East of the city, beyond fields, sat the training camp - two days' walk into open country. A former livestock yard now held rows of recruits under one roof. Kael thought someone must have chosen it on purpose. Long wooden buildings stretched across dirt, thick with the scent of old manure and wood shavings. Forty men shared each hall, lying on thin straw above ground beaten solid by time. Gaps split the walls where planks failed to touch. Cold air slipped through after dark, settling over bodies heavier than cloth ever could.
That day began with steel placed into their hands.
A weapon came into Kael's possession. This one wasn't flawed - its shaft carved from straight ash, blade shaped true, weight fair enough to handle. Yet when he spun it slowly between his palms, a detail caught his eye near the base of the tip. There, on the metal band, a tiny sign had been scratched. Nothing linked to the crown symbol. A shape he did not know stared back at him instead of a familiar forge imprint. A straight line sliced through a ring, breaking only on the right edge, while a tiny gap bit into the curve on its left - sharp, like purpose shaped metal. His thumb moved across the groove, guessing it came from mold flaw or craftsman's signature. Yet the lines held no accident. Each angle said meaning.
Maybe he could ask the old spear man, that crossed his mind. But then came the moment when those sharp poles passed one by one into waiting hands - thirty-nine times - while eyes stayed down, fixed elsewhere, so the idea slipped away like sand.
Still, his mind returned to the mark repeatedly.
A thin figure stood before them, Sergeant Drav, his past wrapped tight in silence - whatever he'd seen, he left unnamed, just muttered it had been harder than this, eyes sweeping across their faces like he expected disbelief. That first day, right after arrival, while dust still clung to boots and minds stayed fogged from travel, he started drilling without warning.
"First lesson," Drav said, walking the line of them slowly. "Don't die before learning your enemy's name."
He left it hanging there.
"If you die in the first engagement," he continued, "it means you were stupid. If you die in the second, it means you were unlucky. If you die in the third, it means I failed you. I don't intend to fail you, so you are not permitted to be stupid or unlucky. Is that clear?"
No one answered.
"Good," Drav said. "Unclear orders should be ignored. Remember that."
Five strangers came together during the opening days, drawn by nothing but chance and closeness in a place nobody chose. Before words even passed between them, glances built something steady. Small acts piled up - offering water, holding silence, stepping aside without being asked. Sorin stood out loud, though he'd been listed only as a dockhand; his voice boomed like thunder from smaller skies. His laughter kicked in early, long before punchlines appeared. Bren moved like someone trying not to be seen - a farm boy barely seventeen, stiff with fear yet pretending otherwise. The act cracked at edges most ignored. Ysse said little, but her quiet wasn't weakness - it sat like armor. She spotted the mark on her weapon hours prior to Kael speaking of his own. Three women joined the unit total - an odd number under these rules - and she made sense of it faster than others. Orren carried maps inside his head: river bends, ridge lines, backroads eastward no trainer ever brought up. Older by ten years maybe, he listened more than he spoke. They didn't plan it. Just showed up near each other when needed.
Later that second evening, Sorin took a spare bucket from the wash area. The others made use of it without question. A quiet remark slipped out - maybe Bren - who knows - about how the dorm reeked. Around then, laughter rose, soft but real, lasting nearly ten full minutes. Five bodies in shadow, sharing a moment light enough to lift.
Carefully, Kael tucked it aside. Later might demand a price he couldn't guess - having those close by here. A heavy one, most likely. Still, laughter came through.
Later, sprawled on his thin mat, ceiling above him became a screen for thoughts - what could he say was real? He began sorting moments that felt true.
Fate handed him this path - he never reached for it.
It was clear to him that those in charge kept their sons far from harm. The decision came from people whose children never faced the risk.
The mark etched into the spear - he recognized it wasn't one they usually used.
It clicked when he realized Ysse saw that mark too - so chance wasn't behind it.
It was clear there'd been a declaration of war. Yet nobody had spelled out - fully spelled out - who they were up against. Why did this threat need six realms joining forces? What exactly had the foe carried out? And why pull soldiers from the Low Quarter in particular?
It puzzled him, the reason behind the war. Why it started - no clue crossed his mind. Something just felt off about the whole thing. The cause? Never made sense. He sat with questions, not answers. War raged, yet its purpose stayed hidden.
He stayed awake most thinking about that. Fear existed, yes, but wasn't the main thing. Grief also sat nearby, heavy but silent. What really stuck? The itch beneath the skin when someone shifts you around without saying why. Hands above remain hidden. Purpose stays unclear. Half the players already knocked aside, forgotten on the edge of the table. Still no word on how the game works.
Frost curled along the cracks where air slipped inside.
Far off in the barracks, sleep had taken hold of Sorin long before now.
Darkness wrapped around Kael as he gripped the spear tight. His thumb moved across the mark again, slow, like it knew what came next.
A shape like a wheel sits still. Then comes a straight mark across it. From the left edge, a slice is taken out.
It didn't have a name just then. His plan was to track one down.