“So what was all the fuss with the tourney, sir?” Gai asked, his tone measured but edged with honest curiosity. He hovered just inside the doorway of Oswald’s cramped office, shifting his stance so that his sandals made a quiet scrape across the warped floorboards. The air carried the musty scent of parchment and ink, tinged by the trace of sweat from Gai’s recent exercise.
Oswald hardly spared him a glance, eyes glued to the papers covering his desk, while his quill kept up its steady scratching in the otherwise still room. Neat stacks of reports lined every corner of the desk, lined up as if Oswald had declared war on disorder. The candle nearby had burned down low, wax slowly pooling at its base.
Oswald spoke without pausing in his writing, his voice even and business-like. “Mostly to give our more capable recruits a chance to get spotted by commanders who actually make decisions. Not everyone reads my reports, if you can believe it.”
He sounded like he’d given this explanation too many times already. His eyes flicked up at Gai just long enough to prove he was listening before dropping back to his work, quill moving with practiced ease.
Gai’s lips twitched downward as he took a few steps further in, arms crossing as the floor gave another quiet groan under his boots. “Alright. So what happens to me?” he asked, trying to mask his worry with a little bravado.
Oswald let out a long, weary breath and placed his quill down with deliberate precision, the tip just brushing the inkwell. He laced his fingers together on top of the paperwork and finally met Gai’s gaze head-on. The candlelight threw sharp shadows over his face, accentuating every line and crease earned from years of tough conversations.
“Training’s wrapping up,” Oswald told him, his voice gentler now but still steady. “Once it does, yes—assignments will start coming fast. We're at war; everyone gets used somewhere. It may not be what any of us pictured when we were drafted.”
The room seemed to tighten around them as the words settled in. Gai swallowed hard and glanced past Oswald at the window. Sunlight slipped through just enough to outline dust motes drifting in the air, doing nothing to lift the heavy mood hanging in the office.
Oswald regarded him for a moment more, eyes sharp and assessing. “I’ve already put in my suggestions,” he said evenly. “You’ll hear with everyone else when the assignments are posted.”
“But…” Gai hesitated, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. “If a master thinks I’m worth their time—if they think I meet their particular requirements—they can ask to transfer me?”
“That is correct,” Oswald said with a slow nod. He leaned back in his chair, its wooden frame creaking softly beneath him. “Though I wouldn’t phrase it quite so bluntly.”
Gai huffed a short laugh devoid of humour and shook his head. “So in other words,” he said bitterly, “we’re selling ourselves for a pension—if we actually survive long enough to claim it.”
A flicker of something—disapproval? Sadness?—crossed Oswald’s face before he masked it with an impassive expression. He reached for his quill again and dipped it back into the inkwell with practiced precision.
“If that’s how you’re going to look at it,” Oswald said quietly without looking up, “then that’s your choice.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the soft scratch of Oswald’s quill against parchment once more. Finally, Oswald broke the silence with a brisk command: “Go outside and train with some of the others, why don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” Gai replied stiffly before turning on his heel and exiting the office.
---
Gai paused at the edge of the training fields, taking in the empty stretch before him. A breeze flicked at his hair and carried the smell of dirt still fresh from yesterday’s drills. He squinted into the low sunlight, sizing up the worn ground—patches of grass barely hanging on, dirt gouged and trampled by boots.
The field stretched endlessly in every direction—or so it seemed—and was dotted with an assortment of training apparatuses: wooden dummies scarred from blade strikes; archery targets riddled with arrows. It was an arena designed for discipline and endurance, not comfort or beauty.
He shrugged out his tension and inhaled slow through his nose as he walked onto the field. The air was sharp and cool, just enough to clear his head: whatever mess was crowding his thoughts, he still had a body that moved when he told it to.
He started an easy lap around the edge, getting blood moving in muscles already warmed from stretching back in the barracks. Dust puffed under his boots with every stride; sweat prickled on his forehead soon enough.
As he swung around the far end, voices drifted over—a handful of recruits sprawled along the sidelines.
