"FASTER".
The voice rolled across the lower barracks like thunder.
Modred's lungs burned. His boots pounded the packed earth of the training field, sweat stinging his eyes as he kept pace with Taren beside him. The field was huge, a full ring around the barracks complex, and they were on their third lap.
Other cadets present lounged along the fence line, some pretending to train, most watching. A few laughed openly when Taren stumbled and caught himself.
"Come on, mountain boy!" someone jeered.
Modred ignored them. His focus stayed on the man standing at the far end of the field, arms folded, one eye hidden beneath a black patch.
"Pick up the pace!" He barked. "You'd better move faster, or I'll break both of your legs."
Modred gritted his teeth and pushed harder. Taren wheezed beside him, face pale, ribs still sore from days ago.
As the field blurred by, Modred's mind slipped back to how the day had started.
He had been dead asleep.
Mountain air or palace mattress, it didn't matter; Modred could sleep anywhere. He was sprawled diagonally across the bunk, blanket half-kicked off, when the door slammed open so hard it rattled the frame.
Heavy boots thudded across the floor. A rough hand grabbed his ankle and yanked.
Modred hit the floor face-first.
"What the-!?" He shot up, fist already swinging.
His punch never landed.
A broad forearm deflected it aside, and a solid hook slammed into his gut. All the air left his body at once, a dull, ugly thud. He dropped to one knee, choking.
"Good reflex," The voice above him was deep, unhurried.
Modred squinted up through the haze.
The man was tall and built like he'd been cut from old oak - broad shoulders, thick arms. Dark brown hair swept back, the other a hard steel grey. A faint scar cut from his jaw to his throat, disappearing under the collar of his dark cloak.
"Name's Renald Valcrest," he said. "You've got ten minutes to be outside in uniform. Clear?"
Modred coughed, clutching his stomach. "You've got quite a punch, old man."
"Good. Get used to it."
Renald turned and walked out as if nothing had happened.
A minute later, Taren burst into the room, half-dressed and panicking.
"I heard a thud- Modred, are you okay?"
"Oh yeah," Modred wheezed. "Just got welcomed to the family."
Taren hauled him up, fussing despite the bruise forming on his ribs. Other cadets in the room whispered, some sympathetic, some amused.
"You're unlucky. He's the one who asked for you two," one muttered.
"Asked?" Modred echoed, pulling on the brown uniform laid over his bunk - simple, rough fabric, the Ardes insignia printed on the back in black.
Taren handed him his boots. "We should hurry. He didn't sound like he was joking."
"He didn't sound like he knew how," Modred muttered, but he laced up fast.
They stepped out into the grey light of early morning and followed a path between low stone buildings until the field opened up before them- wide, circular, ringed by training posts and old scars in the ground.
Renald was waiting there, hands in his pockets, his eyes piercing at them like knives.
"You're on time," he said. "Good."
He jerked his chin at the track circling the field.
"I guess reintroductions are needed. I'm Renald Valcrest, formerly High Commander in the Ardes. Fought in the Pargon War. I volunteered to take you two rats under my wing until you either make it into the Academy... or wash out."
Modred and Taren tensed. That meant something-something heavy.
Renald saw their expressions and laughed.
"Relax. You're in safe hands." He stepped closer. "From today, you're stuck with me. I expect more from both of you."
His gaze sharpened.
"Training starts now. Ten laps. Run until your legs what walking is."
"Ten?" Taren blurted.
Renald raised a brow. "You can't count?"
Modred elbowed Taren lightly. "He's saying he cares, in his own way."
"Run," Renald repeated.
They ran.
By the time the tenth lap ended, Modred's shirt clung to his skin, and sweat dripped from his chin. Taren stumbled across the line, chest heaving like he'd swallowed fire.
"Drop," Renald said.
They dropped.
"Push-ups," he ordered.
Arms burning, they pushed. Modred's muscles screamed, but he found himself grinning. This was something he understood - body against limits, the clean pain of effort.
Taren, on the other hand, shook with every press, face twisted in frustration.
After push-ups came pull-ups on a rusted metal bar, then squats with weighted sandbags. The field spun slowly around them in heat and effort.
When Renald finally let them stop, Taren collapsed on his back.
"I'm... going to die," he muttered to the sky.
"You're still talking," Renald said. "That means I'm not working you hard enough."
Modred laughed weakly. "You heard him, Taren. You're slacking."
Taren looked at him like he wanted to kill him, but was just too exhausted.
Renald's shadow fell over them. "Up. I would like each of you to share with me what you're good at. I want to know what exactly I'm dealing with."
Taren forced himself up, wiping sweat from his face. "I... I'm not a fighter. I prefer to be used as a tactician rather than being on the frontlines."
Renald stared at him for a long moment, unreadable. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched.
"Not a fighter," he said. "But not useless." He turned to Modred. "And you?"
"I punch things," Modred said.
"At least you know your strengths." Renald crossed his arms. "Listen. The Ardes doesn't survive on muscle alone. We need brains and blades. You-" he nodded at Taren "-I hope you prove that you have what it takes. You fail, you run with him until you stop complaining."
"That doesn't sound like a good deal," Taren muttered.
"It's the only one you're getting."
Modred wiped sweat from his jaw. "What about me?"
"You?" Renald smirked. "You're annoying."
"Compliment accepted."
"Back on your feet," Renald said. "We're not done."
They trained until the sun dipped low and the shadows turned long and thin. When Renald finally dismissed them, both boys were drenched, every muscle protesting with each step.
The mess hall was a long stone room with wooden beams across the ceiling and narrow windows that showed only a strip of darkening sky. Cadets lined rough tables, bowls of stew, and stale bread in front of them.
Modred walked in with damp hair, still rubbing it with a towel. Taren trailed behind him.
