They were not asked how they felt. They were measured.
"Next."
Cian stepped forward with the others into a narrower section of the hall, where the noise changed from scattered voices to controlled instruction. Tables arranged in a line. Chalk marks on the floor dictating where to stand. Wooden rods, weighted grips, measuring cords laid with quiet precision.
A sergeant stood at the center, sleeves rolled, expression carved from long habit.
"Strip outer layers. Boots off. Move when told."
No one argued.
Cian folded his coat once before setting it aside. The floor was cool under his feet.
"Stand straight."
He did. A rod pressed lightly against his back, aligning spine to neck. A cord stretched from shoulder to fingertip.
"Reach."
He extended his arm. The sergeant marked the length with chalk on the cord.
"Grip."
A weighted handle was placed in his hand. He closed his fingers around it. The metal was worn smooth from other hands—hundreds, maybe thousands.
"Hold."
He held. The sergeant watched his forearm, not his face.
"Enough."
The weight was taken away. No praise. No correction. Just data.
He moved to the next mark. Chest width. Step length. Balance.
At one point, the sergeant nudged his stance with a boot. "Too narrow. You fall like that."
Cian adjusted. The correction was simple. The meaning was not. You fall like that. The kind of sentence that stayed longer than it needed to.
Around him, the others were being measured the same way. A broad-shouldered boy with a heavy build was moved aside into a separate group. A thinner one was told to adjust his footing twice before the sergeant gave up and wrote something down that did not look encouraging.
Two nobles stood a few positions down—one with a silver-threaded cuff, another with a signet ring he had not removed. Neither was spared the rod, the cord, or the quiet indifference.
Good. That made the system cleaner.
"Next."
Cian stepped aside, pulling his shirt back into place.
A clerk stood at the end of the line with a second ledger. "Name."
"Cian Veridian."
The clerk scanned the previous page, found the entry, and made a small notation beside it. "Standard combat frame. Balanced reach. No immediate specialization."
The words were not spoken to him. They were recorded.
Uniform issue came next.
Stacks of folded cloth sat behind a long counter. Not new, not old—used just enough to feel impersonal. Sizes were called in short bursts. Assistants moved quickly, matching bodies to bundles with practiced efficiency.
"Next."
Cian stepped forward. The quartermaster's assistant reached for one set, paused, then adjusted to another stack.
"Try this."
The bundle was placed in Cian's hands. Rough cloth. Sturdy stitching. No decoration.
He stepped aside with the others to change.
The fabric sat differently than what he was used to. The shoulders slightly tighter. The sleeves a fraction longer. The trousers held closer at the waist, looser at the knee. Functional. Not comfortable.
He rolled his shoulders once. The cloth resisted, then settled.
Nearby, a boy tugged at his collar with visible irritation. Another tried to hide that his trousers were too short by standing straighter. A noble with fine features frowned openly at his sleeves, then forced the expression away when he noticed a sergeant watching.
Cian adjusted his cuff. Small discomfort. Not worth thinking about.
Still, he noticed it.
"Listen."
The word cut through the low movement like a blade.
The recruits turned. A supply officer stood near a set of crates, arms behind his back, gaze moving across them in a slow sweep.
"Rations are issued at fixed intervals. Morning. Midday. Evening. You eat when told. You eat what is given."
His voice was not loud. It did not need to be.
"Waste is noted. Repeated waste is corrected. You will learn the difference between hunger and complaint."
A faint shift moved through the group. Not fear. Recognition. This was not a place where appetite mattered.
"Water is controlled. You drink when permitted. You do not hoard. You do not trade without authorization."
One of the boys near the back shifted his weight. The officer's eyes flicked to him, then away.
"Those who cannot manage their intake will not last. Those who understand supply will not go without."
That last line sat differently. Cian held onto it. Supply. Not strength. Not talent. Supply.
He watched the crates as the officer spoke. How they were arranged. How they were counted. How the lids were marked. It was not just food. It was control.
"Form up."
The call came from the far side of the hall. The recruits were guided into a wider open space, marked by faint lines worn into the floor. The air felt different here. Less cluttered. More deliberate.
An instructor stood at the front. Not old. Not young. Built like someone who had repeated the same motion enough times for it to become part of his bones.
"This is the Marcher Path."
No introduction. No ceremony.
"Every one of you begins here."
His gaze moved across them, steady and unhurried. "This path is not for glory. It is not for display. It is for survival."
He raised a hand. "Stand."
They stood.
"Align."
He adjusted his own posture as an example. Feet planted. Spine straight. Shoulders level.
"Breathe."
In through the nose. Hold. Release through the mouth. Do not rush it.
The first attempt was uneven. Some breathed too fast. Others too shallow. One boy coughed and tried to hide it.
Cian inhaled slowly. The air felt heavier here. Not physically. Something else. Kael. Subtle. Present.
He held the breath a moment, then released.
"Again."
The instructor's voice did not change. "Align the breath with the body. Align the body with the ground."
Cian adjusted his stance slightly. Too narrow. You fall like that. He widened his footing by a small margin.
Better. He could feel it.
"Circulation."
The instructor placed a hand lightly against his own chest. "Draw from the air. Guide it through the body. Do not force it. If you force it, you break."
The recruits followed as best they could. Some overreached immediately, trying to pull more than they could handle. Others hesitated, unsure of what they were supposed to feel.
Cian did neither. He let the motion remain small. A thin thread of sensation moved with his breath, uneven but present. It brushed against something deeper—something darker, more complex—but he did not follow it.
Not yet. This was not the place for that.
"Marcher Path stabilizes the body," the instructor continued. "It builds endurance. It reduces early erosion. It prepares you for discipline."
Erosion. The word landed quietly. Loss of self. Loss of control. Small things at first. Taste. Clarity. Sleep.
He filed it away.
"Without this," the instructor said, "your attribute will consume you before you learn to use it."
A pause. "Again."
They repeated the motion. Breath. Hold. Release.
Over and over.
Time stretched. Not long. Long enough.
Cian's shoulders began to feel the repetition. His legs settled into the stance. The small thread of circulation became more consistent, less scattered.
Crude. Effective. He could see the logic in it. House methods were more refined, more precise, but they assumed a foundation not everyone had. This was built for anyone who could stand, breathe, and endure.
It was not elegant. It was reliable.
When the exercise ended, the recruits were allowed to relax. Not fully. Just enough.
Cian rolled his shoulders. The uniform still sat slightly wrong. The breath still carried a trace of the exercise. The room still felt like it was measuring him, even when no one was looking directly.
Nearby, the same small cluster from before shifted into loose conversation.
"That's it?" one boy muttered. "Just breathing?"
Another shrugged. "Better than getting hit."
A third glanced at Cian, then at the others. "Give it a day."
"Why?"
"You'll see."
They fell quiet again. No confrontation. No challenge. Just the shared understanding that whatever this was, it had only just begun.
"Assignments will follow," the instructor said. "You will report when called. Until then, remain in formation."
The words were simple. The meaning was not.
This was his life now. Measured. Fed. Trained. Observed.
He stood in line with the others, one body among many. Not special. Not ignored. Placed.
For now, that was enough.