Later, after the old man had retreated to his room, claiming exhaustion, Morro sat alone by the fireplace. The flames crackled softly, casting dancing shadows across the small room.
In the flames, he saw his past. The furnace fires at Blackwater, where he'd found his only moments of peace—sitting alone, watching the flames consume everything, finding a strange calm in the destruction.
The clan had six divisions. Each with their own purpose, their own structure. Morro had spent three months learning how things worked here after his arrival to Monogan Territory.
The Military Police was closed to outsiders—clan members only. Led by the General Leader herself, the clan's founder, its most powerful warrior. Not an option.
SOCOM, led by that smiling captain—Stenar. Special Operations Command. Their tryouts were death traps. You could die. You could fail even when it wasn't your fault. Too risky. And even if he got in, they were too loyal, too competitive. Wrong environment.
The Third Division wasn't too bad—general defense division, basic duties, standard training. But right now, with the captain dead, it was in complete disarray. Not what he needed. He aimed to train under Valen, not get caught up in a mess.
The Fourth Division. Captain Valen's division. Knowledge-focused. They studied swordsmanship theory, techniques, the true nature of the art. Instructors, researchers, analysts. And Captain Valen—respected, righteous, a man people actually trusted.
Morro already had combat experience from Blackwater. What he lacked was knowledge—how to train properly, how to get stronger faster, the right techniques, the right methods. The Fourth Division had one of the best paths to gaining knowledge in the clan. Access depended on rank and whether you were an actual clan member, but if he could get close to the captain somehow, learn directly from Valen... That was what he needed.
The Fifth was Medical. Not combat-focused. The Sixth were the Scout Corps—constantly deployed, no time for rest, always moving beyond the territory. Too dangerous, wrong focus.
The fire crackled, and Morro's eyes reflected the flames. Right now, he was nothing compared to the captains. A nineteen-year-old with no formal training, no standing in the clan. But he wasn't totally weak. Blackwater had taught him how to fight, how to kill, how to survive. He knew how to end a life.
More importantly, he understood concepts about combat, about reading people, about strategy. He could see patterns, understand systems, think several steps ahead.
But he lacked the fundamentals of proper swordsmanship. The techniques, the training methods, the knowledge that would turn his raw experience into real power. He needed to actually start learning. Properly.
He needed to become strong. Strong enough to survive. Strong enough to achieve his goals.
Strong enough that when the time came, he could reshape everything.
The old man's voice called from his room, breaking Morro's thoughts. "Morro? Could you fetch some firewood from outside? The pile is getting low."
Morro stood, his movements calm and measured. "Of course, Elder."
He stepped outside into the evening air. The fresh air felt good, refreshing. The firewood pile was near the edge of the property, close to the path that led toward the training grounds—where the Fourth Division would hold their tryouts tomorrow.
As Morro bent to gather the wood, movement caught his eye.
Someone was walking along the path, heading toward the training grounds. The figure moved with purpose, their stride confident, almost predatory. Even from a distance, Morro recognized the uniform—black, crisp, an officer's uniform. SOCOM.
Captain Stenar.
Morro's hands stilled on the firewood. He watched as the captain approached, the black uniform looking sharp, well-fitted, commanding. He noted the way Stenar moved—fluid, dangerous, like a predator returning from a hunt. And on his face, even from this distance, Morro could see it.
That same unnerving smile.
Morro kept his head down, focusing on gathering the firewood. A young man doing a simple task, nothing more. Nothing worth noticing.
He could hear the captain's footsteps on the path, steady and confident. He didn't look up. He didn't need to. He could feel the captain's presence, that same unnerving energy he'd radiated at the scene.
The footsteps drew closer, then passed by. The captain didn't stop. Didn't slow. Didn't even glance in Morro's direction. He simply continued walking, as if Morro didn't exist at all.
Morro watched him disappear down the path, the firewood in his hands. Captain Stenar had passed without a glance, as if Morro was beneath notice. And right now, he was.
That's fine. For now.
Morro turned back toward the house, but as he did, something caught his eye. A piece of paper, partially hidden under a rock near the path. He wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't been standing there, if the captain hadn't passed by, if he hadn't been looking down.
He bent down, picking it up. It was a notice, printed on official clan paper, slightly weathered as if it had been there for days.
Tryout Announcement. Fourth Division. Date: Tomorrow.
At the bottom, in small print, was a date and signatures. Captain Valen, Fourth Division. Assisted by Captain Aris, Third Division. Dated one week ago.
Morro's grip tightened on the paper. Tomorrow. The Fourth Division was accepting new members. Captain Aris had been helping with the tryouts before his death, but the recruitment was still happening.
Perfect.
The requirements were clear. Those who wanted to join needed to demonstrate combat ability. If you weren't a real clan member, you needed a recommendation. They needed to pass a series of tests.
