Cael woke before dawn, though he wasn't sure he had slept at all. The barracks were cold, the thin blanket useless against the draft that slipped through the old stone walls. Around him, other trainees shifted and muttered in their sleep, but Cael lay stiff and silent, staring at the ceiling until the morning bell rang.
The sound was harsh, metallic, unforgiving.
He rose with the others and followed the stream of groggy bodies out into the courtyard. The sky was still dark, a faint line of gray on the horizon. Torches flickered along the walls, casting long shadows across the training yard. It was larger than he remembered—an expanse of stone and packed dirt marked with weapon racks, straw dummies, and wooden sparring posts. The smell of oil, sweat, and old blood filled the air.
An instructor—a broad, scarred man with graying hair tied back—stepped forward.
"Form a line!" he barked.
The trainees snapped into formation. Cael stood at the far end, thin among older and stronger bodies. The instructor's gaze swept across them, then paused on Cael.
"So you're the survivor from Elbhollow."
Cael met his eyes without flinching. "Yes, sir."
The man stared for a long second, then nodded once. "Remember that. Pain like yours can break a man… or sharpen him."
Cael said nothing. Words felt fragile in his mouth.
Training began immediately. Conditioning first. Running laps around the courtyard again and again as the sky brightened. Cael forced his legs to move, even when his lungs burned and the stitch in his side felt like a knife twisting deeper with every breath. Sweat soaked through his shirt. The other trainees passed him easily, some shouting encouragement, others simply ignoring him.
"You'll die slow out there if you don't move faster!" Brenn called from ahead.
Cael clenched his jaw and pushed harder. His legs shook, his vision blurred, but he kept running. He had seen what happened to people who couldn't run fast enough. He still heard their screams in his dreams.
When the instructor finally blew the whistle, Cael bent over, hands on his knees, breath shuddering out of him. His head spun. The instructor approached and nudged him lightly with his boot.
"You didn't quit," he said. "Good."
Weapon training came next. The trainees moved to the racks, selecting blades, staves, and spears. Cael lingered a moment until his hand drifted toward a slender, curved sword. It wasn't quite like the ones he had seen travelers carry through Elbhollow, but it had the same quiet promise—a blade built for precision and speed.
"Take it," the instructor said behind him.
Cael lifted the weapon. The weight felt natural in his hand, as if it belonged there.
"Show me your stance."
Cael set his feet and raised the blade. The instructor stepped behind him, adjusting his shoulders, shifting his hips, lowering his center of gravity.
"Better," the man said. "Hold it like something wants to rip your throat out."
Cael swallowed. "I don't have to imagine that."
For the first time, something softened in the instructor's expression. It faded quickly.
"Then you'll learn fast."
The rest of the morning was an unforgiving blur. Cael practiced slashes until his wrist throbbed and his fingers blistered. He stumbled through footwork drills, earning sharp corrections every time he misplaced his balance. When he sparred with wooden swords, Brenn knocked him flat in seconds.
"Up," the instructor said every time he fell.
Cael always obeyed. Pain stitched its way through every part of him, but he pushed forward. He didn't ask for breaks. He didn't complain. Every mistake reminded him of his mother's scream, every impact reminded him of the teeth closing around her.
By midday, his arms trembled uncontrollably and his breath rasped like sandpaper. When the instructor dismissed them for lunch, Cael didn't walk so much as stagger.
The mess hall was loud, crowded, and filled with the smell of stew. Cael sat alone at first, eating as though someone might take the food away. Brenn eventually sat across from him, wiping sweat from his brow.
"You did better than I expected," Brenn said. "Most new recruits puke their first day."
Cael didn't look up. "I've been through worse."
Brenn hesitated. "Yeah. I know."
After the meal, the trainees were given short breaks. Cael wandered outside, sitting on the stone steps leading to the courtyard. His muscles screamed with every movement. He looked up at the sky—clear, bright, utterly indifferent. He wondered if Elbhollow's sky looked the same right now, hanging over ashes and silence.
A hunter passing by stopped. "Rough day?"
Cael nodded slightly.
"Everyone breaks a little at first," the man said. "But if you stay long enough, the breaking stops. You build something new in its place."
Cael stared at his hands, scraped and raw. "I'm not here to build anything."
"Then what are you here for?"
Cael tightened his fists until the scabs cracked. A small line of blood trickled down his palm.
"To kill monsters," he whispered. "All of them… if I can."
The hunter studied him. Not with pity. With recognition.
"Then Shadowspire will forge you sharp," he said quietly. "Sharper than you think."
When night fell, Cael lay on his bunk again, body aching, eyelids heavy. Around him, the other trainees drifted into sleep one by one. Cael listened to their slow breathing, the distant howl of wind against the stone walls, the faint echo of the morning bell still ringing in his skull.
Pain clung to him, but beneath it… something else flickered. A tiny spark of resolve. Not hope. Hope was too soft for what lived in his chest now.
He would get stronger.
He would survive.
And one day, when he was ready, he would make every monster in the world understand the fear he had lived through.