Aren moved along with the rows of recruits.
At a long table, a scribe wrote without lifting his head. Beside him, an officer handed out metal plates with engraved numbers and a simple bundle: clothes, a blanket, a small notebook, and a dull emblem.
When his turn came, Aren said his name. The scribe wrote it down quickly and handed him a plate.
"Two hundred seventeen," the officer read without emotion.
Aren looked at the number in his hand.
'217,' he thought. 'Well, I guess that's not so bad.'
He put it away.
Next came the dwarf.
"Bromir," he said in a rough voice.
"Two hundred eighteen."
Then followed the elf, the halfling, and the gnome, each receiving a number.
When they were finished, they were led to a wide barracks. It was filled with aligned bunks, unlocked chests, and the smell of old sweat and damp wood. In one corner, a bucket of water and cleaning tools.
Aren left his things on the bunk assigned to him and sat down for a moment. Only then did he feel the fatigue of the journey, as if his body had been waiting for permission to remind him that he was human.
A low murmur filled the room, made up of nervous voices and tense breathing. Some aspirants tried to appear confident, while others did not hide their nerves.
The gnome dropped onto a nearby bunk with a huff.
"This smells like a prison," he muttered with discouragement.
The halfling glanced at him sideways, without answering.
Bromir sat down with a snort from the top bunk.
"A closed mine smells worse," he said. "At least here there's air."
The elf did not comment. He only observed, as if the rest did not matter to him.
Aren stood up.
"My name is Aren Valenfort," he said at last, not knowing whether it was out of courtesy or a need to break the silence. "Two hundred seventeen."
Bromir raised two fingers.
"Two hundred eighteen."
The gnome made a face.
"Two hundred twenty-one. My name is…" he hesitated. "Lysander."
The halfling frowned slightly before speaking.
"What's up?" he said with some reluctance. "Two hundred twenty. Hal."
The elf took a second longer than normal.
"Two hundred nineteen. I am Eryndor."
Aren nodded, memorizing the names even though the order seemed to strip them away.
'They seem nice,' he thought, leaning back on his bunk.
At that moment, the barracks door opened with a sharp bang.
The murmur died immediately.
An officer stopped at the threshold. His face was partly covered by the shadow of his helmet, and his expression left no room for doubt.
"Ten minutes," he said seriously. "Prepare yourselves."
He gave no further explanation.
The door closed with the same sharp sound with which it had opened.
For a few seconds, no one moved.
Then the sound of fabric, straps, and metal began to fill the space. Aren sat up and adjusted his belt, placing the numbered plate on his chest. The metal was cold against his skin.
'So soon?' he thought, somewhat confused.
Around him, the other recruits did the same. Some with nervous speed, others with more controlled movements. Bromir jumped down heavily from the top bunk. Lysander checked his gear with excessive care, as if afraid he had forgotten something vital. Hal put on his boots without hurry, as if urgency made no sense.
Eryndor remained silent, watching.
The door opened again.
"Out."
They went out in a line, following the corridor, each step echoing briefly and sharply.
The central yard was now empty. The sky, black and clear, stretched above them without a single cloud.
The recruits formed rows almost automatically.
Aren noticed then that there were many more groups.
They seemed to come from other barracks. Dozens, perhaps more than a hundred. All with the same basic equipment and the same tense look on their faces.
A figure stepped toward the center of the yard.
It was Captain Rorik.
"Confused?" he said. "You probably assumed the trials would begin tomorrow."
A pause.
"Well, I fear to tell you that you are very wrong."
A murmur ran through the rows, immediately stifled.
"The first trial begins now," he continued. "The enemy will not wait for you to be ready."
Rorik slowly turned, scanning the recruits with his gaze.
"Run!"
The order fell without context.
"Run…?" someone whispered.
"Run!" Rorik repeated, raising his voice. "Keep the pace. Follow the torches. Anyone who falls behind will be expelled."
He did not specify distance or time.
The horn sounded.
The rows broke apart.
Aren began to run with the rest, his boots striking the stone with an irregular sound.
