The cold here wasn't the same.
It didn't claw at skin the way the Slums did. It pressed gently—controlled, filtered—more like air that remembered it was winter but didn't dare behave like it. Warm vents built into the outer walls kept frost from forming, leaving the ground firm beneath the slippers they were issued the moment they stepped off the Baiulus.
Varik tightened the thin gray jacket they'd given him. Too big at the shoulders. Too short at the sleeves. Still better than everything he'd worn in his entire life.
The new recruits—seventy-four of them—were herded beneath a towering arch reinforced with steel ribs. Above it, a massive emblem glowed faintly: a six pointed snow flake with suns inbetween the space of each spike and another sun in its center.
The Pathfinder Corps.
Junia murmured at his side, "Feels like we stepped into a storybook. A depressing one, but still."
Varik didn't respond. His eyes were fixed ahead—on the uniformed soldiers watching them from raised walkways, on the way their boots clicked in perfect sync, strangely not all of them welded rifles there were some with no weapons at all.
Rhem walked behind them, quiet and alert. The scar on his cheek pulled slightly whenever his jaw tightened, which happened often.
They were led into a courtyard walled on three sides by high-tier barracks—clean stone, heated windows, smoke rising gently from the chimney vents. Everything here was engineered against the cold, even the light: tall lamp posts glowed with a soft orange heat that kept snow from gathering around their bases.
A tall officer in black winter armor stepped forward. His hair was cropped short, his posture rigid enough to snap steel.
"Form rows," he barked.
The slaves—no, recruits—scrambled into place.
Varik ended up in the second row, Junia beside him, Rhem two spots down.
The officer scanned their faces, pausing only when necessary.
When his gaze brushed Varik, his brow twitched—barely—at the faint frost-colored tips of the boy's black hair and the sharp, tired gray eyes beneath it. He moved on.
"From this moment on," the officer said, "you answer to me. I am Captain Roen. I am your handler, your instructor, and your judge. Whether you pass the preliminaries depends entirely on your discipline and your own talent. Not your strength. Not your past."
His voice echoed against the walls, clipped and cold.
"Failure has consequences. Success has reward. That's as simple as your life will be for the next two months."
Junia whispered, "He sounds fun."
"I ordered silence," Roen snapped without even looking her way.
She froze.
Varik glanced at her—barely—and she shrugged like she meant to be caught.
The officer continued.
"You are here because you chose the possibility of freedom. Understand that possibility is slim. The preliminary trial we have designed is usually taken by those with talent, years of training and backing from noble families, so the chance of even ten of you surviving is low considering your backgrounds…"
He jerked his chin to the far side of the courtyard.
"…the Baiulus is still parked outside the gate. You may ask to be resold with the others if you feel like you're not up for it."
No one moved.
Not yet.
A faint ripple crossed the crowd—fear, hesitation, something else.
Varik's stomach tightened. He thought of Lux—small, quiet, blue-eyed, always cold. He thought of Gavin beneath the rubble. He thought of the man who tore their lives apart in a minute.
There was no path backward.
No door that led anywhere but forward.
Captain Roen's eyes narrowed in approval.
"Good. I would have killed whoever took a steo towards that door with my own two hands.Now listen well. These next two months will not resemble anything you've known. You will eat to schedule. Sleep to schedule. Train until your bones ache. The Inner City's Patrol Unit will mold you until you either break or rebuild."
He stepped forward.
"And everything you do, everything you survive, prepares you for the same entrance exam students of the academy take. The Pathfinder trial is not a game, especially your lot. If you wish to walk into death and return alive, you had better start acting like it."
Junia's breath hitched—not fear exactly, but something close.
Rhem murmured under it, "This is a soldier's camp, alright."
Captain Roen finally stepped aside.
And the Buyer walked in.
His presence pulled every head toward him without force. Gray eyes sharp beneath neatly combed silver-streaked hair. Fur-lined coat trailing behind him, clean boots untouched by the courtyard mud.
He didn't look at the crowd at first.
He looked at the officers.
And they straightened as if a string pulled their spines.
Only then did he turn to the recruits.
"Good morning," he said, voice calm and warm enough to unsettle. "Welcome to the first steps of your future. Welcome to Fort Gillian."
Junia muttered, "He talks like he's selling us something."
Varik's jaw tightened. He said nothing.
The Buyer continued.
"Some of you are here willingly. Some by necessity. Some with no better choices." His gaze drifted slowly across the faces—curious, calculating. "It doesn't matter which. What matters is that you walked through the gate."
He clasped his hands loosely behind his back.
"For two months, you will be fed, clothed, and trained. You will learn to defend yourselves, and perhaps others. You will gain strength. Skill. Perhaps pride."
His eyes had a sky glint in them as he spoke.
"And if you pass the preliminary trial," he said softly, "you may earn the one thing this world rarely gives."
He paused.
"Choice."
A shiver rippled through the recruits.
Even Rhem's steady posture shifted.
Even Junia straightened.
Varik felt the weight of those words press between his ribs like something sharp and cold.
Choice.
Something he hadn't been offered since the night everything fell apart.
The Buyer went on.
"For now, you'll be assigned barracks, uniforms, and schedules. Captain Roen will guide you. I will observe your progress periodically. Train well."
He stepped back.
A hollow, quiet moment stretched between the room.
Then the man's expression vanished into neutrality, and he turned away.
Captain Roen clapped once, sharp as a whip crack.
"Follow me. Barracks assignment begins now."
The crowd moved.
Junia walked close enough that their shoulders brushed. She whispered, "He looked at you. Again."
Varik kept his eyes forward. "I noticed."
"You think you've met him before?"
"No."
But he didn't say the rest:
He felt familiar.
In the worst way.
Rhem caught up behind them, voice low enough to blend with the marching feet.
"We're in it now," he murmured. "Whatever happens next… we're in it together."
Junia laughed, "That was so damn corny old man."
Them sighed, "Let's just go."
Varik didn't respond.
But he didn't fall behind, either.
The cold wind swept through the courtyard as they crossed into the barracks, the doors thudding shut behind them.