Three whistles rang out through the morning haze.
A sharp cry of steel on stone answered. The recruits—both Ash veterans and collared scavengers—assembled at the proving ground, unsure of what the day held. Fog clung to the mud like mold. The sky was gray, offering no clue of the hour. Sleep hadn't been plentiful.
At the center of the field stood Fornos, flanked by two auxiliaries bearing scrolls and steel rods. Behind him were racks of training weapons, bags of dried provisions, and a line of golem dummies—constructed of warped wood and rusted chain. Some had been painted with crude enemy sigils.
This wasn't training.
This was sorting.
"You'll be placed in mixed squads of five," Fornos announced without flourish. His voice, as always, cut like cold iron. "Two Ash. Three scavengers. Or three Ash. Two scavengers. Doesn't matter. You don't choose your allies. I do."
He waited as murmurs rippled.
"You will complete a gauntlet over the next two days: march eight miles to the northern ridge, recover a payload, and bring it back while surviving ambushes and sabotage scenarios. Food and water are limited. Fail to coordinate, and you'll go hungry."
A few scavengers scowled. One spat in the mud.
Fornos didn't blink. "Your collars are set to punish only open treachery. You're free to argue, insult, and threaten one another. Just not kill. Think of it as a leash long enough to choke on."
Roa stepped forward from the veteran side. She wore her Ash sigil openly—black cloth wrapped tight on her right forearm. Fornos turned toward her.
"You'll lead Squad Seven. A scavenger, Harl, will lead the next."
She gave a slight nod. She'd expected as much.
Before the group was dismissed, one of the auxiliaries unrolled a canvas map and slammed a dagger into its center. "The route is not straight. Paths fork. Traps exist. You're being watched. And scored."
They set off by midmorning.
Squad Seven was made of five: Roa, veteran spearwoman Erene, two scavengers named Kit and Boro, and a third—Tassik—whose collar had already been sparked twice that week for attempting to hoard equipment.
The march began in relative silence. Mud sucked at their boots, and the fog thickened the deeper they traveled into the pine-strangled ridge.
By midday, tempers frayed.
Kit, wiry and loud-mouthed, refused to take orders from Roa. "I'm not letting some painted noblewoman tell me how to swing a blade. You don't know how we fought to survive out there."
Roa didn't argue. She handed him the satchel containing the flint, the compass, and the dried meat. "Then lead us."
Erene raised an eyebrow. "He's going to get us killed."
"Maybe," Roa replied. "But we'll learn more if he does."
Kit led for two hours before getting them lost in a gully surrounded by thornroot. When night came, they were cold, hungry, and disoriented. And the first ambush struck.
Dummies in crude armor launched from hidden traps, flinging paint-powder and dull bolts. Roa brought down three. Erene dragged Tassik out of a snare trap by the leg. Kit froze until Boro knocked him out of the way of a falling net.
In the chaos, Tassik made a run for it—straight into the woods.
The moment his collar sensed breach, it activated. Hard.
He screamed and dropped mid-stride, seizing in the wet leaves. The noise echoed into the trees. It took two minutes before the spasms ended. He lived, but he didn't speak afterward. Not even a grunt.
They carried him on a makeshift stretcher.
The next morning, the gauntlet escalated.
Squad Eight—led by Harl—had triggered a sabotage trap intended to cripple their footing across a rotted bridge. Roa's team spotted the shoddy ropework just in time. She could've let them fall. Could've watched and moved on.
Instead, she waded into the stream, tying off the slats with her own line, then climbed to warn Harl's team before they crossed. One of them shoved her. Another accused her of tampering.
She didn't flinch. "You're too dumb to set your own traps. Don't give yourself that much credit."
Harl stared her down. His collar glowed faintly—barely restrained. Then he barked at his team to move, and they crossed without another word.
Back on her side, Kit muttered, "You didn't have to save them."
"No," Roa replied. "But if we're marching into real war together, I'd rather not start by watching them drown."
They completed the gauntlet by sunset—limping, bruised, and caked in grime. Tassik had to be carted in by two auxiliaries. Kit no longer spoke first. Boro and Erene had shared rations.
And Harl, when they passed one another at the return checkpoint, gave Roa a single nod.
Not respect.
Not yet.
But the first brick of it.
Fornos reviewed the trial results that evening in his command tent. Scrolls laid flat on the table—each squad's progress mapped in runes and flags.
Roa entered quietly, still streaked with river mud.
"They're breaking slower than you expected," she said.
"They're not breaking," Fornos replied. "They're reshaping."
He placed his hand on Squad Seven's log. "You did more than lead. You softened the edge. That was never my strength."
"It's not softness," Roa said. "It's survival. Morale is just armor for the soul."
Fornos allowed a brief smile. "Then keep them armored."
Outside, the night settled into silence.
But it was not the uneasy quiet of strangers.
It was the silence of soldiers learning, reluctantly, to stand side by side.