The group moved through one of the side gates of the fortress, descending along a narrow path that surrounded the outer perimeter.
Torches marked the route, separated by long stretches of darkness.
The pace was harsh from the start.
It was not a short run or a burst of speed. It was a test of endurance.
The cold air burned his lungs. The gear, though basic, weighed more than expected. Aren felt his muscles protest almost immediately.
'Come on, Aren. You trained for this.'
He ran alongside Bromir for the first few minutes. The dwarf breathed heavily but kept a steady pace. Ahead, Eryndor seemed to glide with unsettling efficiency. Hal ran with short, quick steps, wasting no movement. Lysander, on the other hand, was already showing signs of exhaustion.
"Keep going!" Aren shouted when he saw him stumble.
The gnome nodded without answering, teeth clenched.
The route became uneven. Loose stone, wet mud, exposed roots. Some recruits fell. Others dodged them without looking back.
One of them collapsed near a torch, clutching his leg.
"Wait!" he shouted. "I can't—!"
No one answered.
Aren instinctively slowed his pace.
He looked around.
Some hesitated. Others kept going without wavering.
Then he saw her.
Coming from behind, a young woman with long golden hair ran at a steady rhythm. Her posture was firm, her breathing controlled.
'Were there girls among the recruits?' he thought, somewhat confused.
She did not seem very fast, but she kept a constant pace without showing exhaustion.
'Who is she?'
The shout of the fallen recruit pulled him from his thoughts.
"Please…!"
Aren clenched his fists but did not stop.
'If I help him, I might be expelled,' he thought, feeling guilty.
A silhouette emerged from the darkness.
An instructor.
He did not help the fallen man nor scold him. He simply observed him.
"Out," he said coldly.
Two guards appeared and took the recruit away without saying a word.
The run continued.
Aren felt a knot in his stomach but kept running.
Time became blurred. No one knew how long they had been running nor how much was left.
The recruits ran until the horn sounded again.
"Stop!"
Everyone halted at once, many bending over, gasping. Some vomited. Others fell to their knees.
Aren stayed standing out of pure stubbornness.
The yard appeared before them again, lit by fire.
Captain Rorik was waiting.
"Look around," he ordered.
Aren raised his head.
The rows were shorter. Much shorter.
'Did that many fall?'
"This was only the first part," the captain said. "If you couldn't endure this, it means you are unfit."
His gaze settled on the group.
"Those who fell… paid for it. And those who stayed behind instead of following orders… paid for it as well."
An uncomfortable silence fell over the recruits.
"We do not reward good intentions here," he continued. "We reward results."
Rorik turned away.
"Those who remain, return to your barracks. The next trial will be at dawn."
The recruits began to disperse, exhausted.
Aren walked back with the others. Everyone looked worn out, especially Lysander, who was being dragged along by Hal.
A smile of relief appeared on his face.
'At least they're still in the competition.'
When he entered the barracks, he dropped onto his bunk, his chest rising and falling irregularly.
'This wasn't how I imagined it,' he thought, somewhat disappointed.
He heard footsteps.
Someone stopped nearby.
"You ran well," said a female voice, firm.
Aren sat up abruptly.
It was her.
The young woman from the run.
She approached slowly, her expression controlled.
"Thanks," he replied, surprised. "You too."
She nodded slightly.
"Aveline," she said. "One hundred thirty-eight."
"Aren. Two hundred seventeen."
A brief silence.
"You hesitated for a moment," she said with a somewhat tense smile. "At least you didn't stop, or you would be out."
Aren remained silent for a few seconds.
"I won't deny it," he answered. "I always believed knights did not abandon the fallen."
"I believed that too," she said, letting out a resigned sigh. "But reality isn't like the stories."
"And you?" he asked. "Do you never doubt?"
Aveline looked at him for a moment longer than necessary.
"All the time," she replied. "But I don't want to be thrown out of here."
She turned away and walked off.
Aren collapsed back onto his bunk, his body exhausted and his mind restless.
However, it did not take long for him to notice the looks of his companions, filled with an unexpected curiosity.