The morning bell clanged like an iron hammer, dragging Kaelen from his bunk. His muscles screamed as he rolled out of the straw mattress, feet thudding against cold stone. Around him, the barracks erupted into groans, curses, and the shuffle of boots.
"Gods piss on this hell," Jareth muttered from the next row, dragging a tunic over his head. "Who in the fuck decided dawn was the best time to swing sticks at each other?"
"Someone who wanted to see you suffer," another boy called back.
"Then they've got their wish," Jareth groaned.
Deren stretched, arms shaking. "If I live through another week of this, I'll build a shrine to whoever invented sleep."
Maeve, already dressed, laced her boots with sharp, deliberate pulls. "Sleep is wasted time. Maybe if you trained harder, you wouldn't whine like old men."
"Whine?" Deren gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. "I am the picture of youthful strength. A specimen of iron. A—"
He tripped on his own bootlace and sprawled face-first onto the floor. Laughter exploded across the barracks.
"Specimen of shit," someone chuckled.
Kaelen grinned as he hauled Deren upright. "Maybe start small, like learning to walk."
Deren rubbed his nose. "I was testing gravity. Still works."
The bell clanged again. The recruits surged toward the yard.
The sun was sharp and merciless. Dust hung in the air as Captain Thalos and two other instructors waited, arms folded. The recruits fell into uneven lines, muttering.
"Today," Thalos barked, "you will learn to strike without thought. Instinct. No pauses, no stumbles. A soldier who hesitates is a corpse waiting for burial."
He signaled, and the second instructor — a scarred woman named Veyra — stepped forward with a practice blade. She moved like lightning, driving through the First Form with blistering speed, then shifting seamlessly into a second sequence none of the recruits had yet seen. Her strikes cracked the air, her feet barely disturbing the dust.
"This," Thalos said, "is what you aim for. Not today, not tomorrow. Years. But every cut you make brings you closer."
A boy near Kaelen muttered under his breath, "Closer to an early grave."
"Did you say something, Alric?" Thalos snapped.
Alric stiffened. "No, Captain."
"Good. Then prove it with steel."
The yard came alive with the clash of wood. Kaelen paired off with Deren again, both of them moving through the First Form faster than before. Sweat ran into Kaelen's eyes as he forced his arms to keep pace.
"Better," Deren panted. "Still feel like my ribs are breaking, but better."
Kaelen's blade rang against his. "Keep your guard tighter."
Across the yard, Maeve struggled. Her opponent, a broad-shouldered farm boy named Corwin, swung with brute force that nearly knocked the weapon from her hands.
"Shit, girl, you've got wrists like a sparrow," Corwin jeered.
"Better than your brain, which weighs less," Maeve snapped, fumbling to block the next strike.
Corwin lunged too far, tripping in the dust. The watching recruits howled. Maeve seized the chance to jab him lightly in the ribs.
"There," she said smugly. "Struck you without thought."
"Piss off," Corwin growled, red-faced.
By midday, arms shook with exhaustion. Thalos ordered the recruits to gather.
"Discipline is not enough," he said. "You must also learn endurance. War does not pause for your weakness."
Groans answered him.
"Silence. Five laps around the yard. Move."
The recruits dragged themselves forward, stumbling into a ragged jog. Deren wheezed almost immediately.
"Fuck me sideways," he gasped. "I wasn't built for this."
"No one was," Kaelen said between breaths. His chest burned, legs screaming. But something in him pushed harder — the stubborn refusal to fall behind.
Maeve surged past them, face set, muttering under her breath. "Not last. Not last."
They finished half-dead, collapsing onto the benches as water was passed around. Jareth groaned loudly, lying flat in the dirt.
"Someone bury me here. Save them the trouble later."
"Gladly," Maeve muttered.
That night, the barracks buzzed with chatter. Recruits compared bruises like trophies, holding out purple welts and swollen knuckles.
"Corwin hit me so hard my teeth rattled," one boy boasted.
"Better than Maeve knocking you on your ass," someone replied, sparking laughter.
Maeve smirked but said nothing.
Kaelen sat on his bunk, rolling his shoulders, listening. For all the pain, for all the curses, there was something here he hadn't felt since leaving the village — a rhythm, a strange kinship forged through struggle. Even when they mocked, even when they swore, the recruits were bound by the same bruises, the same hunger to endure.
Deren flopped beside him, groaning. "If I live through another month, I'm changing my name. Something heroic. Like… Deren the Indestructible."
Kaelen snorted. "Deren the Complainer sounds closer."
"Fuck you too," Deren muttered, though he grinned.
Maeve called across the room, "If he survives, it'll be because Kaelen dragged him through every drill."
"Or because I distracted the instructors with my charm," Deren replied.
The barracks roared with laughter.
When the noise died down and lanterns dimmed, Kaelen lay awake again, staring at the rafters. His body throbbed, but beneath the ache was something steadier — a sense of belonging, fragile but growing.
The Order was harsh, merciless, filled with pain and cursing and endless drills. Yet, for the first time, he wondered if this was the place where he could become more than the boy from the village.
And if he could, maybe the pain was worth it.