Chapter 9
The next morning at Crosshaven was grim, even for Theron. The weather had broken overnight, and icy rain spattered down in torrents, then turned into a miserable, sopping snow that stuck to everything, including the new recruits. Theron and the other men he’d arrived with were issued small, one-man tents the night before and instructed to set them up in a field at the edge of the village for the night. Not one of them slept well.
At sunrise, the posting officer returned with the quartermaster, both eager to begin. The recruits now numbered just over a hundred, gathered from every direction and herded to Crosshaven for staging. Theron’s group had been one of the last to arrive the previous day. One by one, the men surrendered their old clothes and received stiff, ill-fitting uniforms dyed Dominion blue. The cut of the fabric assumed all men were the same shape. Most of the men looked comically pitiful in them, Theron included.
“Today,” Houlis barked, “we begin our march to Duskweld. That is where your real training will begin.”
He paused long enough for the chilly morning to settle over them.
“But do not imagine for a moment that you will not be tested on the way. The march will take close to a month. Prepare yourselves.”
The recruiters stood nearby with their usual rough swagger, trading sharp looks and muttered comments as if cruelty were a skill they had perfected through repetition. In contrast, the Brightwardens held their posts in absolute stillness. Their presence carried an unsettling weight, the calm certainty of men who believed the gods had chosen them for judgment and order. The difference between the two groups made it clear what kind of hierarchy the conscripts were walking into.
The first lesson of the morning hit them fast and hard. Every day in the army could turn out worse than the one before it. The men lined up in columns of ten. Brightwardens took the lead at the front of each group. Recruiters brought up the rear. The march kicked off with the crunch of boots on frost.
For the first hour, the only sounds were the slap of wet boots and the snorts of horses pulling supply wagons bursting at the seams with food, gear, and other essentials. Then, as if on cue, the recruits began to chatter among themselves. It was mostly muttering, low complaints about food or the biting cold, or about which of them would die first.
Theron kept to himself. He marched in a line with other men, near the end of a file that snaked for more than a hundred paces. He never enjoyed being at the front, as he preferred to see the road ahead before it saw him. Behind him, Sval tramped silently, eyes down. And in front, Hrengar mumbled constantly under his breath, his monologue punctuated by the occasional snort or curse. Bringing up the rear, Carpen shuffled along, face still swollen and eyes glittering with fresh, angry hatred.
It was mid-morning when Theron noticed the man with the laugh. Every so often, a sharp, barked cackle cut through the ranks, followed by commentary so dry it could have sparked a fire. Whoever the voice belonged to seemed to take genuine pleasure in the surrounding misery, each outburst carrying a little too much enthusiasm for the day’s march.
This went on for another hour, the column shuffling forward in quiet solemnity while the unseen joker worked his way through the day’s supply of sarcasm. When the road hit a stretch of standing water, the laugh grew louder, and Theron heard: “At this pace, the Endless War might be over before we even get there. Maybe all these Brightwardens should take off all their ridiculous armor so we could actually get movin’.”
A Brightwarden nearby, a thin man with eyes like drilled holes, said nothing but turned his head just enough to show he’d heard.
At the next rest, the source of the voice presented himself. He was not tall, but he made up for it in volume and motion, using his arms like a hawker at a market to direct attention. His blue uniform was already muddy up to the knees, and his boots looked like they would fit a man with clubfeet. He had dark hair, cut short in the back and sides, but with a wild sprout on top, and he smiled with most of his teeth.
“The men have been talkin’ ‘bout you,” the man said, nodding toward Theron with a conspiratorial grin. He was out of breath, his words sparkling in the wet morning air. “You’re the one Houlis wants to strangle, right? Made a fool of him in a fight at your village? Name’s Rook. Rook Aterra, if it matters.”
Sval snorted, “That your real name?”
“To everyone except my mother, it is.” Rook said with a grin.
“Theron,” Theron said, offering his name.
He studied Theron for a long moment, his eyes deeper than his tone suggested. “So, what are you? Farmer? Blacksmith? Nah, couldn’t be. Gods, I’d bet you’ve never even held a plow. You walk like someone who doesn’t even know where he’s going.” Theron didn’t answer, but Rook seemed content with the silence.
