served them for more than twenty years."
Garran's eyes swept over the would-be recruits like a butcher inspecting cattle. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of command. "Those who wish to join the Marrek caravan will be tested. If you're weak, if you hesitate, you'll slow us down — and in the desert, that means death."
He gestured to the square. "Step forward. One at a time."
The test was simple: combat sparring. Two recruits at a time entered the circle, wooden practice blades in hand. The goal wasn't to win — it was to show control, discipline, and resolve. Garran watched each match without a word, his expression unreadable.
The participants didn't have any special or unique magical power but they all had something he didn't have, some sort of knowledge about fighting and combat.
Solen watched it all quietly from the sidelines. The rational part of him whispered that he should walk away — that he had no training, no weapon, and no reason to think he could pass. But the same strange pull that had guided him through the desert now thrummed again in his chest.
'You belong here.'
He didn't know where the thought came from — his own mind, or the strange feelings that had been guiding him. But when Garran's voice rang out again, calling for the next volunteers, Solen found his feet already moving forward.
Solen stepped into the circle, dust crunching under his worn boots.The heat pressed down like a weight, and the murmurs of the onlookers faded into a dull hum in his ears. Someone tossed him a practice sword — a wooden one, splintered from use and heavier than he expected. He nearly dropped it.
Across from him stood a man twice his size — a mercenary with a shaved head, chainmail shirt, and arms corded with muscle. He was already smirking.
"Kids like you should go back to playing" the man sneered, spinning his practice blade lazily. "Don't worry. I'll go easy on you."
Solen didn't respond. He couldn't. His throat had gone dry.He took a shaky stance, the blade awkward in his grip.
"Begin!" Garran barked.
The mercenary lunged before Solen even had time to think.The blow struck his ribs hard. It hurt a lot. He thought with his smaller frame and agility he should be able to show some skills at least. He had thought wrong. As the sword from the mercenary was about to hit him again, he staggered back and tried to raise his sword to parry the strike but it was too late, and the next strike slammed against his shoulder.
The crowd laughed.
"Get up," Garran said. Not a shout but a command.
Solen spat some blood and forced himself upright. His entire body screamed against it, but he bent down, picked up his sword, and raised it again. His hands trembled, his breathing ragged.
The mercenary laughed. "You don't know when to quit."
He lunged again — and this time, Solen tried to anticipate it. He sidestepped, clumsy but determined, and swung. The strike glanced off the man's arm, barely making contact.
For a heartbeat, Solen thought maybe—
The next blow came like a hammer.The wooden blade slammed into his gut, knocking the air from him. He dropped to his knees, clutching his stomach, vision darkening.
He tried — gods, he tried — to stand again. His muscles trembled, the sword shaking in his grip.
But before he could lift it, a voice cut through the noise.
"That's enough."
Garran stepped forward, his tone leaving no room for argument. "The fight is over."
The mercenary lowered his weapon, grinning, while Solen remained frozen — still half-crouched, sword raised weakly, breathing hard.
"But—" he started, his voice hoarse.
Garran's gaze met his — calm, steady, unreadable. "I've already seen what I needed to."
Solen hesitated, then let the sword drop. The dull sound of it hitting the sand felt heavier than any blow.
"Next," Garran said simply.
Solen stumbled out of the ring, pain pulsing through every step. His ribs throbbed, his stomach twisted, and his pride burned worst of all.
***
Solen stood at the edge of the circle long after his fight had ended. The sun was already starting to set. Around him, the other hopefuls murmured — some triumphant, others cursing under their breath.
He should have left. Every bruise on his body screamed for him to walk away, to vanish into the crowded streets of Halverin and pretend none of this had ever happened.
But he didn't move. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was that same quiet feeling inside him — the one that had guided him here. Or maybe it was just the part of him that refused to crawl away from anything that had beaten him.
Garran stood before the gathered group, a parchment in his hand. His voice was steady as he began calling names — one after another, each met with cheers, sighs, or grumbles.
Solen barely listened. His mind drifted, half-dazed, replaying the blows, the taste of sand, the sound of laughter when he'd fallen.
"…Rydel Varn. Elric Dahn. Solen Veynar."
His head snapped up.For a heartbeat, he thought he'd misheard.
People turned, some frowning, others whispering. Garran didn't repeat the name — he simply moved on, as if it were just another one on the list.
Solen blinked, his breath catching.
The mercenary who'd fought him shot him a look of disbelief, muttering something under his breath. "Wait... what?"
But Solen couldn't hear him. His heart was pounding too loudly.
He was chosen.
Despite losing, despite being the weakest one there — despite being nothing.
Garran started to roll up the parchment, giving the group a curt nod. "Be ready by dawn. We move tomorrow."
As the others began to disperse, a few of the guards lingered near Garran, whispering amongst themselves. Solen could feel their eyes on him — some curious, most dismissive.
One of them, the mercenary who'd knocked him down earlier, finally spoke up."With respect, Captain," he said, his tone edged with disbelief, "Why is he coming with us? He couldn't even last two strikes."
A few others nodded, murmuring agreement. Solen froze, half-turned away, pretending not to listen — though every word cut sharper than the blows had.
Garran didn't look up from the parchment he was rolling, his voice calm but firm. "I'm not the one who chose him."
That quieted them.
He said nothing more about who had chosen him, and no one there had the guts to ask. He just looked toward the merchant tents in the distance, where soft lantern lights glimmered beneath embroidered canvas.