“Oi! Save your legs!” called one, a skinny guy with nearly white hair who didn’t bother to get up from his seat on the ground next to a scatter of playing cards. “Might as well nap now; it’s not like any of this matters!”
A couple others snickered and tossed down their own jabs, but they were more interested in their game than in making sure he heard them.
Gai kept moving—didn’t look over, didn’t bother answering. Instead, he picked up speed. If they wanted to sit around waiting for decisions made by other people, that was their problem. He ran harder as if it might put all of that behind him too, though their laughter trailed after him for a moment—a reminder of what happened if you gave up before you even started.
Jaw set firm, Gai dug in.
“Not happening,” he muttered as his boots bit into the dirt with purpose. “Not me.”
By the time Gai rounded his fourth lap, the sun had crept higher, burning off the last of the mist. Sweat tracked down his face, but he barely registered it. His breath was even, his legs moving on autopilot—the days of limping through each circuit were thankfully behind him. The deep muscle aches that used to slow him down had faded into a background buzz; now it was just motion, steady and sure. All around him, the field was filling up as recruits wandered back from their drills—some swapping lazy insults, others muttering about sore feet or barking officers. Most drifted in loose groups toward the barracks, shuffling along and talking about whatever came next.
Gai eased down to a jog and then stopped completely, waiting for his heart rate to catch up. He felt tired, sure, but not wrecked—not like when he’d first started all this with his father, all those months ago. With no reason to linger, he headed for the mess hall—his stomach making its opinion known with a loud growl. The closer he got, the more tempting it all smelled: bread straight from the ovens and roasted meat, overshadowing the sweat and dust clinging to everyone.
Inside, long tables were already jammed with hungry recruits shovelling food into their mouths like they hadn’t seen a meal in weeks. Gai scanned for familiar faces and spotted his friends near the far end. He picked his way through the crowd—dodging a tray here, an outstretched elbow there—and claimed a spot with them.
Sorren looked up as Gai dropped onto the bench, still chewing. He waved his fork in greeting. “You’re alive! Thought we’d have to haul you off the field this time.”
Gai flashed a crooked grin and grabbed a plate for himself. “Keep dreaming,” he shot back, piling on bread, potatoes so slick with oil they nearly slipped off his plate, and enough stew to feed two people.
Mack leaned in with a glance over his shoulder before dropping his voice. “Any word on what’s coming after this week? Feels like half the hall’s got some version of the truth.”
Gai opened his mouth to answer—but suddenly the entire room went silent. Spoons froze halfway to mouths, chatter cut off mid-sentence. Every head swiveled toward the door as boots hit the floor in perfect rhythm: a squad of officers coming in at full parade pace with Sir Maric leading them. Even with dust everywhere else, Maric looked like he’d stepped out of a portrait; every crease sharp, every clasp shining as if daring someone to comment otherwise.
“Recruits!” Sir Maric’s voice snapped through the hall, slicing off every conversation mid-word. Benches scraped and boots thudded as the entire mess hall lurched to attention—backs stiff, hands locked behind them, nobody daring so much as a sneeze.
Gai shifted his stance, sneaking a sideways glance at Sorren. His friend’s jaw was set, expression blank, but Gai caught the quick flicker in his eyes—same question burning as in his own: What now?
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Sir Maric let his gaze drift from group to group, making sure each recruit stood just a bit taller under his scrutiny. He didn’t say a word until everyone was silent and on edge.
“Today is your last day of basic training.” The announcement landed flat and heavy. A ripple ran through the room—someone half-whispered before biting it off when Maric’s stare cut over.
“In your dormitory,” he continued, “you’ll find a list with your names and new assignments.” The way he said it left no room for confusion or complaint.
“You’ll pack up tonight,” he pressed on, “and be ready to muster at first light. Your new officers will sort you out from there.” He paused just long enough for it to settle before finishing briskly: “That’s all. Dismissed!”
As soon as Maric spun on his heel and marched out, the room seemed to exhale all at once. His officers filed out behind him—except Oswald, who broke off at the last second and made straight for Gai’s table.
Oswald stopped beside them, voice pitched low but leaving no room for debate. “Eat up and meet me at the dormitory. Don’t drag your feet.”
