Iris arrived at the training yard when it was still quiet.
Dawn had not yet broken. The torches flickered against the grey stone walls, casting long shadows across the packed earth. A few guards were already stretching, their breath misting in the cold air. But Iris was the first recruit to arrive, as she had been every morning for the past three weeks.
She wore simple clothes—leather breeches, a wool tunic, boots that had been broken in during months of preparation. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face in a tight braid. Her hands were wrapped in linen strips to prevent blisters, though her palms were already calloused from hours of sword work.
Now fourteen years old. The youngest recruit in her class.
She seemed to be kind of terrified.
