The first day of training at Grimwatch was a lesson in exhaustion. It was designed not to teach fighting, but to break the will.
Sergeant Rath did not teach them how to hold a spear; he taught them how to stand still until their legs failed.
He did not teach them formation; he taught them how to run laps around the muddy valley carrying a fifty-pound sack of rocks until they vomited.
He did not teach tactics; he taught absolute, immediate, and unquestioning obedience, enforced by the cruel, repetitive snap of the leather strap.
"You will stand," Rath roared, pacing before the staggering lines of conscripts. "And you will look forward! If your eyes drift to the mud, you are thinking about your hunger! If your eyes drift to your feet, you are thinking about your pain! And if you are thinking about anything other than the drill, you are treasonous scum who deserves to die!"
The training was endless. Aris, recognizing the methodology from his fragmented past-life memories of military history, understood the purpose: to replace thought with instinct.
The problem was, most of the conscripts were breaking. They were falling to their knees, weeping, or simply collapsing into the mud. The guards would drag them away, either for medical treatment or for punishment, but they always returned smaller, quieter, and more hollowed out.
Doran was struggling the most. His big frame needed more fuel than the watery gruel provided. He was currently trying to hold a shield—a heavy, convex piece of iron—at arm's length. His muscles were shaking violently.
One minute, twenty-two seconds, Aris noted silently.
Aris stood next to him. He was smaller, but his discipline was his shield. He didn't just stand there; he used the time to train.
Count the seconds. Count the heartbeats. Breathe deep. Contract the core. Shift the weight to the heels. Ignore the shoulder fire.
He calculated the exact amount of food and water he had consumed, the rate of caloric burn, and how much energy he needed to conserve just to survive the night. He treated his body like a machine, coldly calculating its output and need. The pain was just data.
When Doran's shield finally clattered into the mud—one minute, thirty-five seconds into the last drill—Sergeant Rath was upon them instantly.
Snap!
The leather strap cut across the back of Doran's neck, drawing a thin line of blood.
"Filth! I said hold the line!" Rath bellowed.
"I—I can't, Sergeant! It's too heavy!" Doran cried, clutching his neck.
Rath laughed, a cruel, wheezing sound. "Too heavy? The Westvale knights will laugh you into the grave! Pick it up!"
Doran scrambled to obey.
"You," Rath snarled, turning to Aris. He was disappointed to find Aris still perfectly at attention, his eyes fixed on the Sergeant's chest, not his face. "Why is your shield steady, rat? You are smaller than him."
"Discipline, Sergeant," Aris stated, his voice flat and perfectly steady.
Rath was intrigued. He walked a circle around Aris, scrutinizing him. The boy was tiny, but he wasn't shaking.
"Discipline," Rath sneered. "Show me, discipline."
He suddenly drove his thick, wooden-soled boot into Aris's left shin. It was a vicious, unannounced kick.
A white-hot spike of agony shot up Aris's leg, threatening to buckle his knee. His breath hitched.
Hold the line. Don't fall. Don't cry.
Aris swayed slightly but immediately shifted his weight to his right foot, planting himself like a deeply rooted tree. He did not cry out. He did not look at his foot. He did not even blink.
Rath stared at him for a long, silent moment. The whole legion watched.
"Hmph," Rath grunted, sounding grudgingly impressed. "Name, slave."
"Aris, Sergeant."
"Aris," Rath repeated, his voice dangerously low. "You have the will of a rock. I can use a rock. Now, tell your friend what he has done wrong."
Aris turned his head slightly toward Doran, who was watching with horrified eyes.
"He wasted energy crying out," Aris said calmly. "He broke his form when the pain came. He treated his body as a barrier to survival, not a tool for it."
Doran flinched as if struck again.
Rath grinned, a terrifying expression.
"The rock speaks! Good. Now, take his shield. Hold two. And if you drop them, I'll feed your soft friend to the hounds."
Aris picked up Doran's heavy iron shield with his right hand and held it at arm's length. The muscles in his forearms screamed in protest, but he did not allow his gaze to waver.
He stood there, holding two shields, enduring the silent, fiery agony in his limbs. He knew this was a test. He knew Rath was trying to find his breaking point, and he would not give it to him.
I am iron, Aris thought, the new mantra repeating in his mind. This isn't pain. This is tempering.
He stood for ten minutes. The sun set, casting long, bruised shadows across the field. When Rath finally barked the command to drop the shields, Aris lowered them slowly, deliberately, not letting them crash.
Rath did not praise him. He did not give him extra rations.
"You have earned the right to live through the night, Aris," Rath said, his voice cold. "Do not waste it."
That evening, Aris and Doran were crammed into a muddy, freezing barracks with fifty other recruits. The air was rancid with sweat, fear, and unwashed bodies.
Doran lay on his straw mat, shaking, staring blankly at the ceiling.
"He broke me, Aris," Doran whispered, tears finally slipping down his soot-stained cheeks. "He broke my spirit. I can't do this."
Aris was using a strip of clean cloth—stolen from the camp's laundry line—to wrap his swollen shin. He looked up at his friend.
"He broke the slave boy, Doran," Aris corrected him, his eyes hard. "Let the slave boy stay broken. The man underneath can still survive."
He finished wrapping his leg. "Lenn is in logistics. He has access to the camp records, maybe the rations. Tova and Mira are in the rear camp. Closer to the food and, more importantly, the gossip."
"Aris, why are you talking about this?"
"Because we have a network, Doran," Aris said, leaning closer. "The rest of these fools are focused on Rath. They are focused on survival today. We are focused on tomorrow."
Aris had managed to steal three dried figs from a supply crate during their run. He split them perfectly in half and handed three of the pieces to Doran.
"Eat slowly. Chew it thirty times," Aris commanded. "We need the calories. We need the sugar."
Doran ate, the tiny pieces of dried fruit tasting like heaven.
"Tonight, we rest for five hours," Aris continued, his eyes calculating the dim light filtering through the window. "Then, we do the drills I showed you. The quiet ones. The stretching. The footwork. We use Rath's brutality to make us stronger. Every beating is a free training session. Every moment of pain is a chance to prove we are better than the pain."
Doran looked at his friend—this ten-year-old boy with the soul of a veteran.
"You really think we can survive this?" Doran asked, his voice raw.
Aris met his gaze. "We already died once, Doran. We have nothing left to fear but failure."
He lay down, but he didn't sleep. He listened. He counted the heartbeats of the men around him. He listened to the shifting of the guards outside. He listened to the distant, mournful cry of the Northwatch war horns, calling for blood.
He was ready.