“You’re not much of a talker, are you?” Rook’s grin widened, as if silence were a charming defect. “Or is it me? I’ve got one of those faces, I know. Used to scare dogs and girls when I was younger. Now I can’t keep the ladies away, if you can believe it. Not my fault. My mother was a merchant, and they say merchant’s sons are born with too many words and not enough sense. But you…”
Theron looked at him with eyebrows raised, and Rook just laughed it off.
“I used to walk these roads, you know. I was a caravan scout north of Crosshaven before the recruiters upped their quotas and turned all the honest men into soldiers and the clever ones into thieves.” He leaned closer, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “I know all the backwater taverns and brothels in these parts. Stick close to me, and maybe this march won’t be so unbearable, eh?”
Sval grinned, “Aye, that don’t sound too bad to me.”
“Good luck sneaking off under Houlis’ eye, let alone these Brightwardens,” Theron said. “I see nothing but long marches and cold nights in our pitched tents.”
Rook grinned and shrugged, but moved on. “So, what’s your trick then? You a hunter? A runner? You don’t seem scared like the others.” He glanced at the hunched boys and gaunt men stumbling through the mud. “Most of them don’t even know where Duskweld is. They just know it’s north, and if they stop marching, they’ll get a cuff on the ear or worse. But you…” He gestured at Theron’s steady stride. “You seen a lot of the world?”
Theron met his gaze, then looked forward. “Aye. I have. What about you?” he asked, voice flat.
“I’ve been around, never to Duskweld though. I fought too. Once. Thieves thought they could rob my caravan.” Rook shrugged. “Learned early that the one who wants it less is the one who dies. The rest is luck. I’ve been training with the sword ever since, on my own.” He smirked. “But don’t be fooled, though. I’m not the hero type.”
The march dragged on, broken only by brief rests where the sergeants snapped the men into crude formations. Line up, count off, march, stop, begin again. Any mistake earned a sting from a reed or a promise that they would be running laps before they tasted their next meal at camp.
Younger recruits, hardly more than boys, trembled through the drills. Some cried outright. The older men moved with quiet resignation, eyes fixed on the ground, saving whatever strength they had left.
Theron kept his head down and moved as he was told, slipping into the rhythm of the formations faster than most. He had no interest in drawing attention, especially now. Even so, old habits and muscle memory had a way of circling back to him no matter how carefully he tried to avoid them.
It was at the third rest that Captain Houlis reappeared, now traveling with a group of Brightwardens and several new officers. They walked among the recruits, making notes, asking questions. Houlis stopped in front of Theron and looked him up and down.
“You healed up fast,” Houlis said, voice slick and almost friendly. “That’s good. Wouldn’t want to waste a fighter like you on the first march.” He leaned closer, his tone dropping to a private register. “Let’s see if you can keep it up.”
Rook watched the exchange with undisguised interest and raised an eyebrow at Theron after Houlis walked away. “He definitely does not like you much.”
Theron smiled. “Yeah, I’m not too worried about it, though. ”
The march was long and tedious, and the days blended together. The recruiters didn’t care if the men froze, so long as they moved. Sometimes they camped in open fields, sometimes in the muddy lanes of tiny villages, where the locals shut up their houses and watched from behind curtains. There were more drills, more rations, more speeches about duty and faith and the glory of the Dominion.
Theron wasn’t the only one who noticed that the rations were generous, far more than most of the recruits had ever eaten back home. Whatever else the Dominion took from them, nobody could deny that hunger was no longer a part of their lives. Days of full meals and enforced rest began to change the men. Hollow cheeks rounded out, eyes brightened, and even the youngest boys shed their starved, brittle look. Strength returned quickly. Theron felt it in himself as well, a steady rebuilding of muscle and balance. He finished every plate set in front of him and never complained about the weather or the pace.
At night they slept in large tents, ten men crammed into each one. A row of a dozen or more stretched out across the frozen ground, canvas flapping in the wind like restless wings. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of damp wool and unwashed bodies, the kind of closeness that bred both comfort and irritation. The cold seeped through every seam, turning breath into frost on beards and blankets. Men huddled under thin wool, boots still on because taking them off meant frozen toes by morning.
Old stories came out then, the ones men carried like scars from home. Someone would start with a low voice, talking about a girl left behind or a harvest that went bad. Another would jump in with a tale of a hunt gone wrong, or a brawl in a tavern that ended with broken teeth and laughter. Experiences got shared too, raw and unpolished. One man spoke of his first kill in a skirmish years back, how the weight of it still sat in his gut. Another admitted he soiled himself during his first drill a few days back, and the tent erupted in rough chuckles that chased away the chill for a moment.