Sorren arched an eyebrow but shovelled another forkful in, chewing with ridiculous urgency that got a muffled laugh out of Mack.
Oswald lingered just a moment longer on Gai. “The sooner, the better,” he said, then strode away without waiting around.
Mack glanced between them and gave a resigned little shrug, nudging his plate aside. “Well, that’s our cue.”
They traded glances—nobody eager, nobody complaining either—and finished eating in silence. Whatever swagger they’d had earlier was gone now; what was left was the quiet weight of not knowing what came next.
By the time they reached their dormitory, Gai’s chest felt tight—not from exertion but from nerves twisting themselves into knots inside him. He moved fast, his focus narrowing in on the foot of his bed where his clothes were stacked in a neat pile, looking small and inconsequential amidst the frenzy. He rolled them into a tight bundle, hands moving with an urgency that barely masked the tremor of anxiety underneath. An empty water flask, a battered pair of boots, his soldier’s kit—the sum of his existence packed into almost nothing.
As he slung his bundle over one shoulder and turned toward Sorren, Mack and Louis once more, voices drifted from across the room where other recruits were gathered around an assignment board near the entrance.
“How did Gai get that assignment?” one recruit sneered loudly enough for everyone nearby—including Gai—to hear. The contempt in their voice was unmistakable.
Gai froze mid-step as heat rushed to his face—not shame but anger bubbling dangerously close to boiling over—but before he could so much as clench his fists or turn toward whoever had spoken, Sorren stepped in front of him.
“Forget them,” Sorren murmured under his breath so only Gai could hear. His hand rested briefly but firmly on Gai’s shoulder—a grounding gesture that snapped him out of whatever rash action had been building inside him.
With a reluctant nod and one last glance toward where the voices had come from (though none dared meet his eye), Gai followed Sorren out into the corridor. Oswald was waiting impatiently just beyond earshot, arms crossed and jaw set, every line of him taut with the kind of anticipation that brooked no delay. Each hurried step echoed against the stone, magnifying the tension that seemed to build tighter with every second. As they reached Oswald, Mack and Louis flanking Gai's other side, the air outside hit them like a wall. Bright sun washed over the yard, casting gangly shadows and drawing out the smell of dust and horses.
“Come,” Oswald said without preamble once they were all present again. His tone was clipped yet carried an urgency that made it clear there would be no dawdling allowed this time. He moved with a pace that set them almost running to keep up, weaving through the chaos with an unerring focus.
“Sir! Where are we going?” Cedric called out, his voice strained as he caught up to them, his boots scuffing the dry earth beneath him. His chest heaved from the effort of sprinting after the group, sweat glistening on his brow under the relentless midday sun.
Oswald turned briefly, his sharp features silhouetted against the golden rays. “Get on the wagon, and I’ll explain,” he said, his tone brisk but not unkind. Without waiting for a response, he leapt onto the creaking wooden wagon with practiced ease, his boots landing solidly on the planks. He reached down to haul up the boys’ belongings—satchels worn with use and their battered kit—before gesturing for them to climb aboard.
Cedric hesitated for a moment, scanning the organized chaos around him. A half-dozen other wagons stood in a loose formation nearby, their drivers adjusting reins and checking wheels as recruits scrambled to board. Commanding officers barked orders, their voices cutting through the din like whips. The air buzzed with nervous energy, a mix of excitement and trepidation palpable among the young recruits.
“Move it, Cedric!” Oswald barked sharply, snapping him out of his daze. The boy scrambled up onto the wagon alongside his companions—Gai, Louis, Mack, and Sorren—all of whom wore varying expressions of curiosity and unease. Around them, other wagons began to creak into motion, their wheels crunching over the gravel paths that snaked away from the training fields.
The driver of their wagon—a wiry man with a grizzled beard and an air of quiet efficiency—gave a curt nod once all were aboard. “Okay, let’s go,” he said simply, flicking the reins. The horses snorted in response before surging forward. The wagon lurched into motion with a jolt that sent the boys gripping at whatever they could find to steady themselves.