Most people learned swordsmanship through the clan's academy—three years, expensive, difficult to get into. It taught absolute fundamentals, like a military academy. Clan members got in easily, but residents like Morro would struggle. But you could apply directly to a division if you had enough combat experience. The divisions would train you themselves, skipping the academy entirely.
Morro had that. He was already past the academy level. That had to be enough.
The problem was the recommendation. He needed someone to vouch for him. He had no one.
Unless...
He looked back toward the house, where the old man waited inside. Elder Kael, who had lived in Monogan territory for decades, who knew people, who had connections. The old man might be able to provide a recommendation, might know someone who could vouch for Morro.
The old man who was terrified, who knew something he wasn't saying.
I need to be careful. But I also need this. The old man's fear... I'll deal with that later. Right now, I need to get into the Fourth Division.
For now, the old man might be useful.
Morro folded the notice and tucked it into his pocket. Tomorrow, he would go to the training grounds and wait there. Tomorrow, he would find a way.
Back inside, Morro sat by the fireplace again, the notice spread out before him. He needed to plan.
Elder Kael had lived in Monogan territory for decades. He'd been a farmer, supplying the clan with crops and wood. He'd run legitimate businesses, trading with clan members and residents alike. Over the years, he'd built connections. He must know someone—a clan member who could vouch for Morro.
The recommendation had to come from a real clan member. Someone who would go with Morro to the training grounds tomorrow and recommend him personally. That was the requirement.
The tryouts consisted of many tests. Physical training. Mental training. Background checks. They would investigate his past, verify his story, dig into who he claimed to be.
His documents were already in order—falsified, but they would hold. The old man had taken him in because of his kindness, believing Morro's story about losing his family. That kindness could be useful now.
Morro stood and walked to the old man's room. He knocked gently. "Elder? May I speak with you?"
The door opened slowly. Elder Kael looked tired, his face still pale, but he managed a small smile. "Of course, Morro. What is it?"
Morro held out the notice. "I found this near the path. The Fourth Division is holding tryouts tomorrow. I want to apply."
The old man took the notice, his hands trembling slightly as he read it. "The Fourth Division. That's Captain Valen's division. A good choice, Morro. But..." He looked up, concern in his eyes. "You need a recommendation. From a clan member."
"I know," Morro said, his voice carefully measured, showing just the right amount of hope and uncertainty. "You've lived here for so long, you know so many people. Do you know anyone who might be willing to recommend me? Someone who could come with me tomorrow?"
Elder Kael was silent for a moment, studying Morro's face. "You're serious about this, aren't you?"
"I am," Morro said, letting genuine determination show—or what looked like it. "I want to become stronger. I want to learn. This is my chance." He paused, letting his voice soften with worry. "Elder, I don't know what I'll do with my life if I can't find a path forward. I have nothing. No family, no future. This could change everything for me."
The old man sighed, looking back at the notice. "I do know someone. A friend of mine, a clan member. We met years ago when he was still the Third Division Captain—he helped me with business matters, and I supplied the division with the best high quality food for these specific swordsmen. Even after he stepped down, we maintained our connection. He's helped me with business over the years. I think he might be willing to help."
"Would you ask him?" Morro's voice was soft, almost pleading. "I know it's a lot to ask, but..."
Elder Kael looked at Morro, and for a moment, Morro saw the old man's kindness warring with his fear. But kindness won. "I'll speak with him tonight. If he agrees, he'll meet you at the training grounds tomorrow morning."
"Thank you, Elder," Morro said, his gratitude sounding genuine. "I don't know how to repay you."
"You don't need to repay me," the old man said softly. "Just... be careful, Morro. The clan can be dangerous. Especially now."
"I will be," Morro promised.
As he turned to leave, the corners of Morro's mouth twitched upward. Just for a moment. Then it was gone, replaced by the grateful expression the old man expected. The old man's kindness had worked perfectly. Now he just needed to wait.
---
Hours later, as evening settled over the settlement, the front door opened. Morro looked up from where he sat by the fireplace to see Elder Kael returning, his expression tired but relieved.
"He agreed," the old man said, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. "He'll meet you at the tavern near the training grounds, one hour before the tryouts start. His name is Aidan. He's one of the clan's higher-ups, an elder. He's a good man, Morro. He'll recommend you."
Morro's hands clenched into fists for a heartbeat, then relaxed. He kept his expression carefully controlled—showing gratitude, not triumph. "Thank you, Elder. I don't know what I would have done without your help."
The old man nodded, but Morro noticed something in his eyes—a flicker of that same fear he'd seen earlier. It was still there, lurking beneath the surface.
"Get some rest, Morro," Elder Kael said. "Tomorrow will be important."
Morro nodded, watching as the old man retreated to his room. Tomorrow, he would meet Aidan at the tavern. Tomorrow, he would take the first step into the Fourth Division.