It was during these hours that friendships were born. Nothing brings men together quite like the shared misery of freezing. Huddled in the dark, shoulders touching for warmth, they found common ground in the ache of bones and the fear of what tomorrow might bring. Laughter came easier then, and it cut through the gloom. Jokes about the sergeants or the endless drills bonded them faster than any oath. By the time the horn sounded for dawn, strangers had become brothers, forged in the quiet suffering of the night.
On the fourth day of marching and doing formation drills, the trainers unloaded swords and spears from one of the supply wagons.
“Today, we find out who belongs here and who needs… a little extra motivation,” said one of the Dominion soldiers who now acted as a trainer, a woman with a voice like broken glass. “You will be paired with an opponent and evaluated on strength, speed, and stamina. Do not worry if you have never trained with a spear or blade. That will come later. For now, your task is simple: try to defeat the other man.”
She paused, letting her words settle.
“And let me be perfectly clear. Do not injure or cripple your opponent. Keep it to soft contact only.”
They lined the men up in pairs, gave them five minutes to warm up, and then brought them forward to be evaluated one by one. Most fights were over in seconds. The bigger men clubbed the smaller, and those with any fighting experience at all dispatched their partners with quick, clumsy blows. Knicks, bruises, and scratches were impossible to avoid, but the trainers paid them no mind.
The trainers paired Rook and Theron together. It was not by chance, but by design. They had a sense of which men might put on a show.
“Try not to get blood on the coat,” Rook said, grinning, as they walked up. “I only just got it broken in.”
Theron smiled as he took his position, sword balanced and eyes narrowed.
At the call, Rook came at him fast, quicker than Theron expected. The opening flurry blurred together. Rook had skill, but he signaled every strike. Theron parried the first three blows, stepped inside the fourth, and drove a fist into Rook’s ribs. The merchant-scout staggered, recovered, and cut low. Theron slipped aside, hooked his leg, and dropped him in the mud before pressing a blade to the back of Rook’s neck.
“Yield,” Theron said.
Rook looked up, more impressed than angry. “Didn’t take you for a swordsman. Where’d you learn that?”
“Here and there.” Theron offered a hand, and Rook took it.
They walked back to the line together, passing the others who still floundered in the dirt while the trainers barked corrections. Mud clung to nearly everyone. The two of them stood quietly until the next bout began.
When the practice ended, the trainers called out the names of the men who had passed. Those who failed were marched toward a supply wagon, where they were each handed a shovel.
“Those latrines won’t dig themselves,” one trainer said to them, laughing.
Theron and Rook scraped through the cut. Rook had lost his bout to Theron, but the trainers saw enough promise in his footwork and quick wrists to let him slide by. Sval made it too, his steady swings earning quiet nods from the watchers. Carpen passed as well, though he paid for it with a shallow slice above his eye that wept blood down his cheek until he wiped it away with a curse. Hrengar was not so lucky. He stormed past the winners, clutching a shovel as if it had personally insulted his mother, swearing loud enough to turn heads. “Digging holes for the Jac-damned officers while these bastards get glory,” he spat, kicking at the mud, causing the men around him to chuckle.
That night, the men found themselves shuffled into the new ten-man tents they were provided at the beginning of their march, with the winners of the practice rounds grouped together like prize livestock. The air inside was thick with the smell of sweat and damp wool, the canvas walls flapping in the wind that snuck through every seam. Men laid out bedrolls with grunts and shoves, stowing their gear next to them. Theron picked a spot near the back, dropping his pack with a thud that echoed his exhaustion. Rook flopped onto his roll across from him, stretching out with a dramatic groan.
“Feels like we earned a medal or something,” Rook said, grinning through the ache in his ribs. “Or at least a soft pillow.”
Theron managed a tired smile as he unlaced his boots. The day had left him bruised in places he hadn’t felt in years, but the old instincts had held. It felt good, in a raw, honest way.
Captain Houlis appeared in the entrance then, his silhouette cutting through the lantern light like a blade. The tent fell quiet as he stepped inside, his boots leaving perfect prints in the dirt. He moved down the aisle with that deliberate stride, eyes scanning each man as if weighing their worth. When he reached Rook’s spot, he paused, then stopped fully in front of Theron. The captain pulled a scrap of parchment from his belt, scribbled something with a stub of charcoal, and nodded to himself.
