Maric didn’t bother to stand when Gai came in. He stayed put, shoulders rounded forward, hands resting loosely together, looking every bit as though something heavy sat on him. His eyes—steady and dark—locked on Gai with a look sharp enough to make even the bravest man think twice. After a long moment, he finally gave a small, measured nod; it said more than any words could.

  “Well, that was unexpected, lad,” Maric said, voice steady and dry, as if nothing could rattle him anymore. He didn’t bother with pleasantries or false cheer. “Honestly, I didn’t think you’d walk in here as the victor.”

  Silence settled thick between them until a chuckle broke it from across the room. Oswald had claimed a carved oak chaise like it was his by birth-right. The cushions had seen better years, but that didn’t stop him from lounging like royalty, boots kicked up on a writing desk crammed into the corner of the room, with zero shame. One battered piece of parchment teetered dangerously close to tumbling off.

  “Told you so,” Oswald said with a grin you’d expect from someone half his age. The dim light caught on the lines of his face, throwing his sharp cheekbones into relief, every crease and scar a reminder of just how much trouble he'd seen. His green cloak almost looked black in the shifting light, adding a touch of menace that never quite reached the glint in his eyes.

  Oswald leaned in, barely bothering to cover his smirk with his hand. “You know, Yami’s been drilling this one for ages, and I never noticed a thing,” he said, and cracked up again, unable to contain himself. “We made a bet, you know? Hate to break it to you, Gai, but my coins were on you falling flat.” He let his boots hit the floor with a heavy thump and actually straightened up for once. “Looks like I’ll have to swallow my pride—and probably get an earful from Yami later.” His grin lingered, but the pride shining through was impossible to miss.

  Maric’s mouth tightened at Oswald’s jab, but instead of snapping back, he just gave Oswald a look that spoke of long years spent corralling louder men. He shifted his focus to Gai, eyes steady and unblinking.

  “Gai.” Maric’s tone left no room for discussion—steady, not harsh. “Sit down.”

  Gai hesitated, shot Maric a flat look, then grumbled under his breath and lumbered over to the nearest stool. The seat let out a protest as he dropped onto it. He sat rigid, shoulders bunched, jaw set tight, the fight’s energy still buzzing through his limbs. Sweat stung where it mixed with dried blood at his temple. Every muscle complained, and he knew the real pain would hit once the adrenaline had run its course..

  “So what’s next, sir?” His voice was low and flat, as he forced himself to meet Maric’s eyes.

  Maric tipped his chin at the battered heap of equipment in the corner, not bothering to soften his tone. “Grab your kit,” he said. “We’re off to get you settled in the upper district.”

  It took a beat for Gai to register that. He blinked, caught a little flat-footed.

  “Now?” There was a flicker of protest in his voice. “I don’t even get to see if the others in their matches?”

  Maric folded his arms and shot him a look that could chisel stone. “Why would you want to? You’re not here for entertainment.” His voice cooled, losing any hint of warmth. “You’re a castle guard now.”

  That landed like a stone in Gai’s gut. He nodded, quick and tight, then pushed himself up.

  “Understood, sir.”

  Not wasting another breath, Gai moved to the corner of the room, scooping up his few battered belongings: cloak draped over one arm, his father’s sword and a rucksack of spare clothes—his motions brisk despite how wrung out he felt.

  “Oswald,” Maric said as he rose, every inch the commander who never needed to shout to be heard. “See him to the north guardhouse.”

  Oswald swung his legs off the chaise with a long, exaggerated stretch, milking every second of it before standing up. He lingered just a moment, then gave Maric a sharp salute—no trace of mockery this time, just solid respect for the commander.

  “Aye, Commander,” Oswald replied, sharp and clear. He tossed Gai a crooked grin. “On your feet, lad. Time to move before Maric finds something tedious for us to scrub.”

  They wandered out through winding halls, their footsteps echoing against stone blackened by years of torch smoke. The wall sconces guttered here and there, throwing more shadow than light and giving everything that half-forgotten look old fortresses wore so well.

  Gai took his time before breaking the quiet, eventually muttering, “Is he always that harsh?” The words hung between them; Gai’s eyes flicked quickly over to Oswald, half hoping for an answer that wouldn’t make him feel like an idiot for asking.

