The ride to the Iron Shields' camp took all day.
Elena set a brutal pace. Korath, Daven, Brick, and Tam took turns on the horses, but mostly they walked to keep the animals from getting exhausted. By the time the sun started setting, every muscle in Korath's body screamed.
"Almost there," Elena said. She hadn't broken a sweat.
They crested a hill, and Korath saw it.
The camp spread across a valley—dozens of tents arranged in neat rows, training grounds marked out with posts and rope, a central building that might've been a barracks or meeting hall. Hundreds of people moved through it, the organized chaos of a military camp.
"Welcome to the Iron Shields," Elena said. "First rule: everyone pulls their weight. Second rule: respect is earned, not given. Third rule: we're a company, not a charity. You get training, protection, and pay. In return, you fight when called and follow orders. Break any of those rules, you're out. Understand?"
They nodded.
"Good. Let's get you settled."
The camp was like nothing Korath had experienced. It was organized, purposeful, alive with energy that made the mines feel like a tomb in comparison.
Elena led them through the main gate—two wooden posts with a crossbeam bearing the company symbol: a shield split by a sword. Guards nodded at her but studied the newcomers with hard eyes.
"Recruits?" one asked.
"Maybe. If they survive training." Elena didn't slow down. "Fresh from Ashkarn. Escaped slaves."
The guard's expression shifted from suspicion to something like respect. "Tough bastards, then. They'll need to be."
They passed rows of tents—sleeping quarters for the rank-and-file mercenaries. Men and women sat outside, cleaning weapons, mending armor, talking in low voices. All of them looked hard, scarred, dangerous. People who'd chosen violence as a profession.
Korath felt their eyes on him. Judging. Weighing. Finding him lacking.
"Don't mind them," Elena said. "Everyone here started somewhere. Even me." She pointed to a large tent near the center. "That's the mess hall. You eat there—breakfast at dawn, dinner at dusk. Miss a meal, that's your problem."
Next, she showed them the training grounds—a wide clearing with practice dummies, weapon racks, and sparring circles marked in the dirt. A dozen people were training even now as the sun set, their movements sharp and practiced.
"You'll spend most of your time here for the first month," Elena continued. "Learning how to actually fight instead of just swing things around. Commander Gareth runs training. He's mean, but he's fair. Listen to him, and you might not die on your first contract."
"And if we don't listen?" Daven asked.
"Then you'll definitely die on your first contract." Elena smiled without humor. "This isn't the army. We don't coddle. You prove yourself, or you leave. Simple as that."
She led them to a smaller tent near the edge of camp. "This is yours. Four bunks, basic supplies. You're responsible for your own gear—keep it clean, keep it ready. Questions?"
"When do we start?" Korath asked.
"Dawn tomorrow. Get some sleep. You'll need it." Elena turned to leave, then paused. "One more thing. We have rules here. No stealing from other mercenaries. No fighting outside the sparring circles. No deserting during a contract. Break any of those, and you're out—or dead, depending on what you did. Understand?"
They nodded.
"Good. Welcome to the Iron Shields." She walked away, leaving them alone with their new reality.
The tent was sparse but clean. Four beds, a small table, a lamp. Luxury compared to the slave quarters, but still basic.
Brick claimed the bed nearest the entrance—the big man had instincts for danger even here. Daven took the one by the back, always liking an escape route. Tam took the third, leaving Korath with the one by the table.
They unpacked their meager belongings in silence. There wasn't much to unpack—the clothes on their backs, a few supplies from Miriam, stolen weapons they barely knew how to use.
"This is really happening," Tam said quietly. "We're actually going to be mercenaries."
"We're going to try," Daven corrected. "There's a difference."
"Think we can do it?" the boy asked. "Become fighters like them?"
Korath looked at his hands again—scarred, callused, shaking slightly from exhaustion. Could these hands that had only known pickaxes learn to wield a sword properly?
"We don't have a choice," he said. "We move forward or we die. That's it."
"Deep thoughts for a kid who was swinging a pickaxe two weeks ago," Brick rumbled. But he didn't sound mocking—just tired.
They lay in their beds as darkness fell. Outside, the camp settled into evening routines—the smell of cooking food, the murmur of conversations, someone singing a bawdy song that made Tam blush.
Korath stared at the tent ceiling. His body ached everywhere. His mind felt foggy with exhaustion. But underneath it all, something else stirred.
Hope. Real hope, for the first time since... he couldn't remember when.
Tomorrow would be hard. He knew that. Training would break him down, build him back up. He'd bleed and hurt and maybe fail.
But he'd be doing it as a free man.
That made all the difference.