“Get down!” Louis’s voice snapped through the quiet, sharp and urgent. That was all it took—the four boys reacted instantly, muscle memory from endless drills taking over as they dove into cover. Sandals tore up loose earth as they rushed to their spots, ducking behind their tower shields in near-perfect sync. They pressed against the sturdy wood, breath coming quick but steady, every muscle tight as they waited for whatever came next.

  The training field was barely recognizable, now dressed up as a battered village with dirt lanes running between slapdash stone walls and straw-roofed shacks. The air carried the faint traces of hay and sawdust, leftovers from last week’s chaotic rush to throw everything together. Overhead, a hulking watchtower loomed, its outline clear against the burnt-orange sky. Its shadow stretched far across the ground—a silent warning that someone, somewhere above, was watching. No doubt the instructors up there were already jotting down notes on how well—or how terribly—the boys managed to work together.

  Arrows hammered into their shields with a force that rattled their bones. The deep, jarring thunks seemed to echo up their arms, a lot rougher than any of them expected. “Are you kidding me?” Sorren hissed, ducking lower behind his shield as the noise made him wince. Bits of splintered wood and dust flew around them, while stray straw drifted down like the world's slowest snowstorm. For a heartbeat, everything narrowed to the sound of arrows landing and their own held breaths.

  “Did anyone see where that came from?” Sorren called out, voice strained but trying to play it cool as he adjusted his stance, keeping his shield up and ready.

  “No clue,” Louis shot back, scanning from behind cover with narrowed eyes. He spotted a squat hovel at the end of the street—windows black and empty, just broken holes in the wall. He frowned, squinting at the shifting shadows inside. He jabbed a finger in its direction. “That place. At the end. If I had to bet, that’s where they’re hiding.”

  Sorren narrowed his eyes at the building Louis pointed out, jaw clenched as he tried to piece together their options. “That place could fit a squad if they like standing on each other’s toes.”

  Tension hung over the whole training ground, every small noise making Sorren’s skin itch with nerves. This wasn’t some throwaway drill—they were clearly being pushed, hard. All week, crews had been hammering this place together, hauling rocks and boards until it looked like a cramped maze. The alleys between buildings were packed with carts and wagons, turning every step forward into a gamble. At this point, it felt less like training and more like the world’s least welcoming neighbourhood.

  “Got a headcount yet, Lou?” Gai asked, tone steady but his grip on the shield giving away his nerves. His gaze flicked between Louis and the hovel, tension in every line of his body.

  “I’m not sure,” Louis called back, keeping his head firmly behind the shield. Against all common sense, he risked a quick glance—just in time for an arrow to shriek past, close enough to tug at his hair before punching into his a wall behind with far more force than it aught to. He hit the dirt again, jaw tight. “Great. Almost lost my nose to that one,” he muttered, sounding more annoyed than scared.

  “They’re augmenting the arrows?” Sorren asked knowingly, leaning slightly toward Louis while keeping most of his body hidden.

  Louis nodded grimly. “Yeah… but it’s different from mine,” he admitted, flexing his fingers absentmindedly as if feeling for traces of residual energy in the air. “More raw power—less precision.”

  “That’s way too many arrows for just one group,” Mack cut in, crouched low under a doorway with his brows drawn tight for once. He shot a nervous look down the street. “Unless they’re hiding some kind of contraption back there.”

  “We can’t just sit here and wait for another round,” Gai said, eyes narrowed as he picked apart every crack in the hovel’s walls. “We need to force them out somehow.”

  “I’ve got something,” Sorren announced, a sly glint in his eye that had everyone paying attention. Without bothering to ask, he started yanking handfuls of straw from the roof above him. The stuff broke apart in his grip, but he kept going until he had a decent bundle.

  “What exactly are you up to?” Mack asked, giving Sorren a sceptical side-eye.

  "Take it easy," Sorren said with a crooked smile, as he retrieved a firestick from his belt—the typical tool given to fire elementalists for such tasks. Focusing his energy, he ignited the stick and then pressed it to the straw, observing the smoke start to curl upward with evident satisfaction.