  Oswald let out a short laugh as they rounded another corner. “Harsh? That’s Maric with his softest gloves on.” He shrugged loosely, voice dropping into something almost kind. “Trust me, it’s not about you.”

  Gai pressed on: “But why, sir?”

  Oswald cocked an eyebrow, almost smirking at the ‘sir’ but said nothing until they stepped through an archway where warm light played over broken stones. There he paused.

  Oswald took a breath, the grin fading. “Simple answer: he’s buried too many of our own because they weren’t ready. Maric doesn’t like surprises on his watch. He wants to know who vouched for you, and why, since you’re not the usual sort he gets.”

  Gai just nodded and let it go as they walked out into the chill of night.

  “Oh, and no need for the ‘sir,’ Gai. I’m not barking orders at you anymore,” Oswald added lightly, clapping him once on the shoulder—a solid, grounding touch.

  Gai gave a stiff nod. “Right… Oswald.” The name alone sounded strange on his tongue.

  Oswald grinned and motioned ahead. “Come on, let me show you where all the excitement happens.”

  They slipped through another arch, emerging into a courtyard humming with movement—horses stamping against cobbles, voices rising and falling in busy conversation. A line of carriages waited nearby, crests gleaming bright against worn stone and banners flaring bold above it all in the daylight.

  Servants in crisp tunics darted between carriages, double-checking harnesses or hauling crates and gear into place with practiced efficiency. Nearby, guards in mismatched uniforms stood to attention—some in deep blue, others in battered red—armor clean enough to flash in the sun whenever they shifted. The air was thick with the smell of oiled leather, horses, and a hint of sweat—a blend that spoke as much of hard work as it did of wealth.

  Oswald paused for a moment, his eyes scanning the organized chaos before them. “This is where the aristocrats enter and exit,” he explained, his voice tinged with subtle amusement. “No need for them to come through the general entry like ordinary folk, right?”

  He chuckled softly at his own words, and Gai found himself fighting back a grin. He wasn’t sure if it was Oswald’s dry humor or the sheer absurdity of such pomp that amused him more.

  “Of course not,” Gai muttered under his breath, playing along. “Wouldn’t want them mingling with us commoners.”

  Oswald shot him a sidelong glance and smirked. “Careful now. That sharp tongue might get you in trouble in your new posting.”

  They continued walking until they reached a small guardhouse tucked away in a quieter corner of the courtyard. Its stone walls were weathered and partially hidden beneath a thick curtain of ivy that clung to its surface like an old memory refusing to fade. A wooden sign bearing the guardhouse’s insignia hung crookedly above its entrance.

  As they approached, an old guard stepped out from within. His grizzled appearance matched the rough timbre of his voice when he spoke. “Oh, welcome, lad,” he greeted Gai with a gravelly voice that sounded like boots crunching over loose stones. His sharp eyes swept over Gai appraisingly before softening into something kinder. “You one of the new recruits?”

  For a moment, Gai hesitated, unsure how to respond. The man’s presence carried an air of authority despite his casual tone. “Uh… yes, sir,” Gai finally managed, standing a little straighter.

  The old guard barked out a laugh that echoed off the stone walls around them. “Sir? Me? Hah! I’m definitely no ‘sir,’ lad!” He reached out and gave Gai a hearty thump on the back—a gesture meant to be friendly but strong enough to make Gai stagger slightly and cough.

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  “Name’s Garrick,” he continued with a toothy grin that revealed yellowed teeth beneath his scruffy beard. “And you’d best remember it if you’re planning to stick around here.”

  Gai nodded quickly, still trying to regain his breath after Garrick’s unexpected display of enthusiasm. “Got it—Garrick.”

  Oswald chuckled at the exchange but quickly grew serious again as he turned toward Garrick. “Maric will be here soon with the other recruit,” he informed him briskly. “I’ll leave Gai in your capable hands for now.”

  “Not a problem,” Garrick replied with an easy shrug before turning his attention back to Gai. “We’ll get him sorted.”

  Before departing, Oswald looked directly at Gai, his expression uncharacteristically sombre. “About your earlier question… why Maric’s been riding you so hard.” He paused as though weighing his words carefully before continuing. “Just embrace it, Gai. Your road is going to be far harder than most of your comrades’. There have been only a handful of times—even fewer than I can count on both hands—that non-aristocratic recruits or veterans have made it into the castle guard.” His gaze lingered meaningfully on Gai, as if willing him to understand the gravity of what lay ahead.