“Rest up,” he said, his voice carrying to every corner without effort. He looked around the tent, meeting eyes that quickly dropped. “Tomorrow you’ll fight again after our march. And you’ll do it better.”
He turned on his heel and left, the tent flapping shut behind him. All was silent for a heartbeat, then erupted in low murmurs from the other men. Rook whistled softly.
Theron lay back on his cot, staring at the sagging canvas above. “We’re in for a long few weeks,” he muttered, as he thought of Houlis looking at him like that. The captain saw something in him, the same way predators spot the one wolf that might challenge the pack. Theron closed his eyes, feeling the pull of old habits, the way his body remembered the rhythm of command even when his mind wanted to forget.
The next day, the march resumed under a sky heavy with clouds that promised more snow. As the road wound north, it climbed gently toward the distant mountains and the ever-distant city of Duskweld. The air grew sharper with the cold weather, biting at lungs and turning breaths to frost. The column stretched long, wagons creaking under loads of supplies, horses snorting plumes of white. Theron fell into the rhythm, his legs finding strength in the steady pace. Around him, the men grumbled less now, the routine hardening them day by day. Rook marched at his side, humming a tuneless marching song under his breath, while Sval and Hrengar traded quiet jabs about who had fared worse in yesterday’s bouts.
It went on like that for weeks. The closer they got, the more crowded the road became. There were convoys of soldiers, carts of food, and entire squads of Brightwardens in full armor, their blue cloaks snapping in the wind. Rook watched them all with keen interest.
“Ever been to Duskweld?” he asked, eyes fixed on the horizon as he looked east toward the Veil Lakes.
“Once or twice,” Theron replied.
Rook grinned, appearing unsurprised with the vague answer. “I’ve never been. They say it’s the end of your current life. The last stop in training before you can go and make a name for yourself. ”
Theron glanced at him. “You afraid?”
“Not of the city,” Rook said, but his voice was tight around the edges. “Of what comes after.”
Theron nodded. He said nothing, however. He didn’t have to.
Days later, the walls of Duskweld rose on the horizon in mid-afternoon, black and gray against the snow and haloed in smoke. The city sprawled at the base of a towering mountain, a labyrinth of stone crowned with banners of blue and gold. A double line of soldiers guarded the southern gates, each one as still as carved granite, their faces unreadable. Many of the recruits stared upward in open awe at the sheer scale of it all. Most had grown up in villages of timber and mud, and the sight of such vast, crafted stone left them speechless.
After an hour of shuffling through the outer ring of the colossal city, the recruits spilled onto a vast parade ground that felt more like a frozen killing field than a welcome mat. The icy wind whipped across the open expanse, knifing through coats and uniforms alike, carrying the distant clang of forges and the faint stink of smoke that never quite left the air. Duskweld officers prowled the lines, counting and recounting the new arrivals with the cold efficiency of men tallying livestock. Two from their group had not made it. Winter had hit hard during that month-long slog, sickening the two men with coughs and fevers that had claimed their lives. The cold showed no favorites, just a relentless hunger that picked off the weak. The recruiters barely blinked. Two lost was nothing to them, a decent number even, proof the march had weeded out the unfit without wasting too much time.
Sval stood pressed close to Rook and Theron, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the bite. He glanced sideways, breath puffing out in ragged clouds. “You ever figure you’d wind up in a place like this?”
Theron stared ahead at the ranks of blue uniforms stretching out like a grim sea. “Yeah,” he said, the word flat but heavy with old ghosts. “I did.”
Rook let out a laugh, short and edged with something raw. “Well, at least you’re honest about it.”
The officers barked their unit to attention at last, boots stomping in unison on the frost-hard ground. Captain Houlis strode forward, his coat flapping like a banner in the wind, voice cutting through the chill like a blade.
“Welcome to Duskweld, men! You’ve made it this far. That was the simple part. Now we’ll see if you can survive what comes next. Take the rest of the evening and relax. Tomorrow we begin.”
His words echoed through the ranks, as cold and sharp as the wind.
As the sun set, the recruits were marched through the city’s inner gates toward their new quarters. Theron looked back just once, towards the fields and forests beyond the walls. There was nothing waiting for him there. Not anymore. But he felt the loss all the same.