  “You’re not actually lighting it on fire, are you?” Gai asked, incredulous.

  “Not fire,” Sorren shot back with that same smile, holding up the smouldering bundle. “Just smoke.”

  Louis caught on immediately and held out one hand expectantly. “Give it here,” he said confidently. His teammates watched as Sorren tossed him the smoking straw bundle; Louis caught it deftly and lobbed it towards their foes, manipulating its trajectory with subtle flicks of his fingers.

  The bundle arced through the air in a smooth curve before landing perfectly inside one of the hovel’s windows. For a moment there was silence—then faint coughs and muffled shouts erupted from within.

  “Perfect!” Louis exclaimed triumphantly, unable to hide his grin even as adrenaline continued to course through him.

  “Now what?” Mack asked eagerly, already preparing himself for whatever came next.

  “Now,” Louis said, standing slightly taller behind his shield as smoke began billowing out of the hovel’s windows, “we see how well they handle being smoked out.”

  “Again, Lou!” Sorren called, voice sharp. He hurled another bundle of smoky straw, the rough twine biting into his hands as he sent it flying toward Louis. Louis snagged it in one motion, not missing a beat, and with a flick of his wrist sent it sailing straight through the broken window. The sound of crackling from inside was growing harder to ignore.

  “Got it,” Louis muttered, swiping sweat out of his eyes and grabbing for yet another bundle.

  They fell into a steady rhythm—Sorren tossing, Louis launching—each movement quick and tight with nerves. Smoke started streaming from the windows in thick clouds, pushing through every gap in the walls and drifting above the uneven roof until it blended with the morning light. It didn’t take long before the old door creaked open and their targets stumbled into view: two yellow-shielded recruits leading the way, shields raised but already looking worse for wear, with two more trailing behind them, faces streaked dark with soot.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “There! Told you they’d come crawling out,” Mack said, tightening his grip on his wooden sword.

  “Go!” Sorren snapped back. The yellow team charged without breaking stride, sandals thudding on hard dirt. Their shields hit Mack and Sorren full-on—wood slammed against wood with a bone-jarring smack. Both boys went tumbling backward, air punched out of them as they hit the ground. Before they could scramble up, stones and clumps of wet earth came raining down—payback from the two yellow recruits who’d hung back near the building.

  “Take them out, Lou! Gai! Help us!” Mack’s voice cracked as he shouted from where he crouched behind his shield. Sorren’s face was twisted in frustration as he tried to ward off the barrage.

  Louis didn’t respond verbally; instead, the sharp twang of his bowstring answered for him. Gai heard it too—the familiar sound slicing through the chaos—and turned just in time to see Louis loose an arrow aimed directly at one of their attackers. The arrow sailed through the air with precision but stopped abruptly mid-flight. It struck something invisible—a shimmering barrier that flickered into view for half a second before vanishing again. The air around it crackled faintly, like static electricity.

  “A shield ability,” Gai muttered under his breath, his brows knitting together. “I’ve got this.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Gai surged forward, his movements fluid and purposeful. His own shield was raised high as he barrelled toward the enemy’s defensive line. With a guttural shout, he slammed into the narrow gap between the two interlocked shields of the vanguard. The force of his charge sent both yellow recruits sprawling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and weapons.

  “Go, go!” Gai barked, glancing back just long enough to catch Mack and Sorren’s eyes.

  Mack and Sorren shot forward together, all reflexes and muscle memory. They pounced on the downed recruits, pinning them fast before either could do much more than flail. Their opponents gave a token struggle, then wilted under the pressure. One finally let out a heavy sigh and dropped his weapon with a clatter.

  “Fine! You got us!” he grumbled, clearly not thrilled about it.

  Gai barely seemed to notice—he was already focused ahead, hyper-aware as that strange pulse in the air abruptly vanished. Whatever shield had been up was gone now; its absence prickled at his skin.

