Weeks blurred into a punishing grey
landscape of drills, meager rations, and endless mud. The conscripts learned to fight, not through complex strategy, but through repetition, pain, and the certainty that disobedience meant a swift, brutal end.
Aris and Doran were becoming proficient at the core skill Rath demanded: brutal endurance. Doran was now a formidable wall, capable of holding his shield for agonizing minutes, his large body absorbing and redirecting the abuse.
Aris was fast, precise, and frighteningly calm. Rath saw them not as human, but as promising tools.
One damp evening, Aris's calculated risks finally paid off in a vital currency: information.
He had developed a covert system for communication based on their old game, "The Rations Game." He knew that Lenn, being in logistics, occasionally interacted with the cook crews from Rear Support.
Aris found a small, polished stone—a token—and scratched a tiny, simple pictogram on it: a circle bisected by a sharp line (their mark for "unit integrity").
He then bribed a sympathetic, but terrified, young conscript in the water fetching detail with his most precious possession—half of a stolen metal buckle—to deliver the stone to anyone wearing the logistics patch, with the instruction to pass it to "the boy who counts."
The next night, standing in the cold line for water, Aris felt a small, hard object pressed into his hand as a logistics runner brushed past him.
It was the stone, returned. But the blank side now held three minute, almost invisible scratches, done with a sharp stylus:
* A stylized Watchtower (Northwatch symbol).
* A picture of a rat with a drawn X over it.
* A picture of a small, stylized coin dropping.
Aris's heart hammered against his ribs. He quickly palmed the stone and wiped the sweat from his brow. He memorized the symbols instantly.
Later, huddled in the cramped barracks, Aris and Doran analyzed the message in the faint light of a shared lantern.
"What does it mean?" Doran asked, his brow furrowed. "A tower, a dead rat, and money?"
"It means Lenn got the message," Aris whispered. "And he is using his time wisely."
Aris pointed to the symbols. "The Watchtower is the kingdom. The rat with an X is the key."
In the mines, 'rat' was their nickname for a common overseer or low-level guard—a man who fed off the misery of others. "Lenn is telling us that a minor Northwatch officer—a rat—has been removed."
"Removed by the Westvale dogs?" Doran asked, worried. "Is that why the King is drafting us?"
"No. Look at the last symbol," Aris corrected, pointing to the coin. "That's not just money. It's Westvale coin. And Lenn is precise."
Aris drew a sharp breath. "The dead rat means a Northwatch official was bribed and executed by Westvale agents. They were bought."
Doran stared at the symbols, his eyes wide. "Westvale is paying our own officers to betray us?"
"This confirms the rumors the guards are whispering," Aris stated. "The Westvale invasion isn't just a charge across the border. It's a political poison. Our ranks are being gutted from the inside. This is why Rath's orders are so extreme—the High Command doesn't trust anyone."
This was critical. It meant Northwatch was bleeding men not just to the front lines, but to treachery. Their situation was far more desperate than they realized.
"But what about Mira and Tova?" Doran asked, his voice cracking. "Did he say anything about them?"
Aris clenched his fist around the stone. "Lenn couldn't risk more symbols. The message was already too dangerous. But he got it to us. It means they are still alive, and he is watching."
The political instability was making its way down the chain of command, resulting in erratic, brutal new rules.
The very next morning, the conscripts found the usual training field closed. Instead, Rath had assembled them near the armory—a low, heavily guarded stone building.
"Listen up, Penal Scum!" Rath shouted. "Your training is over! We have no time for parades! The Lioness of Westvale thinks she can walk into our mountains! We will choke her advance!"
He pointed to a stack of ragged, mismatched leather tunics and rusted iron caps—their "armor."
"You are being issued weapons and armor! You are now combat-ready! Our reserves are gone! We ship out at dawn!"
The news hit the legion like a physical blow. They weren't even scheduled to deploy for months. The war had accelerated violently.
"Doran," Aris hissed, elbowing his friend. "We need to get to the front of the line. The spears are stacked by quality. We need the best we can get."
They fought their way to the front, using their practiced defensive stance and Doran's bulk as a wedge.
Aris received a short, serviceable thrusting spear with a dull head, but a surprisingly sturdy shaft. Doran received a six-foot pike—heavy, clumsy, but long.
As they hurried to secure the last remaining spots in the cramped barracks, they overheard a chilling conversation between two ranking guards.
"The Rear Support wagons leave tonight," one guard whispered, polishing his helmet. "Headed straight for the Thornwood Crossroads. Hope the girls can run fast."
"Thornwood?" the other guard scoffed.
"That's where the Westvale vanguard is expected to hit hardest. The Marshal is using the logistics train as a human distraction to slow their cavalry. Cheap lives buy time."
Aris froze. Thornwood Crossroads. That was a major choke point near the Northwatch border—the very place Westvale would try to breach the mountains.
Mira and Tova were being sent directly into the path of the enemy. They were not just support; they were bait.
"Aris," Doran pleaded, fear making his voice crack. "Mira and Tova are going to Thornwood! We have to tell someone! We have to stop it!"
"We can't," Aris said, his voice flat and cold. He gripped the shaft of his spear, the wood rough against his palm. "We are property, Doran. We tell no one. We stop nothing."
Aris looked down at the spear—a crude weapon made for a short life. He looked at the heavy door leading to the barracks, which would lock them in until dawn.
The political betrayal Lenn had warned them about, combined with the military's desperation, meant only one thing: immediate, violent intervention was required.
"We have to get out tonight," Aris stated, the gravity of the decision setting like stone in his chest. "We are going to Thornwood. We are going to find them before the Westvale cavalry does."