As cobblestone streets and stone buildings of the city proper came into view, replacing the open training fields, Oswald turned to face his charges. His expression remained unreadable, but there was a distinct edge of authority in his voice as he addressed them. “Okay, you all listening?”
The five boys exchanged quick glances before nodding in unison. Even Cedric—who normally wore an air of indifference—straightened slightly under Oswald’s gaze.
“You will be staying in the coliseum rooms for the next few days while the first round of the tourney takes place,” Oswald began, his words measured and deliberate. “Your new commanding officer will meet you there.”
“The tourney?” Gai cut in, frowning. “Seriously—what’s the point? Feels like nobody can give a straight answer.” His voice was sharp, irritation clear in every syllable as he stared Oswald down, daring him to finally come clean.
Oswald didn’t flinch. “You’ll address me properly, recruit,” he said, voice steady but steely. “Until tomorrow, I’m still your commanding officer. Don’t push your luck.”
That landed hard. Gai’s jaw tightened as he leaned back, muttering something half-hearted and inaudible while the wagon rattled along.
Cedric jumped at the opening, his tone all bite as he turned on Gai. “Oh, here we go again—squid doesn’t care about anything unless it’s spelled out for him,” he sneered, tossing around the nickname like a stone. “Maybe not all of us had this handed to us. Some of us actually want a shot to prove we belong—this is our chance.”
Gai gave him a baffled look. “Handed to me? What are you talking about?”
Cedric rolled his eyes with theatrical annoyance. “Don’t play dumb. Why do you think you got slotted into the castle guard right off? That spot’s for the rich boys and old soldiers—not for regulars like us.” To drive his point home, Cedric spat on the floorboards right by Gai’s boots.
The others kept their heads down—Louis picked at his hands, Mack looked like he wanted to be anywhere else, and Sorren could only stare at Cedric in disbelief.
A flash of hurt crossed Gai’s face, gone in a heartbeat, replaced by a blank stare that gave nothing away. Whatever he felt stayed tightly locked down; not a muscle twitched.
“That’s enough,” Oswald cut in, voice sharp as broken glass. “No more talk until we arrive.” He didn’t need to raise his voice—everyone got the message.
Nobody argued. The wagon rolled on in stiff silence, hooves clopping and wood creaking the only sounds as the city slipped by.
The coliseum came into view, huge and impossible to ignore, its stone walls towering overhead. Every archway and faded carving bore the marks of years gone by, making the place look worn-in but no less imposing. Sunlight hammered down on the facade, throwing thick shadows into every crack and hollow. The wagon rattled up to the entrance and rolled to a stop, looking laughably small in front of the massive building.
“Off,” Oswald ordered, swinging down first and waving them after him.
They hopped down one by one, nerves jangling louder now as they trailed Oswald toward a waiting line of officers. The uniforms were crisp, their faces unreadable—everyone standing just a little too straight. Near them stood a few officials who watched every move, eyes flicking over the new arrivals like they were sizing up livestock at market.
Oswald drew himself up to full height and marched forward with a stiff salute. “Green Barracks recruits reporting, sir.”
The officer nodded back with military efficiency. His voice was all business as he surveyed the boys behind Oswald. “Cedric, Gai, Louis, Mack, Sorren?” He checked each name off as he spoke it, giving each recruit a steady look.
All five managed a nod in sync—expressionless but trying hard to look like they belonged here. “Good,” the officer said shortly. “D Wing for all of them, rooms one through five—doesn’t matter who takes which.” He shot Oswald a pointed look. “You know where you’re going?”
Before Oswald could get a word in, a woman stepped out from the line of officials—impossible to miss, and even harder to ignore. She wore fitted dark leather armor that caught the sunlight in sharp highlights, deep purple fabric threaded through buckles and at her collar lending a touch of unexpected elegance to her otherwise no-nonsense look. There was something about her posture that said she was used to being listened to—and suspected she would be, whether anyone liked it or not.
“I’ll be coming too, Oswald,” she said, voice smooth but leaving little room for argument. Instantly, every recruit straightened up as if by instinct. “Gai’s next commander is already waiting,” she added with just enough curve to her mouth to take the edge off, “and I need a word with Louis—he’s mine now.”