  Suddenly a yell cut through the chaos—an arrow from Louis flew past Gai’s line of sight, nailing the yellow archer mid-draw. The boy doubled over with a sharp groan, clutching his middle and collapsing to the dirt.

  Gai didn’t even look back as he shouted, “Nice timing, Lou,” then moved on, eyes already searching for the next threat.

  The final recruit had abandoned any pretense of retreat or mercy. He planted his feet, sweat streaking down his face, and lifted both hands upwards from the ground. The dirt at his feet started to writhe, thin ropes of earth twisting up to form a shaky barrier that creaked as it stacked higher.

  Gai raised an eyebrow, giving a short nod. “Alright, that’s something,” he said, and shot forward.

  The other boy swung wildly with his practice sword—more panic than plan, his half formed barrier dropping to the ground harmlessly. Gai shifted aside with barely a glance, spinning out of reach and closing the gap before the recruit could try again. He pressed the flat of his wooden knife to the boy’s throat—a clear enough message.

  “Call it,” Gai said, voice even and calm.

  The recruit froze for half a second, then let out a shaky breath. His throat worked against the blade. “Yeah, I yield,” he muttered, sounding more annoyed than anything else.

  Before either of them could react, everything went sideways again—a blast of water hammered into Gai’s ribs, knocking him off balance and sending him staggering just as a fresh squad of recruits came tearing around the corner.

  “Gai!” Mack called out, but by then Gai had already spun away, reading the danger a beat too late.

  “Damn it,” Gai muttered, ducking low and hustling back toward Mack, Sorren, and Louis. The four regrouped behind a scraggly stone wall—not much cover, but it would have to do for now.

  A split second later, four blue-marked recruits came charging at full tilt, voices raised in wordless shouts that bounced around the little alleyway. Mack edged forward, jaw set and eyes locked on the new arrivals as he stretched out one hand toward them.

  He mumbled under his breath, almost too quietly to hear: “Let’s see how graceful they are on ice.”

  The ground shimmered under the blue team’s feet—and then just froze up entirely. All four skidded helplessly, legs flying out from under them as they crashed into each other and thudded against walls with a series of pained yelps and curses.

  “Nice move,” Sorren panted, grinning as he gave Mack a firm slap on the shoulder.

  They didn’t waste a second—everyone lunged at the blue team while they were still sprawled out, making quick work of every last one. Wooden blades thumped against shields and limbs; nobody had a chance to recover before it was over. Louis, ever the sharpshooter, managed to land an arrow smack in the middle of someone’s forehead—thankfully just practice-tipped.

  Sorren let out a shaky breath, shooting Mack a look. “Not bad, ice man. You really made them dance.”

  Off to the side, the yellow team—now sporting streaks of soot and looking a whole lot less intimidating—burst out laughing at the chaos.

  One of them shook his head and called over, “Didn’t think you’d actually manage that. Good luck with the rest, you’ll need it!”

  “Best hurry up and clear out,” the blue leader warned, brisk but not unfriendly. “That smoke of yours is basically an open invitation—bet every team in the field saw it.” He offered a muddy hand to one of his teammates, hauling him to his feet with a grunt. The blue leader’s face was streaked with grime and his hair clung damply to his forehead, but his eyes never stopped darting around the alley, tracking every shadow like he expected more trouble any second.

  Gai just nodded once, business-like. “Yeah. Got it.” He tightened his grip on his battered shield, green paint mostly hidden under fresh layers of dirt and ash, then shot a quick look to his crew. One silent gesture was all it took—they slipped off together without another word, putting distance between themselves and the curling column of smoke that marked their handiwork.

  The reek of burnt straw hung stubbornly in the air, tangled with mud and damp earth underfoot. All around, the fake village was quiet now—nothing left but toppled carts and scattered debris breaking up the lines of huts. The green team crept through the winding passages like they’d lived there for years.

  Behind them, Gai caught pieces of the blue team’s hushed bickering as they limped away. “Can you believe he froze your own water trick right back at us?” the blue leader muttered aloud, voice sharp with disbelief.

