Dawn came too early.
The barracks filled with the rasp of boots against stone and the dull clatter of armor being strapped on. Torches sputtered out one by one as the pale light of morning filtered through narrow windows, cutting across rows of weary recruits.
Kaelen rubbed at his eyes, every muscle in his body aching as if the night itself had been a battle. He had dreamed of Lyra again — her hand brushing against his, her voice echoing in the library — but the dream had dissolved into fire and smoke, as it always did. He sat on the edge of his cot, trying to force the memory away.
Deren yawned loudly from the next bed. "Gods, I'd sell my soul for another hour of sleep."
"You don't have a soul," Seralyn muttered, already fastening her bracers.
Deren smirked. "Then I guess the deal's already made."
Maeve sat quietly on her cot, binding her hair back into a braid. She hadn't spoken since she woke, but her sharp eyes lingered on Kaelen for a moment too long before looking away.
The silence between them felt different now. His confession about Lyra hung in the air like smoke no one wanted to acknowledge. Seralyn, always blunt, finally broke it.
"Ready your blade, Kaelen. You'll need it today."
He met her gaze, searching for judgment, but found none. Only a steady, soldier's focus. She wasn't pitying him — she was warning him.
The morning drills began in the training yard, where the instructors lined them into rows. The yard's dirt floor was already stained with sweat and blood from years of practice. Wooden dummies stood at the edges, their limbs splintered from endless strikes.
Instructor Harn, a thick-necked man with scars along his jaw, barked his orders. "Pairs. Steel only. Hold back, and I'll put you down myself."
Kaelen's sword felt heavier than usual as he gripped it, the hilt rough against his palms. He sparred against another recruit, a broad-shouldered boy who charged recklessly. Kaelen deflected, sidestepped, and countered with a sharp thrust that knocked the boy onto his back.
Harn's eyes flicked toward him, lingering. "Again."
They reset. This time Kaelen's opponent came in slower, learning. Their blades clashed in a ringing rhythm, and Kaelen felt something shift. His movements flowed easier, guided not by thought but by instinct. Each strike carried weight, each block came quicker.
When he finally disarmed the boy, sending his sword spinning across the dirt, a few recruits muttered under their breath. Kaelen ignored them, chest heaving.
Deren grinned from the sidelines. "Show-off."
Kaelen shot him a look, but Seralyn spoke first. "No. That wasn't show. That was control."
Maeve crossed her arms. "It's different when he's fighting with steel. The blade suits him."
Kaelen felt the heat rise to his face but said nothing. He wasn't sure if it was a compliment or a warning.
By midday, sweat soaked through his tunic. The instructors rotated the squads through drills: sword, spear, bow, unarmed. Kaelen managed the spear well enough, but his arrows scattered wide of their targets.
When they reached the magic grounds, he already knew what was coming.
The recruits formed a circle, each attempting to conjure sparks or kindle the runes etched into the training stones. Maeve's palm glowed faintly, a thread of fire weaving into the symbols. Other recruits fumbled, but at least produced light or heat.
Kaelen? Nothing.
He pressed his hand to the rune, teeth clenched. He whispered the words Maeve had shown him. His jaw ached with the effort. Still, nothing.
"Pathetic," muttered one of the older recruits under his breath.
Maeve shot him a glare sharp enough to cut. "Better than frying yourself like you did last week."
The boy flushed but stayed silent.
Kaelen drew his hand back, shame burning hot in his chest. He hated this. He hated the way the instructors watched him fail, hated the way the other recruits whispered. He could cut a man down with a sword, but he couldn't summon a single spark.
Later, when the drills ended, Maeve walked beside him in the courtyard. "It's not your fault."
"It feels like it is," Kaelen muttered.
Maeve shook her head. "Some are born with talent. Some aren't. You're not broken, Kaelen. Just different."
He didn't answer. Different felt like another word for useless.
That evening, the squad gathered around a fire pit near the edge of the barracks. Most of the other recruits kept to their own groups, but the four of them had become inseparable.
Deren sprawled out on the ground, arms behind his head. "I swear, the instructors are trying to kill us. If it's not drills, it's hunts. If it's not hunts, it's bloody magic lessons. I'm about one rune away from telling them to shove their stones up their—"
"Deren," Seralyn cut in sharply.
He smirked. "What? I was going to say 'arses.' Totally respectable word."
Seralyn shook her head, but Kaelen noticed the corner of her mouth twitch.
Maeve was quieter than usual, staring into the fire. "Do you ever wonder why they push us this hard? Why the Order even exists?"
Deren groaned. "Not this again."
"I'm serious," Maeve pressed. "They tell us it's to keep the balance. To fight back the dark. But what does that mean? Who decides what's dark? The gods? The elders? Us?"
Seralyn's eyes hardened. "It doesn't matter. We train, we fight, we survive. That's all that matters."
"But survival for who?" Maeve asked. "For the Order? For the gods? Or for us?"
The fire popped loudly, sending sparks spiraling upward.
Deren broke the tension with a sigh. "Gods, Maeve, you're going to drive me mad with these questions. Can't we just sit by the fire like normal people?"
"We're not normal people," Kaelen said quietly.
They all looked at him. He hadn't meant to speak aloud.
But Seralyn nodded. "He's right."
For a moment, silence settled again. Then Deren, never one to let quiet last, grinned. "Fine, fine. Since we're not normal, we might as well drink to it." He pulled a small flask from his belt and raised it. "To not being normal. To surviving. To not dying horribly in some swamp full of monsters."
Kaelen almost smiled. He accepted the flask, taking a small sip before passing it on. The burn in his throat was sharp, but it steadied him.
When Maeve's turn came, she shook her head but smiled faintly. "Idiots, the lot of you."
Deren bowed from the ground. "And proud of it."
The laughter that followed wasn't loud, but it was real. For the first time since his confession, Kaelen felt a little lighter.
That night, after the others had drifted into sleep, Kaelen lay awake staring at the rafters. His body ached, but it was the good kind of ache — the ache of pushing himself, of learning, of becoming something more than he was yesterday.
He thought of Lyra again, but this time the memory didn't crush him. Instead, he imagined her laughing at his clumsy footwork, teasing him for fumbling with runes, daring him to do better.
He gripped the hilt of his sword where it rested beside his bed. It felt solid, unyielding, the one thing in this world he could rely on.
For the first time since leaving the village, Kaelen felt a flicker of something unfamiliar. Not peace, not hope exactly — but purpose.
He would carry the weight of his blade. And one day, he would carry more.