The heavy doors of the war hall rumbled shut behind the Ashguard. Their departure left only the Junior squad and the five newly promoted cadets standing at attention. Torchlight flickered along the walls, shadows stretching like watchful specters across the stone floor.

  Zaric Vailor, commander of the Juniors, stepped forward. His face was lean, marked by a scar running across his jaw. His black hair was slicked back neatly, his green eyes sharp and searching. He pulled off his gloves slowly, letting the silence linger before he spoke.

  “You’re not cadets anymore,” Zaric said. His voice was low, but there was iron in it. “No drills. No instructors shouting from a platform. You fall behind now, someone else bleeds for it. You hold back, someone dies.” He let the words sink in before continuing. “This is who you’re with now. Learn them, or die next to strangers.”

  He gestured for the Juniors to step forward.

  Gregory Houston came first. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a calm expression etched into his weathered face, he carried a greataxe strapped across his back. He gave a simple nod of welcome.

  “Reliable. Unshakeable,” Zaric said. “He’ll carry you if he has to.”

  Teyla Marnis followed, wiry and restless, her curls a fiery tangle above sharp eyes. A jagged saber hung at her side. She cracked her knuckles with a grin.

  “Fastest on the wall,” Zaric continued. “Tries to be funny. Sometimes succeeds.”

  Corren Dax was next, quiet and deliberate. His movements were fluid, his short-cropped hair neat. Twin short swords hung at his hips, and he said nothing, only watching with cool precision.

  “Efficient,” Zaric explained. “Doesn’t speak unless it matters.”

  Jainar Els strode forward with a wide grin. Broad and loud, he carried his heavy steel blade with casual ease.

  “Thinks he’s charming,” Zaric said flatly.

  “Usually right,” Jainar added with a wink toward Ketta, earning a few smirks.

  Elya Vorn approached next. Slender but strong, she carried a long spear worn smooth from years of use. Her braid was pulled tight, her expression watchful, her eyes flicking across the cadets as if measuring each of them.

  “Serious,” Zaric said. “Keeps score. Very good at it.”

  Kellin Drehl shuffled up, broad-shouldered and slightly hunched, his heavy flail rattling softly with every step. His eyes were dark, his lips moving in muttered words only he seemed to hear.

  “Keeps to himself,” Zaric explained. “The flail’s the only one he listens to.”

  Leira Solt was the last. She wore a long, weather-worn coat and leaned against the wall with casual ease. Daggers gleamed from hidden places up her sleeves, her short dark hair falling loosely over her brow.

  “You’ll think she vanished until you see her save someone,” Zaric said simply.

  The Juniors stepped back into line. Zaric turned again to face the five ex-cadets—Alyssa, Harlen, Ketta, Bran, and Sira. Their blades rested in their dominant hands, grapple launchers fixed securely to their wrists.

  Alyssa’s saber gleamed faintly in the torchlight. Harlen carried a long, utilitarian blade. Ketta’s falchion bore the marks of long practice. Bran’s broadsword was thick, chipped at the edges. Sira’s curved blade balanced nimbleness with precision.

  Zaric studied each of them before speaking again. “You’ve earned your place. Barely. Learn fast. Fight faster. Or you won’t be standing here long.”

  The room stayed silent. Some of the Juniors eyed their new comrades with curiosity, others with doubt.

  “You train together at dawn,” Zaric said. “Dismissed.”

  The courtyard was empty that night except for the sound of boots dragging against stone. Alyssa rounded the corner, her legs trembling, armor plates grinding with every motion. Sweat stung her eyes, and her breath came ragged, but she pushed forward. One more lap, she told herself. Always one more.

  Then she heard a sound—the sharp click of armor clasps.

  She slowed, frowning.

  At the edge of the training yard, Vaeyna stood with one of the weighted suits in her arms. She regarded it with quiet interest.

  “Didn’t think anyone else would be up,” Alyssa managed, her voice hoarse.

  Vaeyna looked up, shrugging slightly. “Didn’t think you would be.” She studied the armor for a moment longer before adding, “I’ve seen cadets wear these. Never tried one.”

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  Alyssa blinked sweat from her lashes. “You’ve never trained in the weighted gear?”

  “I usually don’t need to,” Vaeyna said, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. “But if it’s enough to make you drag yourself around the yard in the middle of the night, it’s worth testing.”

  Alyssa gave her a tired grin. “It’s brutal.”

  “Good.” Vaeyna stepped into the suit and buckled it with ease, though the weight pulled at her immediately. She lifted the blade and grunted, staggering slightly. “What in the hell.”

  Alyssa laughed softly. “It takes a few laps.”

  With a clank, Vaeyna moved beside her, walking carefully as if her bones might snap. “Feels like my legs are made of stone.” She glanced sideways. “Alright. Lead on, cadet.”

  Together they began to run. The laps were slow, heavy, every step grinding metal against stone. By the second, their limbs were shaking, lungs burning.

  “Why do you do this,” Vaeyna asked between breaths, “when no one’s watching?”

  Alyssa took a few strides before answering. “Because one day no one will be watching. And I’ll still need to be strong enough.”

  Vaeyna gave a quiet nod. The silence that followed was weighty, but not uncomfortable.

  “You’ve got good instincts,” Vaeyna said eventually. “Rough edges, but they’ll wear down.”

  Alyssa raised a brow. “Is that a compliment?”