Her announcement hung there until an official broke in with a weary sigh. “So that’s it—you’re here just to make my afternoon difficult?” he grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose like this routine had happened one time too many.
She gave him an exaggerated look of shock, pressing her palm over her chest like she’d taken a mortal wound. “Me? A nuisance? I’m wounded.” A quick laugh slipped out anyway; clearly, she wasn’t wounded at all. Then, briskly: “Let’s get moving.”
The boys exchanged uneasy looks—none eager to test her patience—and fell into step behind. She set off at a determined pace that left Oswald hustling to keep up.
“Captain—” Oswald started, slightly winded.
She glanced back just enough to raise an eyebrow, amused. “Still with the titles? We’re not at court. Lighten up.”
Her tone made it clear that while they might share jokes, rank wasn’t really up for discussion. By the time they stopped outside a door marked by tarnished brass numbers, everyone except her was short of breath.
“Sorren,” she said matter-of-factly, nodding toward the door. “That one’s yours.”
Sorren only paused long enough to toss a quick salute to his friends, then slipped inside his room without a fuss. The captain barely spared him a glance—she was already moving on.
“Cedric,” she called, pointing further down the hallway. He gave a sharp nod and bolted for his door like someone had sounded a starting gun.
Oswald used the lull to catch his breath and leaned in toward her, lowering his voice. “Didn’t know the city was interesting enough to attract rangers these days,” he said, trying for casual but not quite pulling it off.
She just flashed him a sly, secretive smile and kept things rolling. “Mack.” She jerked her chin toward another door. “You’re up.”
“Right away, ma’am,” Mack replied, managing a crooked grin as he waved at Gai and Louis before vanishing inside.
“Louis,” she continued, this time softer. Her eyes lingered on him a beat longer than the others. “Hang tight by your door—I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Louis shot her an obedient nod and slid out of the way, but not before sneaking a curious look back at Gai.
At last, they reached the final door. The captain turned to Gai, her expression unreadable—half encouragement, half warning.
“This one’s yours,” she said quietly. Then, lowering her voice so only he could hear: “Your new commander’s waiting inside.”
Gai’s nerves spiked; for a second he felt like every doubt he’d pushed aside was crowding in again. None of this felt straightforward, but there wasn’t much choice but forward.
Catching something in his hesitation, the captain tipped her head and offered him a brief, real smile—not teasing this time, just steady.
Oswald broke the moment with an exaggerated sigh from behind them. “Yami, tell me you didn’t come all this way from the South chasing after just one recruit.”
Gai’s head whipped around so fast you could practically hear it—his eyes wide and wild, locking onto Yami as if every question he’d ever had was right there in her expression. His mentor. The realization hit hard. After everything, she was here—her position now glaringly clear and unmistakable.
Yami’s grin widened, and she gave Oswald a look that said she was in on a joke he’d never get. Her laugh was soft, almost secretive. “Oh please, you think I’d bother trekking all this way just for him? General’s got me running errands everywhere—this is just one item on a very long list.” She waved her hand as if official business was just another chore to be knocked out before lunch.
Gai tried to speak, but the words tangled up and died before they made it out. His thoughts scattered in every direction—had this been her plan all along? Did every riddle and impossible task lead here? He wasn’t sure if he wanted answers or just a minute to breathe.
Before he could even gather himself, Yami watched as he moved forward—and promptly caught his boot on the doorway. One second he was upright, the next he’d face-planted with all the elegance of a sack of potatoes. The door banged shut behind him like an exclamation point on his humiliation.
For a split second, everyone froze. Then Oswald let loose with a laugh so loud it echoed down the hall, gasping for breath between fits like he might actually keel over.
Yami covered her mouth, not quite hiding her smile. She shook her head, exhaling a sigh that was half exasperation, half affection as she lingered by the door. Maybe she thought about shouting after Gai with some wisecrack or reassurance—but she didn’t. She just waited quietly, eyes sparkling with something private.
A moment later, her old unreadable smile slipped right back into place like it had never left.