  “Even with recommendations?” Gai asked quietly.

  Oswald nodded grimly before raising his hand in a salute to both Garrick and Gai. “Good luck, lad,” he said simply before turning on his heel and striding away toward one of the shadowy tunnels leading beneath the coliseum.

  Gai watched him go in silence, his mind churning with unspoken questions and doubts as Oswald disappeared into the labyrinthine network below—a place that seemed alive with distant echoes of roaring crowds and muffled cheers from ongoing matches.

  “Don’t look so glum,” Garrick said suddenly, breaking through Gai’s thoughts with a playful nudge to his arm. “Sit down while you can and enjoy the quiet. Trust me—there won’t be much time for that once training starts.”

  Taking Garrick’s advice, Gai sat on a nearby bench outside the guardhouse and allowed himself to take in his surroundings properly for the first time since arriving here. The staging area was alive with motion—a well-oiled machine operating seamlessly despite how chaotic it appeared at first glance.

  Drivers climbed down from their carriages to confer briefly with guards stationed nearby. Lists were checked meticulously before passengers were allowed entry through one of several portcullises leading deeper into restricted areas reserved for nobility.

  “What about everyone else?” Gai asked after a while, glancing toward Garrick “where do they enter?”

  “The general population?” Garrick echoed thoughtfully before nodding toward one of the larger entrances visible across the courtyard. “They’re given tickets for specific days ahead of time—those who can afford it anyway. For everyone else… well, it’s first-come-first-served if there are any seats left by morning.”

  “Some mornings,” he added with a chuckle, “you’ll see thousands waiting outside those gates before dawn just hoping they’ll get in.”

  Before Gai could get another word out, a voice cut clean across the courtyard—steady, commanding, and leaving no room for debate. Maric was back, another recruit following at his heels.

  “Listen up,” Maric called out, crisp and to the point as he walked up. “These games run on discipline and respect. Most of the time, we don’t need to step in—everyone knows what’s expected, and the rules aren’t optional.”

  His eyes moved over the group, cool and unreadable. “We enforce those rules. No exceptions.” There was a brief pause as he let that hang. “The nobility get fewer seats than you’d think—they book ahead if they want to see something specific. They know better than to cause trouble.”

  Gai swallowed hard, his throat dry despite the humid air. He caught himself glancing at the other recruit—Raimondis—who stood just slightly taller than him but carried himself with an arrogance that seemed to fill the space between them. Raimondis didn’t look nervous; instead, there was an almost imperceptible curl to his lip, as though even standing here among “lesser men” was beneath him. Whatever sting he should’ve felt from losing to Gai in the arena was nowhere to be seen—if he remembered it at all.

  “Follow me,” Maric barked suddenly, motioning for them to follow. Without hesitation, Gai fell in step behind him while Raimondis hesitated for a fraction of a second before trailing after them, his feet crunching against the gravel path.

  The covered wagon waiting nearby bore the insignia of the city guard—an intricate crest embossed in deep crimson and gold. Its paint gleamed under the midday sun, though scuffs and scratches on its sides hinted at its years of service. Maric wasted no time climbing aboard, gesturing brusquely for the boys to join him.

  Gai clambered up first, settling onto one of the hard wooden benches inside. The canvas cover flapped lazily in the breeze as Raimondis followed suit, pointedly keeping as much distance from Gai as possible. The wagon jolted forward moments later, its wheels creaking as it rolled out onto the cobblestone streets.

  Through the gaps in the canvas, flashes of city life slipped past—market stalls overflowing with bright produce and cheap trinkets, every one of them swarmed by a tangle of shoppers. Kids weaved between carts, laughter cutting through shouts from vendors haggling with customers. The scent from street fires drifted in—grilled meat skewers sending up trails of smoke, spicy and rich enough to make Gai’s stomach growl despite the nerves twisting inside him.

  Maric broke the silence inside the wagon with a gruff command: “You two have already met briefly, but let’s formalize it.” His gaze flicked between them like a hawk sizing up its prey. “Gai, this is Raimondis. Raimondis, meet Gai.”

