Fifteen days into Private Varik’s reign, and our bodies still hadn’t adjusted.
But we’d stopped complaining. At least out loud.
The sparring ring was a flattened oval of packed dirt and gravel at the far edge of the training yard, just beyond the torchlit perimeter. Dust coated everything, boots, brows, and blunted wooden spears. A few scraggly trees marked the fence line, their branches bare as if even they were too tired to stand tall.
The sun was low, just starting to rise, casting long shadows across the ground. The air still carried the sharp bite of night, but sweat clung to our skin anyway, proof that fatigue didn’t care about temperature.
Recruits formed a loose circle around the ring, some standing with arms crossed, others crouched with spears resting across their knees. There were no cheers. No jeers. Just eyes watching, weighing, calculating.
Inside the ring, I faced off with Justin. Both of us were slick with sweat, our breathing heavy and uneven. Our hands were blistered from grip work, our shoulders stiff from constant drills.
We were not dueling. We were surviving.
Justin jabbed first, an overeager thrust at my shoulder. I knocked it wide with the shaft of my spear and stepped in, tapping his ribs. He twisted away, countered with a low sweep. I sidestepped. No clean hits. Just pressure and movement.
We reset.
“Stop skipping like you're dancing!” Varik's voice tore through the still morning. “You’re not romancing your opponent! You’re trying to outlive him!”He paced outside the ring like a hunting dog, boots crunching gravel with every step. His limp was barely noticeable now, masked by the sheer force of his posture.
“Rear foot planted! Guard up! You drop that spear in real combat, and the only thing you’ll be holding is your intestines!”
We moved again. This time, I scored a light hit to Justin’s upper arm, but his return strike caught my side with a hollow thump. We locked eyes for a moment, mutual respect, mutual frustration.
“No winner in this dance,” Justin muttered between breaths.
“Only Varik,” I replied.
We circled, breathing hard, trying not to show how tired we really were.
The rest of the recruits said nothing, but I could feel their stares. Every fight was a lesson, and every observer was taking notes, on form, on mistakes, on who might be strong and who might fold.
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We finished the round and stepped out of the circle. Another pair entered. We slumped onto a bench along the fence, chests heaving.
Fifteen days ago, our stances were a joke. We tripped over our own feet. Half the class couldn’t hold their spears for more than two minutes. Now, we could spar without embarrassing ourselves.
We didn’t fumble anymore.
And we didn’t complain when we lost.
It wasn’t enough for Varik. It probably never would be. But we were better.
But sparring wasn’t the only way we had changed.
Ten recruits were gone now. Not dead, just reassigned. