A total of ten arduous months had elapsed since the inception of their relentless military training.
Months that had stripped them bare, dismantling weakness, and reforging their bodies and minds into weapons of precision.
For the past four of those months, they had been immersed in the art of weaponry, forced to wield instruments alien to their instincts.
Swordsmen were made to shoulder spears.
Axemen learned the finesse of daggers.
Even the most stubborn hammer-wielders had tasted the balance of the twin sabres.
Yet amidst this discomfort, they were granted fleeting moments to return to their preferred weapons, brief intervals designed not for comfort.
But for preservation of their foundational skill, ensuring that what they had built was not eroded by unfamiliarity.
And now, the cycle shifted once more.
Corporal Samuel's voice, as cold and sharp as a whetted blade, cut through the heavy morning mist that clung to the training ground like a veil of ghosts.
"Today"
