**Borin Ironvein's Log, Supplemental**
**Borin recording**
**32 days after Rothgard's Fall**
Old selves die.
New steel is born.
The run tests the will.
The wolfkin cadet, now branded "Trigger-Tremble" by the instructors, was still face-down in the dirt doing push-ups under a relentless barrage. Every instructor from all three classes—leads and their supporting Marines—circled him like predators, voices overlapping in a storm of venom.
"Faster, Trigger-Tremble! You nearly turned my skull into a trophy!" the Class Three lead instructor snarled, boots inches from the cadet's ears.
Class Two's lead instructor leaned in, her tone ice-cold. "You think that was funny? One twitch and you would've painted the range with my brains. Drop lower!"
The Class One lead instructor added his own thunder. "Eyes up, Trigger-Tremble! You are a walking disaster! Keep going until your arms fall off!"
The rest of the company watched in stunned horror, the air thick with tension. No one dared move or speak.
Class Two's lead instructor finally straightened and turned her glare on the formation. "You see that?" she shouted, voice ringing across the range. "That is what happens when you ignore directions. We are not here to play games. We are not here to be nice. We are here to make sure you come back alive when the real fight finds you. One mistake in combat and you die. One mistake here and you learn—or you wash out. Get your heads out of your asses and get back to training. Now!"
The company snapped back into motion. The wolfkin cadet, still gasping, was allowed to return to dry-fire drills under the laser-focused supervision of the very instructor he had nearly shot. No live ammunition was issued. Every movement was watched with hawk-like intensity as the cadet's trembling hands worked the carbine under constant correction.
An hour later the instructors herded the entire company back to the open field. Fresh crates of MREs and coolers of water bottles waited beside a large pile of rucksacks. The Marine commander stood waiting, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.
"You have forty-five minutes to eat," she called out. "After that, you will receive your accommodations for the night. Move!"
Kira, Torin, Borin, and Sylvana claimed spots near the crates alongside Garrick and a new face—a young rabbitkin recruit named Lira Longears, whose long ears twitched nervously as she clutched an MRE packet. Both Garrick and Lira were in Class One.
"Rough day," Garrick muttered, tearing open his meal. "I thought the march was bad, but that wolfkin… poor bastard."
Kira nodded, ripping into her own ration. "Trigger-Tremble. They'll never let him live that down. I almost felt sorry for him—until I remembered we could have been next."
Torin ate methodically, his single tail still. "They don't forgive mistakes. They hammer them into memory. That's the point."
Borin chewed steadily, his deep voice low. "Aye. I've taken harder knocks in the forge, but never with so many voices screaming at once. They want us scared enough to listen."
Sylvana ate with quiet dignity, sipping water between small bites. "I have never felt so small. Even when the Imperia burned our woods, I still had the trees to hide behind. Here they strip away every place to hide and every excuse we once carried. I am afraid of what will be left when they are finished with us."
Lira Longears' ears flicked as she listened, her voice hesitant. "They liked my running speed and scouting. I've never held a rifle before today. After what happened to that wolfkin… I'm terrified I'll be next."
The group ate quickly, sharing glances and quiet words about the day's brutality. The brief meal felt like stolen time.
Forty-five minutes later the commander's voice cracked across the field. "Meal time's over! Grab a rucksack and fall in behind your instructors. Move!"
The cadets surged forward, each claiming a heavy rucksack. The instructors immediately formed them up and force-marched them deeper into the woods. The trail wound through thick forest until they reached a wide clearing bathed in moonlight. The recruits slowed, confusion rippling through the ranks. Many had quietly hoped for barracks, cots, or at least a roof. Instead they saw only open ground and trees.
The lead instructors halted the company with sharp commands. "Remove the tents from your rucksacks," Class Two's lead instructor ordered. "You have one hour until lights out. Get them up. No talking. No excuses."
A wave of dread swept the formation. Dreams of a real bed, of even a simple bunk, shattered in an instant. The cadets stood frozen for a heartbeat, the weight of the day crashing down harder than ever, before the instructors' voices cracked like whips and drove them into motion.
The exhausted recruits dropped to the ground and began the unfamiliar task of pitching the compact tents under the watchful eyes of the instructors. The valley night closed in around them, the day's brutal lessons still echoing in every aching muscle and racing heartbeat.