The clang of steel echoed through the courtyard, a rhythm that never stopped. Rows of recruits swung their practice blades under the stern gaze of instructors, sweat and grit staining the stones beneath their boots. The sun beat down on them mercilessly, as though conspiring with the Order to break them.
Kaelen tightened his grip on the wooden practice sword, trying to keep his movements sharp. His arms burned, his shoulders screamed, but he forced the blade through the arc again, striking the straw dummy's shield. The impact rattled his bones.
"Harder!" barked Instructor Halric. "If that were a real enemy, you'd be gutted before you raised your blade. Again!"
Kaelen gritted his teeth and swung again, this time with a grunt that left his lungs raw.
"Better," Halric muttered, moving on.
To Kaelen's left, Deren was already hacking at his dummy with wild, brutal strokes. Sweat dripped into his eyes, but he grinned through the exhaustion, almost relishing it.
"Gonna break this thing before the day's out," Deren panted, smirking Kaelen's way. "Better hope I don't swing at you, Ash-boy."
"Keep flailing like that and you'll trip over your own sword," Kaelen shot back, trying to hide his own fatigue.
"Trip? Nah. I'll just crush my enemy under pure talent."
"Talent doesn't make up for sloppy form," came a dry voice from behind them.
Seralyn stood there, arms crossed, bow slung casually across her back even during melee drills. Unlike most of the others, she didn't even look winded.
Kaelen felt irritation prick at him. She wasn't even in this session, yet here she was, commenting. "And you think loosing arrows from fifty paces is harder than this?" he said, breath ragged.
Seralyn's smirk widened. "At least my arrows hit their mark."
"Want to trade places?"
"Gladly. Though I'd hate to see you cry when you can't string a bow."
Deren chuckled, raising his sword like he was about to referee. "Oh, this is getting good. Two hotheads in love with their weapons—"
"Shut it, Deren," both Kaelen and Seralyn snapped at the same time.
Maeve, who had been quietly watching while practicing her forms a few paces away, finally chimed in. "If you two don't stop snapping at each other, Halric's going to make you spar until one of you drops."
Seralyn shrugged. "Wouldn't mind."
Kaelen scowled. "You'd lose."
Her eyes glittered with a kind of dangerous amusement. "We'll see."
By midday, their arms were numb. The recruits collapsed onto benches lining the courtyard as water was passed around. Some groaned, others muttered curses under their breath.
Kaelen sat with Maeve, his shirt clinging to him with sweat. Deren flopped down beside them like a felled tree, while Seralyn sat a little apart, sharpening her arrows with quiet precision.
"You ever wonder why they work us this hard?" Kaelen asked between gulps of water.
"Because they're bastards," Deren said immediately. "Old bastards who take joy in watching us die a little inside every day."
Maeve rolled her eyes. "It's because the Order doesn't have time for weakness. You've heard the stories. Whole villages lost in a night when the Taint spreads. If we're not ready, people die."
Seralyn didn't look up from her arrow. "She's right. Every second we waste here is another second someone's out there begging for help."
Deren snorted. "Listen to you. Preaching like an elder already."
"Better than whining like a child."
"Child? I'll have you know—"
"Enough," Kaelen interrupted. "You'll just make her bury that arrow in your foot."
Maeve snickered. "I'd pay to see that."
Later in the day, Halric gathered them in the shade of the courtyard wall. His voice carried the weight of gravel and command.
"You've been swinging blades long enough to know the difference between training and war," he said, pacing before them. "And you've been drilled on the laws of steel: never drop your guard, strike to end, not to wound, and never, ever turn your back."
He stopped, planting his feet. "But know this: the sword is not the only weapon. Nor the bow, nor the spear. Each of you will be tested to find what the Order can use you for. Not everyone fights with the same steel. There are Orders within the Order—branches of war."
Kaelen leaned forward, intrigued despite the ache in his body.
Halric began listing them, gesturing as he spoke. "The Blades—frontline fighters, swordsmen, axemen, those who face the corruption head-on. The Shadows—silent killers, spies, and assassins. The Sentinels—archers and scouts who strike from afar. The Chanters—those cursed with the gift of magic."
He paused, letting the words sink in. "Each has its place. Each is bound by oath. Together, we keep the corruption from swallowing this world whole."
Kaelen exchanged a look with Maeve, who tilted her head, frowning. "Cursed?" she whispered under her breath.
He didn't answer, though the word lingered in his mind.
That evening, when drills were finally over, the recruits gathered in the mess hall. Long wooden tables creaked under the weight of bread, broth, and roasted meat. The air buzzed with exhaustion and chatter.
Kaelen sat with Maeve, Deren, and Seralyn. Despite their bickering, the four of them had started sitting together more often than not.
Deren tore into his bread like a starved wolf. "If I never have to swing a sword again, it'll be too soon."
"You say that every night," Maeve replied, rolling her eyes.
"And every night I mean it."
Seralyn smirked. "Then tomorrow you'll be back at it, swearing you'll be the best swordsman the Order's ever seen."
Deren pointed at her with a hunk of bread. "Mark my words, bow-girl, I'll prove it. One day they'll sing songs about me."
"Songs about your stomach, maybe."
Kaelen chuckled despite himself. The banter was becoming familiar, a strange comfort amid the constant grind.
Maeve glanced at Kaelen. "What about you? What do you want out of this? To be a Blade?"
Kaelen hesitated, staring at the steaming broth in his bowl. "I don't know," he admitted. "I just… want to be strong enough to protect people."
The words slipped out before he could stop them. His mind flashed with images of his village, of Lyra's laughter in the hidden library, of the kiss that had lingered like a wound.
Seralyn studied him silently for a moment, then looked away.
Deren leaned back, grinning. "Well, I just want to look damn good doing it."
Maeve snorted into her cup. "Figures."
After supper, the recruits trickled back to the dormitories. Kaelen lingered outside, watching the last light of day fade across the horizon. His arms throbbed, but beneath the ache was a spark he couldn't ignore. The Order was grueling, merciless, but it was shaping him. Every swing of the blade was a step away from the helpless boy who had once watched his world collapse.
He glanced over his shoulder. Seralyn was standing alone near the archery range, loosing arrows into a target even in the dark. Each one struck true, the twang of the bowstring steady as a heartbeat.
Kaelen turned away before she noticed him watching.
Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he'd strike harder, stand taller, and prove he belonged.
The weight of steel was heavy. But he would carry it.