  Gai nodded politely, though he kept his expression neutral. “It’s good to officially meet you,” he said carefully, his voice steady despite the tension in the air.

  Raimondis barely glanced at him before sneering openly. “I see no need for introductions,” he drawled, his tone dripping with disdain. “I have no intention of associating with peasants.”

  The insult hung in the air like a slap to the face. Gai felt his chest tighten, though he forced himself to remain calm. He opened his mouth to respond—but before he could speak, Maric moved faster than either boy could anticipate.

  With a sharp crack that echoed inside the wagon, Maric’s gloved hand connected with Raimondis’ cheek. The impact left a red imprint across his pale skin as Raimondis fell back in shock.

  “That will be your one and only warning,” Maric said coldly, his voice low but lethal. His hand hovered threateningly near Raimondis’ face as if daring him to speak again. “You will follow orders immediately and without question—or you’ll wish you had.”

  For a moment, Raimondis said nothing, his breathing shallow and rapid as fury warred with fear behind his wide eyes. Finally, he spat out through clenched teeth: “My father will hear of this.”

  Maric’s lips twisted into a grim smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Do you want another?” he asked quietly, his voice carrying more menace than any shout could have mustered.

  Raimondis paled at the threat and quickly looked away. Silence fell over them once more as the wagon continued its journey uphill toward the heart of the city.

  The streets grew cleaner as they ascended into wealthier districts; gone were the crowded markets and smoke-streaked alleys. Instead, grand estates lined either side of the road—immaculate gardens bursting with color and fountains spilling crystalline water into marble basins. Even Gai couldn’t help but stare at the opulence surrounding them.

  The wagon came to an abrupt halt before an imposing stone gatehouse crowned by a raised portcullis. Maric leapt down effortlessly from the wagon bed and motioned for the boys to follow suit.

  As soon as they jumped down, Gai craned his neck, taking in the sheer size of the place. The walls stretched up, thick and unwelcoming, blocking out most of the sky. Beyond them sat the main keep—massive and gray, carved from stone so solid it looked like it had been here forever. Gai let out a low whistle under his breath. Even for someone who’d pictured castles before, seeing it up close was something else.

  Two guards stood sentry by the sally port, chainmail catching the light in sharp glints as they snapped off crisp salutes to Maric. Their faces were unreadable—just steady, professional stares—as they stepped aside to let the group through.

  Maric acknowledged them with a quick nod and kept moving, Gai and Raimondis right behind him, straight into a courtyard flooded with sunlight. The place was alive: soldiers trading blows in sparring matches at one end, others busy shining armor or hauling crates along the worn stone paths.

  Right in the middle was a huge fountain, carved with figures mid-battle, water spilling down to catch the sun. It was both impressive and oddly calming.

  Gai paused there just a second longer than he should have, then hurried after Maric as he turned toward an archway off to the side.

  They stepped into a bigger courtyard, this one busy with drills and practice. A platform overlooked a training yard packed with soldiers—some marching in tight formation while their sergeants shouted corrections, others hacking away at well-worn straw dummies. Everyone had a job and nobody looked bored.

  Maric finally stopped beside a rack of gleaming practice weapons and turned sharply toward them. His expression was unreadable as he surveyed both boys once more.

  “Gai. Raimondis.” Maric’s voice cut through the noise, firm and direct. His face was all angles and hard lines; you got the sense he'd forgotten how to smile years ago. “This is it—your new home,” he said, and there was a kind of pride buried in his words, even if you’d have to dig for it. He looked them both over—tall and lean, scowling and stubborn—letting his stare linger an extra beat just to make sure they felt it.

  “You two are the last of this year’s recruits,” he went on, voice calm but leaving no room for argument. “Don’t take that as a favor. You earned it—or you’re about to.” He nodded toward a squat stone building with an iron door and a window hardly big enough for a mouse. “Quartermaster Davis is inside. He’ll hand out bunks and schedules.”

  He paused, making sure they were actually listening. Then his finger jabbed at a battered wooden door off to the side, tucked behind the parade platform—unremarkable except for the fact that it belonged to him. “That’s my office,” he said, voice dropping lower. “Don’t knock unless you’re bleeding or the place is on fire. Understood?”

  Though phrased as a question, there was no mistaking the command in his tone. The silence that followed was answer enough.