  His teammate just groaned. “Didn’t peg a green for that sort of move,” he admitted, sulking.

  Gai let a faint smirk slip but didn’t bother firing back. Up ahead, Mack practically vibrated with pride, face bright as if he’d just won something bigger than a scuffle. He glanced sideways at Gai, grinning hard enough it looked like it hurt. “Did you catch their expressions? Priceless! They still have no clue what hit them,” Mack stage-whispered gleefully.

  Sorren gave him an exaggerated eye roll but couldn’t hide his own satisfaction. “Try to keep your head from swelling too much, Mack,” he said dryly as they trudged on, away from where the defeated teams had started gathering in loose knots near the edge of the field.

  The rest of the day ran like clockwork for the green team. Every group they came up against looked half asleep from exhaustion and more interested in finding a patch of shade than putting up a fight. Gai’s crew kept things sharp and focused, running through the last matches like they’d done it a hundred times before. By late afternoon, Gai was standing above their final challenger—a skinny kid in a purple-streaked breastplate, flat on his back and breathing like he’d run a mile too many.

  “That’s it,” Gai said, dropping his wooden sword to rest on the boy’s chest plate with a nod that brooked no argument. The recruit hesitated, then lifted his hand in surrender, looking just about done.

  Suddenly, a heavy gong rang out across the field. Every head snapped up as the overseer’s voice boomed: “Well done, green team! You’re the last team standing in your sector. Return to your barracks.”

  For a second, nobody moved. The whole squad just blinked, as if waiting for someone to jump out and say it was all a joke. Then Mack let out a celebratory yell so ear-splitting it sent a bird shooting out of a partially collapsed roof nearby.

  “We actually pulled it off!” he cackled, flinging an arm around Sorren and shaking him like he was trying to rattle loose some extra luck.

  Sorren groaned under the assault but managed a tired grin. “Alright, easy there—my spine’s not part of the prize.”

  Even Louis let himself crack up as everyone started thumping each other on the back—hard enough to sting through their sweat-soaked shirts. Feet scuffed through mud and grass as they shuffled off the field together, worn-out but grinning like idiots. The sun hung low as they headed for home, painting everything golden while shadows stretched out behind them.

  By the time they limped back to their their mess hall, none of them had the energy left for words. Still, the second they swung open the mess hall doors, the place exploded in applause.

  “Oi! Greens win!” someone bellowed from a packed bench, and suddenly every boy at those long tables was up on their feet—shouting, stomping, drumming the tables so hard it rattled the plates.

  Mack puffed himself up and strutted in like he owned the place. Sorren just rolled his eyes and gave him a shove toward the food. “Try filling your mouth before you fill the room with your bragging,” he muttered.

  The mess hall smelled like heaven—or at least as close as any of them were likely to get: roasted chicken, fresh bread, spices thick in the air. Steam curled off giant pots of stew, pitchers of cider and water waiting by battered lanterns.

  They didn’t bother with manners—just heaped their plates until it looked like a dare. They’d barely found seats when Oswald strode over—quiet, but impossible to ignore. He didn’t have to say a word; everyone straightened up automatically.

  “Nicely done, boys,” Oswald said, giving each of them a nod, lingering just a moment too long on Gai before moving on. “Only one other team finished with everyone still upright—so you’ve got bragging rights. Not many can pull that off.”

  “Any other green teams make it?” Sorren asked, mouth half-full and butter streaked across his fingers, sounding more curious than anything.

  Oswald paused, choosing his words. “Cedric scraped through,” he said at last. “But he was the only one from his group who did.”

  Gai’s jaw twitched. He stared down into his food like it might start offering advice.

  “Lovely,” he muttered flatly, voice low and brittle.

  They settled at the far end of the table by the fire, the talk around them buzzing just enough to be comforting. They tore into their food like they hadn’t seen a meal in weeks, trading snickers and stories about close calls and lucky shots with as much energy as they had left.