Tong broke over the castle walls with the sound of horns. Half-asleep, Noa threw off his thin blanket as the officer's harsh voice rang in his ears:
— "New recruits! Out to the courtyard!"
The freezing wind struck his face. The snow-covered yard had already turned into a churned mixture of mud and ice beneath the soldiers' boots. In the center, the dragons stood in formation, holding swords, spears, or bows.
The officer climbed onto a raised platform and gave the order:
— "There are no names here, no ranks. No childhood—only love for the Homeland and the strength found to defend that love."
The soldiers answered with a roar. Noa's heart pounded with panic. He had never held a weapon in his life.
One soldier stepped closer, a cold smile on his face.
— "So this is the fallen prince, is it? You'll learn fast. No one protects you here."
Noa said nothing. He lifted his eyes to the sky. Silence could also be a weapon.
The drill began: running, lifting stones, then sword practice. His hands bled, his breathing grew ragged, and every movement felt heavy.
The officer's gaze settled on him—not mockery, not mercy, only assessment.
By evening, the dragons collapsed from exhaustion. Noa sank to the ground, his chest burning, yet the fire inside him still grew stronger. He whispered to himself:
"This is so hard... so hard. Must I really live like this?"
Suddenly, a cry rang out from the western tower. The officer's voice followed:
— "Take your weapons!"
Old chests were opened, and the smell of rust spread through the air. Some were given polished spears or sharp swords. Noa was handed a heavy, rusted, badly made sword. His hand trembled, but he did not let go.
"What can you give a fallen prince? This is trash."
Laughter rose around him. Their black iron armor was decorated with the dragon emblem; in the torchlight, the metal eyes of the dragons seemed to burn like fire.
— "Look, the prince can't even lift his sword!"
— "He'll die soon, hahaha—look at him, barely standing!"
Anger flared in Noa's chest, but his face remained calm.
"Mock me... it gives me strength. To change myself—" he whispered.
— "Pair up!" the officer ordered.
A tall, broad-shouldered soldier stepped forward, his eyes cold as ice. His armor, marked with the dragon insignia, gleamed like a living thing in the darkness. He spun his sword easily and grinned.
"Is the prince going to ...?" he said, pausing for a moment before continuing. "A child of luxury can never become a true dragon."
He beckoned Noa closer with a motion of his hand.
Noa struck with his rusted sword. Garn calmly raised his blade and blocked the blow.
Steel rang against steel. Garn's first strike knocked Noa down with a single hit. Snow filled his mouth, and blood ran along his lip.
The others did not seem surprised, as if they had expected it.
"This is the only look that suits you," Garn said in a low voice.
Noa rose slowly. Garn's second strike sent him crashing to the ground again, skidding across the ice, his palms torn and bleeding. But this time, he stood up faster.
Seeing Noa rise again, Garn looked mildly surprised.
"How long am I going to keep falling? How long?"
For a moment, the officer's eyes fixed on him. Not mockery, not mercy—only observation.
"Pointless efforts will not change the fate already decided for you," he thought.
"Enough," said the officer, stepping forward.
Garn silently looked at Noa, then returned his sword to its scabbard.
Then came the stone-lifting test. Four-person teams had to lift huge stones together. Noa's group pushed him aside.
"Get out of the way!" one of them mocked.
He was shoved. Pain shot through his arm. He propped himself on his elbow in the snow and pressed his whole body against the stone, lifting with all the strength he had. But it still was not enough.
"Why is their hatred aimed at me?"
The brutal day continued—running, jumping, fighting on the frozen ground. The dragons fell, stood up, and fell again. Bloodied and trembling, Noa remained standing until the end. His breath felt as if it were tearing through his chest, and his vision was fading.
At last, the officer climbed the platform. Behind him, the iron dragon carved into the wall glinted in the torchlight as if it were breathing fire.
— "Those who lose today will not be fed.
And those who laugh from above—you are worse than trash yourselves."
Shouts and cries erupted. From the ranks, some voices mocked:
— "Did he call us weak like a prince?"
— "We're better than him, even if our blood isn't as pure as his."
Some fell silent, thinking only of surviving another hungry day.
Noa drew a deep breath and looked down at his hands. Cuts, cold, rust—but his will had not broken.
"No food for me? Hunger won't kill me, but it may force me to kill someone."
Under the torchlight, his eyes burned like fire. The dragon on the wall seemed to smile at him.
Across the formation, Garn looked at Noa with open hatred.
"You are unworthy of a luxurious life. You nobles will answer for the lavish lives you lived, for the dragons sacrificed because of you."
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