The recruitment grounds of Zephyr were louder than usual that morning.
Men filled the open training square — some broad-shouldered and towering, others lean and hardened by years of battle. Steel clashed in distant sparring circles, boots thudded against packed earth, and laughter rolled like thunder beneath the banners of the kingdom.
Lylan Ardent stood at the edge of the square, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides.
This was it.
The decision born from a joke, from Lucas' reckless grin and impossible confidence. The decision that had refused to leave his mind since the day of the noble parade.
Beside him, Lucas stretched his arms dramatically, rotating his shoulders as if preparing to face an army alone.
"Nervous?" Lucas asked, flashing a sideways grin.
Lylan exhaled slowly. "A little."
"A little?" Lucas scoffed. "Bro, you look like you're about to faint into a pile of heroic embarrassment."
Lylan shot him a glare, though it lacked venom. Lucas' presence, as always, softened the tight knot twisting in his stomach.
The line of recruits shuffled forward.
Names were called.
Bodies examined.
Some were accepted with nods of approval. Others dismissed with cold indifference.
When Lylan's turn came, he stepped forward, spine straight, chin lifted with quiet determination.
A soldier looked him up and down.
Then another.
Then a third.
And suddenly—
Laughter.
Not subtle. Not restrained. But sharp, echoing laughter that cut deeper than any blade.
"This one?" a guard snorted.
"Look at his arms!" another barked. "He'd snap before lifting a shield!"
"Boy," one said mockingly, "did you wander here by mistake? The kitchens are that way."
The recruits behind him chuckled.
Heat surged into Lylan's face.
His chest tightened.
He had known he was not the strongest. Had known his body lacked the bulk of seasoned fighters. But knowing it and hearing it thrown at him like ridicule were two entirely different things.
"I…" Lylan started, voice betraying him.
The laughter grew.
Lucas stepped forward instantly.
"Oh relax," Lucas said casually, leaning against Lylan's shoulder. "He may look like a breeze could knock him over, but trust me — this guy's stubborn enough to survive a storm."
More laughter.
But Lucas wasn't mocking.
He never was.
"He's serious," Lucas continued, nodding toward Lylan. "And discipline beats muscle half the time. Right?"
One of the guards smirked. "Discipline doesn't build mass, boy."
Lucas flexed one arm exaggeratedly.
"Good thing I brought both," he said with a grin.
Compared to Lylan, Lucas did have more muscle. Not massive, but defined enough to silence immediate dismissal.
The guards' amusement shifted.
Still mocking.
Still skeptical.
But less dismissive.
Lylan stood frozen, humiliation pooling heavily in his stomach.
For the first time since deciding to enlist, doubt crept in like a whispering shadow.
What am I doing here?
They're right…
I don't belong.
The laughter faded only when a new presence entered the square.
He did not shout.
Did not bark commands.
Yet silence followed him like an unseen command.
Commander Rael.
A veteran soldier, his armor worn yet immaculate, his posture steady with authority carved from years of war. His gaze swept across the recruits — sharp, assessing, unreadable.
Then it stopped on Lylan.
Not on his arms.
Not on his frame.
But on his eyes.
Rael's steps slowed.
Something flickered behind his hardened gaze.
Recognition.
Memory.
He approached Lylan without haste.
"What is your name?" the commander asked.
"…Lylan Ardent, sir."
Rael held his gaze longer than necessary.
And for a brief moment, the square, the soldiers, the banners — everything — seemed to dissolve.
Those eyes.
Clear.
Quiet.
Determined despite humiliation.
They stirred a memory Rael had buried long ago.
His mother's eyes.
Gentle yet unyielding. Soft yet impossibly strong.
Rael exhaled slowly.
"Young," he murmured. "But not empty."
The guards exchanged glances.
"Sir, the boy is hardly built for—"
"I did not ask for commentary," Rael replied calmly.
Silence fell again.
Rael turned back to Lylan.
"Hold a sword."
A wooden practice blade was handed to him.
Lylan's grip trembled slightly, but he obeyed.
"Stance."
Lylan positioned himself.
Not perfect.
But disciplined.
Balanced.
Focused.
Rael circled him once.
Twice.
Observing.
"Again."
Adjustments were made.
Subtle.
Careful.
Lylan mirrored them instinctively.
Lucas watched, unusually quiet.
Rael finally stopped.
"There is weakness," the commander said evenly.
Lylan's chest sank.
"But weakness," Rael continued, "is clay. And clay can be shaped."
Lylan blinked.
Rael turned toward the guards.
"I will take him."
Shock rippled through the square.
"Sir—"
"And the loud one beside him," Rael added, nodding toward Lucas.
Lucas' grin exploded back into existence.
"See?" Lucas whispered triumphantly. "Destiny. I told you."
Lylan barely heard him.
Relief.
Disbelief.
Hope.
They crashed through him all at once.