"Your hair's dripping," Taren said. "You're getting water everywhere."
"It'll dry faster if I move," Modred replied, deliberately shaking his head so droplets flew into Taren's face.
"Stop that," Taren groaned, wiping his face.
Modred smirked and dropped onto the bench. Taren sat beside him with the resigned air of exhaustion.
Across from them, a boy with sharp features and dark blue eyes looked up from his bowl. His posture was neat, almost too proper for the lower barracks.
"You're the new ones," he said. "Modred Vayne and Taren Liam, right?"
"Depends," Modred said. "Are you about to complain about us, or buy us food?"
The boy snorted. "Arthur Liam. No food. Just curiosity."
Beside Arthur sat a girl with long, dark-blonde hair tied in a loose braid, eyes steel-grey as Renald but lighter, almost silver when the lamplight hit them. The crest on her uniform identified her as a member of Valcrest.
"I'm Lysara Valcrest," she said, voice calm. "Most just call me Lys."
Modred nodded. "Liam, Valcrest... this table's getting crowded with noble blood."
"You say like it's a disease," Arthur replied dryly.
"Isn't it?" Modred shot back.
Down the bench, another boy sat half-turned away, arms crossed, expression closed off and much more reserved.
"...Dante?" Modred said with a surprised look.
The last time he saw him had been in the training grounds back in the Royal Palace.
Modred blinked. "The hell are you doing here? Did you get kicked out or something?"
Dante's eyebrow twitched. Slowly. Dangerously.
"Shut it, mountain brat," Dante muttered, standing up. "Mind your own damn business."
He stomped off toward the exit before Modred could reply.
Modred chuckled and tore into his bread.
Conversation shifted. Lysara leaned forward slightly, eyes on Modred and Taren."
"You two really got taken by Renald?" she asked.
Taren blinked. "You sound surprised."
Everyone is," Arthur said. "Renald Valcrest isn't just some instructor. He used to be High Commander of the Ardes. The one who led the front during the Pargon War."
"He's the reason Division One still exists," Lysara added softly. "After the war ended… he requested a demotion. Came down here to Division Four on purpose."
"Why?" Modred asked.
"That's the thing," Arthur said. "No one knows. Official records say it was his choice. The higher ranks close their mouths whenever someone asks why. Whatever happened is buried."
Modred chewed slowly, thinking about the man's eye, his scar, the way he moved like someone who'd seen too many dead and decided not to bother counting anymore.
"He volunteered to train us," Taren said quietly. "Feels like we got dragged into something big."
"Welcome to the lower barracks," Arthur replied. "Division Four. The place they send anyone, the main branches don't know what to do with."
"Explain," Modred said.
Arthur wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then leaned his elbows on the table.
"The Ardes army is divided into four divisions. One is the elite — royal vanguard, palace guard, and high-risk missions. Two and Three handle most organized campaigns and border defense. Four…" He gestured around. "Four is us. The leftovers. The 'unreliable.' We're thrown to the front lines when they need bodies, or used as town guards when they don't want to waste anyone important."
"So we're below the lowest Royal Guards," Taren summarized.
"Pretty much," Arthur said.
Modred swallowed his bread and smirked. "Sounds cozy."
"It gets worse," Lysara added. "If you stay in Division Four too long, no matter your talent, doors start closing. The Academy barely looks at us."
"The Academy," Taren echoed, eyes focusing.
Arthur nodded. "At the end of each year, before the new term begins, there's a tournament. All four divisions send their best cadets. The commanders of each division judge. A few are chosen as special qualifiers for the Royal Academy — bypassing the normal exams."
"Few meaning…?" Modred pressed.
Arthur held up two fingers. "In the last ten years? Only two managed to climb from Division Four into the Academy through that route."
"Renald Valcrest," Lysara said, nodding once toward the window, as if he were still out there. "And Cain Liam. He's a third-year now. Same year as your brother and sister, Taren."
Taren's spoon froze halfway to his mouth. His jaw tightened.
He didn't say anything, but the tension in his shoulders spoke loudly enough.
Modred watched him for a second, then pushed himself up suddenly, planting a boot on the bench and then onto the tabletop.
"Modred—" Taren hissed. "What are you doing?"
The cadets nearby glanced over. A few cursed as soup sloshed.
Modred ignored them. He folded his arms, looking down at Arthur, Lysara, and then at Taren.
"So Division Four barely sends anyone up," he said. "Everyone here's supposed to shut up, die on the front, or rot guarding some drunk town gate."
"That's… one way to put it," Arthur muttered.
"Then we'll break it," Modred said simply.
He shouted. His voice carried a great pride and confidence, because he meant it.
"Us four," he went on, nodding at Taren, Arthur, Lysara, and that idiot who left, Dante, if he stops sulking. "We get into the Academy. Through the tournament or whatever crack in the wall we can find."
As everyone was still surprised by Modred's speech, a spoon flew through the air like a dagger.
CLACK.
It smacked Modred dead on the forehead.
"Get off the table and keep it down!" yelled the dorm mother - a terrifying woman with arms thicker than Modred's legs.
"Watch it, old lady!"
She grabbed him by the ankle, yanked him off the table, slammed him to the ground, and walked away. The cadets roared with laughter after she tossed him off the table like a sack of wheat.
Modred lay on the ground, groaning. "I swear everyone here wants to kill me."
Taren whispered while pinching the bridge of his nose, "Maybe stop provoking them."
Somewhere beyond the walls, Renald Valcrest stood alone on the edge of the field. He took out a small gold pocket watch with a picture of a woman inside, wearing a bright white dress, sitting elegantly with emerald green eyes and long blonde hair running down her back.
"Eliza..." he murmured, as he touched the frame of the picture.