A horn blast shattered the darkness.
It was still dark. The barracks was cold, the air thick with the smell of unwashed bodies and fear. Around him, men groaned and stirred. Someone coughed—a wet, rattling sound that wouldn't stop.
"Up! Everyone up!" Sergeant Arvik's voice cut through the darkness. He was banging a stick against the bunks as he walked down the aisle. "You've got five minutes to be in the courtyard. Anyone late gets ten lashes."
Cael sat up. His ribs screamed. The bruise from yesterday's spear butt had spread across his entire left side—purple and yellow and painful to touch.
Around him, the other conscripts scrambled out of their bunks. Most were still in the clothes they'd been wearing when conscripted. Cael was no different—salt-stained pants and a tunic that reeked of the sea.
Mira was already up, tying her boots. She'd slept in her clothes, knife tucked under her pillow. She caught Cael's eye and jerked her head toward the door. *Move.*
He moved.
The courtyard was packed. Hundreds of men stood in rough lines, shivering in the pre-dawn cold. Breath misted in the air. A few torches burned along the walls, casting everything in harsh orange light.
Cael found himself in the middle of a line, Mira to his left and a thin man to his right. The thin man was shaking—from cold or fear. Probably both.
"Welcome to the Army of the Northern March."
Captain Drest stood on the same platform as yesterday. Behind him, a dozen soldiers held torches. The captain's armor gleamed in the firelight, polished and clean. Everything about him screamed professional soldier—a man who'd spent his whole life at war and didn't know anything else.
"Today, you begin training." Drest's voice was crisp. "Most of you have never held a weapon. Most of you have never seen combat. That changes now. You have two weeks to learn everything you need to survive on a battlefield."
Two weeks.
Cael's gut dropped.
"You'll be organized into squads." Drest continued. "Eight men per squad. Your squad is your family. You eat together. You sleep together. You fight together. And if you're lucky, you die together instead of alone."
No one laughed.
"Sergeants, sort them out."
Arvik and the other sergeants moved through the crowd, pulling men out of line and organizing them into groups. Cael was grabbed by the shoulder and pushed toward a cluster of five others.
"You six are Squad Two." Arvik said. "Get to know each other. Your lives depend on it."
He moved on without another word.
Cael looked at his new squadmates. Mira was there, still sharpening that damn knife. The young boy from yesterday—Petyr—stood with his arms wrapped around himself, trembling. An older man with gray hair and hard eyes stood off to the side, studying each of them in turn. And two others—a rail-thin man with a haunted look and scars across his back visible through his torn shirt, and a quiet woman who wouldn't meet anyone's eyes.
"Well." The older man said finally. "This is unfortunate."
"That's one word for it." Mira didn't look up from her knife. "I can think of worse."
The older man smiled without humor. "I'm Aldric. Hunter. Lost my farm to debt, thought conscription might be better than starving." He gestured to himself. "Turns out I was wrong."
"Cael. Sailor."
"Mira. Survivor."
The thin man with the scars spoke next. His voice was rough, like he'd been screaming. "Roth. Deserter."
Everyone stared at him.
"You deserted?" Aldric asked.
"Tried to." Roth turned, showing his back. The scars were worse than Cael had thought—long, deep welts that crisscrossed his entire spine. Some looked infected. "They caught me two miles out. Flogged me. Branded me. Threw me back in. Next time, they hang me in front of the battalion as a lesson."
"So don't desert," Mira said flatly.
"Wasn't planning on it." Roth's smile was bitter. "Not until I find a better opportunity."
The quiet woman finally spoke. Her voice was soft, barely audible. "Elara. Seamstress."
"Can you fight?" Aldric asked.
"No."
"Can any of us?" Petyr's voice cracked. The boy looked like he might throw up. "I'm a baker's son. I've never even held a sword."
"You'll learn," Aldric said. He didn't sound convinced.
"Or we'll die," Roth added cheerfully. "That's also an option."
Petyr made a choking sound.
"Shut up," Mira said to Roth. Then, to Petyr: "Breathe. In and out. You panic, you make mistakes. You make mistakes, you die. So breathe."
Petyr tried. His breathing was ragged, but he wasn't hyperventilating anymore.
Cael looked at his new squad. A terrified boy. A bitter deserter. A woman who looked like she'd break if you touched her. An old hunter past his prime. Mira, who at least seemed competent. And himself—a sailor with no idea how to fight a war.
"We're going to die," he said aloud.
"Probably," Aldric agreed. "But maybe not today."
They were issued equipment an hour later.
Each of them received a gambeson—a padded cloth jacket that would supposedly stop a blade or soften a blow. Cael's was too small, the sleeves barely reaching his wrists. Petyr's was too large, hanging off him like a tent.
They were given spears. Simple wooden shafts with iron points, about six feet long. The wood was rough, unsanded. Cael's hands were already blistering.
Wooden shields came next. Round, two feet across, with a leather strap on the back. They were heavy and awkward, and Cael's shoulder was already sore from holding it up.
Finally, short swords. More like long knives. Single-edged blades maybe eighteen inches long. Aldric examined his and spat. "This wouldn't kill a deer. How's it supposed to kill a man?"
"Stab them enough times," Mira said. She was testing the balance of her blade, moving it through the air in practiced motions. "Everything dies if you bleed it enough."
Arvik appeared in front of them. "Line up. Shield and spear. Formation drills."