  “Right,” Maric said, brisk and all business. “Parade grounds. Don’t be late.” Without a backward glance, he spun on his heel and made for his office. The door gave a protesting groan before he shut it firmly behind him, the sound echoing through the courtyard.

  Gai and Raimondis stood rooted for a second, boots squeaking as they shifted awkwardly now that the commander was gone.

  After an uncertain pause, Gai cleared his throat. “Well... suppose we should find Davis, then,” he said, trying—and mostly failing—to put some optimism into his voice.

  Raimondis didn’t answer. He just turned and marched off toward the quartermaster’s building, stiff-backed and silent, not bothering to look at Gai.

  Gai let out a quiet sigh and trudged after him. “Guess we won’t be sharing drinks anytime soon,” he muttered—just loud enough for Raimondis to catch it.

  Raimondis shot him a withering look over his shoulder. “Keep talking and I’ll report you for breathing too loud, Squid.”

  Gai smirked but kept his mouth shut after that, settling in behind Raimondis and already wondering how long it would take before one of them snapped.

  Before either of them had a chance to knock, the door swung wide open and nearly hit Gai in the nose. Out stepped a squat man, his apron more stain than fabric, with a bushy mustache twitching above a broad grin.

  “Well then! You must be the new blood. Name’s Davis!” His voice was loud enough to rattle the windows, cheerful enough to make both boys blink. He shoved out a hand before they’d even crossed the threshold.

  Raimondis took it with the kind of enthusiasm reserved for dead fish—quick squeeze, immediate release. Gai followed with a firm grip, which seemed to please Davis to no end.

  “Now that’s a handshake,” Davis said, winking at Gai. “Come on in, let’s kit you out before you freeze up.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer—just turned and started flinging equipment at Gai like he was stocking shelves in a hurry: belts, boots, tunics that somehow smelled clean and sweaty at once. Two wooden swords balanced on top for good measure.

  “Hold up—” Gai tried as the pile threatened to topple.

  “No holding up in this place!” Davis barked with another booming laugh, giving Gai a hearty smack on the shoulder that made him stagger. “Move quick or get buried; that’s the only lesson worth remembering.”

  Raimondis, meanwhile, wasn’t spared—Davis heaped gear into his arms with relentless cheer, paying no mind to the steady stream of muttered complaints or the increasingly spectacular scowl building on the boy’s face. If anything, Davis seemed to enjoy piling it higher just to see how long Raimondis would last.

  “Right, that’s the lot!” Davis declared as soon as both recruits looked about one crate shy of toppling over. He clapped his hands once, loud enough to startle a stable hand halfway across the yard, and jerked his chin for them to follow.

  “This way!” he bellowed merrily, leading them across the courtyard toward a narrow doorway wedged into a corner Gai could’ve sworn hadn’t existed a minute ago.

  On the other side was a staircase that looked like it had chewed through a few generations of boots. Each step felt steeper than the last; Gai had to lean against the wall just to keep his armful from spilling everywhere.

  From behind came Raimondis’s colourful grumbling: “Brilliant. Maybe next they’ll have us sleeping in the rafters with the pigeons.”

  Davis only laughed from above. “You’ll be begging for these stairs once you’ve been up and down them doing drills! Builds character—and legs.”

  By the time they finally reached the right door—almost identical to every other one they’d passed—both were winded and sweating through their collars.

  “Here we are,” Davis announced cheerfully, swinging open the door for Gai while balancing bags like it was nothing. “This is your room. Raimondis, head down two levels to your room.”

  Raimondis gaped at him in outrage. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Oh, I’m perfectly serious,” Davis said with mock solemnity, eyes twinkling as he handed Gai another bundle. “You look like you could use an extra stretch, it might tire out that bad attitude you dragged in.”

  With that, he gave Gai an encouraging nod and wink before heading back down the winding staircase.

  Inside, Gai saw four bunks lined up neatly; three already claimed with folded blankets and little signs of life—a spare shirt here, a lucky charm there—but one space left open just for him.

  He let everything slide to the floor and flopped onto his new bed with a long sigh. Out in the hall, he could just make out Raimondis’s muffled string of curses and Davis’s booming laugh echoing after him. But by then, Gai was already sinking fast into sleep.