  “It’s a warning,” Vaeyna replied, though her voice had softened. “Don’t break yourself trying to be what you’re not ready to be. You’re not Ashguard. Not yet. But you’re close.”

  They slowed at last, collapsing onto the courtyard stones. Both of them panted, the weighted suits groaning as they sank against the cold ground.

  “Feels like I got trampled by a Mag-hauler,” Vaeyna muttered.

  Alyssa laughed again. “You get used to it.”

  Vaeyna leaned back on her hands, staring up at the stars. “Maybe I will.”

  They sat in silence for a long time, steam rising from their sweat-drenched suits in the chill night air.

  At dawn, the courtyard was alive with clanking armor and quiet murmurs. Ashguard, Juniors, and the new ex-cadets stood in formation, waiting. Alyssa shifted uncomfortably in her weighted suit, sore from the night before. Sleep had been scarce, but there was no time to think of it.

  Commander Zaric Dorne stepped forward, his voice carrying over the square.

  “Today is a test,” he said. “Strength. Speed. Adaptability. Sparring rounds will determine who has discipline and precision—and who doesn’t.”

  A ripple of tension moved through the rows. Pairings were called.

  “Alyssa Veyr, with Jainar Els.”

  Alyssa’s heart quickened. Jainar was loud and strong, his blade heavy enough to cleave stone. She knew he wouldn’t hold back.

  “Harlen Voss, with Teyla Marnis. Corren Dax, with Elya Vorn. Ketta Maren, with Leira Solt. Bran Ishell, with Kellin Drehl. Sira Vance, with Gregory Houston.”

  The matches set, the fighters took their positions.

  Jainar raised his steel blade with a grin. “Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be,” Alyssa answered, gripping her sword tightly.

  The clash was fierce. Jainar’s swings shook the stones beneath their feet, but Alyssa’s movements were sharp and practiced. The weight that dragged Jainar down was familiar to her, every motion honed by long hours of extra training.

  She ducked a heavy strike, countered with a slash to his legs, darted in close with her grapple launcher, and forced him back with relentless precision.

  By the time Jainar’s arms sagged, his breath coming in ragged gasps, Alyssa was still standing steady. She swept his sword aside with a final strike, cutting his unprotected arm. The heavy blade fell to the ground.

  “Good fight,” she said, chest heaving.

  Jainar grinned through his exhaustion. “You’re fast, Alyssa. I’ll give you that.”

  She offered him a tired smile. “It’s all about working under pressure.”

  He retrieved his blade, muttering, “Next time I’ll beat you.”

  “You’re welcome to try,” she replied.

  They walked off the field together, but Zaric’s voice cut sharp through the courtyard.

  “Jainar!”

  The grin left Jainar’s face. He trudged over to where the commander stood waiting, arms folded.

  “You lost to a cadet,” Zaric said, his tone low but cutting. “An ex-cadet, yes. Talented, yes. But less experience. No real battles. If the Ashguard saw that, they’d think I was promoting farmers’ sons to the front lines.”

  “She’s good,” Jainar tried, his voice steady. “Better than most of us expected.”

  “That is not the point,” Zaric snapped. “You’re a Junior. You set the bar.”

  Jainar bit his tongue and said nothing.

  Nearby, Sophie appeared and hurried over to Alyssa. “You beat him, didn’t you?” she whispered.

  “Barely,” Alyssa admitted, smirking faintly.

  Sophie glanced toward Zaric still lecturing Jainar. “Oh, he’s getting grilled. Brutal.”

  Alyssa laughed softly. “He just wasn’t ready for the weight.”

  “You trained smarter,” Sophie said, bumping her shoulder.

  Nine days passed since the Juniors’ last clash with the mutated Rhupenshron.

  The cave near the ridge had not gone quiet—it had worsened. Scouts reported the creatures spilling out like ants from a cracked nest, armored ones prowling the valley edges as though they knew they were being watched.

  Command finally made its decision.

  Ashguard, Juniors, and mounted scouts rode out before dawn. The air was cold, the silence heavy. Alyssa sat with Harlen, Ketta, and Gregory in the cart, Sira riding close by with her crossbow.

  At the ridge, fog spilled from the cavern mouth, carrying a stench of ash and rot. The Ashguard readied their advance, but the ground trembled beneath them.

  The ridge broke. Mutated Rhupenshron surged out, cutting the Ashguard off before they could retreat.

  “Juniors, you’re in!” Zaric barked.

  Alyssa moved first, barking orders before anyone else could. “We split wide! Pull them from the Ashguard. Clear the path!”

  Harlen swung high with his grapple, firing from above. Ketta planted charges. Sira climbed to higher ground. Elya fell in beside Alyssa. Jainar cursed, then followed with his steel blade.

  Together they struck, hard enough to stagger the enemy line, not break it.

  “To the cave!” Alyssa shouted, spotting the opening.

  They surged forward, planting explosives along the ridge walls. The tremor came again, deeper now, something vast stirring beneath.

  “Now!” Alyssa screamed.

  The charges blew. Stone roared as the cavern mouth collapsed. The Rhupenshron shrieked—then fell silent as debris sealed the tunnel.

  Not a permanent solution. But enough.

  As the dust cleared, Zaric watched the buried slope in silence, then turned toward Alyssa. His eyes held the faintest trace of approval.

  “You took charge without waiting,” he said. “Not bad.”

  Alyssa wiped soot from her face, her gaze still locked on the ridgeline.

  “We really need to bury these things,” she said softly, “for good.”