Forged in Sand
At dawn, Collin and Aries dragged themselves down the sloping path toward the North Town training grounds. The sky was a dull smear of gray-pink, the kind of morning that couldn't commit to being hopeful or ominous.
Collin's head throbbed dully with sleep deprivation—he’d only managed a few tangled hours of rest sometime after the moon had tipped past its zenith. His thoughts sloshed in his skull like water in a half-filled jar, and each step felt like trudging through knee-deep mud. Though the air was crisp but mild, an involuntary tremor rattled through him that had little to do with the chill. His body was cold; his stomach colder.
Beside him, Aries matched his silence stride for stride. Normally, Aries woke up with a sharp tongue and a sharper appetite—ready to quarrel or joke before breakfast. This morning, he walked with his arms crossed and jaw tight, emitting the kind of quiet that said,Speak to me and lose a tooth.
They passed the shuttered shops of North Town in silence, their boots scuffing against the cobblestones, and rounded the bend near the granary when two other figures emerged from the morning mist, Nic and Uriah.
Nic looked like a sleep-deprived demon haunting a borrowed human body. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair couldn’t decide which direction to fall, and his brow was set in a permanentscowl that could curdle milk. He glared at a squirrel that skittered past them, as though personally offended by its cheerfulness. “If one more bird chirps at me,” he muttered, voice gravelly, “I’m eating it.”
Uriah offered a smile that might've passed for cheerful if not for the twitch in his left eye. “Good morning,” he said, too brightly. “Or... at least, a morning. We can all agree it is that.”
“Barely,” Aries grumbled.
Collin tried to summon an expression—annoyance, a greeting—but all he managed was a grunt that might have been mistaken for indigestion.
The four fell into step without another word, bonded by misery.
They passed a fencepost where someone had chalked the words,Abandon Hope, followed by a lopsided drawing of what might’ve been a boot stomping a skull. Nic eyed it and nodded approvingly. “At least someone gets it.”
Collin chuckled flatly. “I think I’m going to vomit from nerves or hunger. Possibly both. Maybe at the same time.”
“Well,” Aries muttered, “aim for Nic.”
They trudged on, four shadows stretching long across the dirt road, toward whatever fresh torment awaited them just over the rise.
As they entered the training camp, Collin’s gaze swept the clearing beneath the pale morning canopy. The others had already gathered, scattered like fallen leaves caught in a windless pause. Dragonfly, Lekyi, and the twins stood at the fringe of the open-air pavilion, their postures drawn tight by unspoken tension.
Dragonfly had her arms wrapped tightly around herself, more for protection than warmth. The sleeves of her blouselooked too large, swallowing her delicate frame like the morning shadows swallowing the light. She wasn’t just anxious—she seemed paper-thin, as if the right word could tear her.
Lekyi carried the storm in his body—shoulders bowed, brow furrowed deep as a fault line. Clive stood rigid, breath slow and practiced, but his eyes jittered, bright with nerves. A bead of sweat traced his temple, unnoticed. Niall worked his jaw like he was chewing stone. Collin felt his own teeth clench in answer. The tension was catching, like a fever.
Then, across the sandy field, Gravis appeared. Not trudging, not hesitating—strolling, as if arriving at a garden party rather than the first day of what might well be a gauntlet of pain and humiliation. His shirt and waistcoat looked freshly pressed, his stride calm. He even offered a mild nod in greeting. Maybe he was genuinely unfazed. Or maybe it was all theater.
Collin couldn’t decide if he envied that composure or distrusted it.
He leaned against a canopy strut. It groaned under his weight, a low, ominous creak that made him wonder how much strain it could take before giving in. His gaze swept across the training grounds, taking in the space that would soon shape them—or break them.
The North Town training ground was a vast sand-filled clearing carved into the forest, surrounded by towering trees that loomed like silent sentinels.
The sun had barely begun its ascent, its faint rays filtering through the gaps between the trees. While the village was still stirring to life, the training grounds were already alive with movement. Dozens of guards were on site, their discipline evident in the efficiency of their tasks. Some raked the sand, smoothing out the rough patches, while others tended to the canopies and training equipment. In one corner, a group engaged in mock hand-to-hand combat, their movements sharpbut measured. Another group fired arrows and hurled knives at target boards, the rhythmic thunk of impact punctuating the morning air. Pairs of guards clashed swords in controlled exchanges, while others jogged the perimeter of the deep sandy track, their footfalls muffled by the shifting ground.
Nearby, two guards were locked in a violent exchange—no restraint, no pretense of practice. They struck with brutal force, each blow landing with a sickening thwack of fists on flesh. Collin watched, transfixed. This was nothing like the sparring matches he and his friends engaged in—where instinct was tempered by caution, where bruises were accidental rather than deliberate. Here, there was no holding back. No hesitation. Just raw, uncontained violence.
It was a stark reminder. Training wasn’t just about learning. It was about surviving.
Nic paced directly in front of Collin’s line of sight, blocking the combatants from view. Collin shifted, trying to get a better look, when something bright shot into his eye like a bolt of lightning. He flinched, blinking rapidly as he rubbed at the sudden sting.
“Good heavens, Nic, what is that?” He scrubbed at his eye, trying to clear the lingering glare. “It nearly blinded me!”
Nic paused mid-step, his scowl vanishing as a grin overtook his face, eclipsing the simmering irritation he had been exuding all morning. He unbuckled the watch from his wrist and handed it over with a flourish.
“Helen gave it to me last night. Our one-year’s coming up, but she figured the Royal Guard doesn’t do romantic timing.”
Collin examined the exquisite timepiece. Even at a glance, it was obvious how expensive and well-crafted it was. The leather straps were supple, the buckle gleamed gold, and the hands and numerals were gilded with the same rich metal.