They stumbled into a line. Cael stood between Mira and Petyr. The boy was shaking so badly he could barely hold his spear.
"Shields up!" Arvik barked.
They raised their shields. Cael's arm burned immediately.
"Spears forward!"
They thrust their spears over the top of their shields. Half the squad was off-rhythm. Roth's spear hit Elara's shield. She stumbled back.
"Again!" Arvik walked down the line, kicking people into position. "You break formation, you die. You drop your shield, you die. You hesitate, you die. Is that clear?"
No one answered.
Arvik grabbed Petyr by the collar and hauled him forward. The boy's spear clattered to the ground. "What's your name?"
"P-Petyr."
"Are you going to die, Petyr?"
"I don't—"
"Are you going to die?"
"No!"
"Then pick up your spear and get back in line." Arvik shoved him back. "The rest of you, same drill. Shields up. Spears forward. Move!"
They drilled for hours.
Shields up. Spears forward. Step. Thrust. Step. Thrust. Over and over until Cael's arms turned to lead and his legs were shaking. The sun climbed higher, baking them in their gambesons. Sweat poured down his face. His hands were raw and bleeding from the spear shaft. The taste of salt and sweat filled his mouth.
Petyr collapsed first. He dropped his shield and fell to his knees, gasping. Arvik didn't even slow down. "Leave him. Keep moving."
Elara collapsed next. Then Roth, who sat down and refused to get up until Arvik threatened him with the lash.
Cael kept going. His vision narrowed to the shield in front of him and the spear in his hand. He couldn't feel his arms anymore. Couldn't feel anything except the rhythm of the drill.
Step. Thrust. Step. Thrust.
"Halt!"
Cael stumbled. His legs gave out and he fell to one knee. Around him, the rest of the squad collapsed. Only Mira and Aldric were still standing, both breathing hard but upright.
Arvik walked past them. "Pathetic. But it's a start." He pointed to a water barrel at the edge of the courtyard. "Five minutes. Then we do it again."
Cael crawled to the barrel. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold the ladle. He drank until his stomach cramped, then sat back against the wall.
Petyr was crying quietly. Elara stared at nothing, her face blank. Roth was laughing—a broken, bitter sound.
"This is insane," Cael muttered.
"This is training," Aldric said. He was wrapping cloth around his blistered palms. "Wait until we get to the real fighting. Then you'll see insane."
That night, they were given their first meal as soldiers.
Thin soup. Hardtack biscuits that were more rock than bread. Weak beer that tasted like dirty water. Cael forced it down anyway. He'd gone hungry before. On the ocean, sometimes supplies ran low and you ate whatever you had.
This was worse. Because on the ocean, he'd had hope that the next port would have better food.
Here, there was no hope of anything better.
His squad sat together at a long table in the mess hall. No one spoke much. They were too tired. Too beaten down. Petyr hadn't stopped crying since the drills ended. Elara hadn't spoken at all.
"We're not going to make it," Roth said finally. He was picking at his soup with a bent spoon. "Two weeks of this, and half of us will be dead before we even reach the battlefield."
"Then don't die in training," Mira said.
"Easy for you to say. You look like you've done this before."
Mira didn't respond. She ate in silence, methodically, like it was a task to be completed.
Aldric leaned forward. "We stay together. That's the only way this works. You watch my back, I watch yours."
"What about him?" Roth jerked his head toward Petyr. "He can't even hold a spear without crying."
"He'll learn."
"He'll get us killed."
"Maybe." Aldric's voice was hard. "But if we turn on each other now, we're definitely dead. So we stick together. All of us."
Cael looked around the table. A deserter. A broken boy. A silent woman. An old hunter. A survivor. And himself—a sailor who just wanted to be back on his ship.
Not exactly an elite fighting force.
"Fine." He said. "We stick together."
Mira nodded. Aldric did too. Elara looked up for the first time, meeting Cael's eyes. She nodded as well.
Roth shrugged. "Sure. Why not. We'll die together instead of alone. Very poetic."
Petyr wiped his eyes. "I don't want to die."
"None of us do," Cael said. "So we'll figure out how to survive. One day at a time."
It wasn't much of a plan. But it was all they had.
That night, Cael lay in his bunk and stared at the ceiling.
His body was a symphony of pain. His hands were wrapped in cloth, but he could feel them throbbing with each heartbeat. His shoulders burned. His legs felt like they'd been beaten with hammers.
Around him, the barracks was quiet. A few men snored. Someone was whimpering in their sleep. The torches along the walls had burned down to embers, casting everything in dim red light.
Cael thought of the Salt Daughter. Of Jorik. Of the life he'd had just two days ago.
It was like a lifetime.
He wondered if Jorik was alive. If his first mate had been sorted into a different company, was he going through the same brutal training? Or had he tried to run, ended up hanging from a gallows as a warning to the others?
Cael would never know.
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. Tomorrow would be just as bad as today. The day after would be worse.
Two weeks, Captain Drest had said. Two weeks to turn them into soldiers.
Cael didn't think it was enough time.
But he'd learn anyway. Because the alternative was dying. And despite everything—despite the pain and the fear and the hopelessness—he wasn't ready to die yet.
Not here. Not like this.
He drifted off to sleep thinking of the ocean. Of wind in the sails and salt spray on his face. Of freedom that he'd never feel again.
Tomorrow, they would teach him how to kill.
If he survived that long.
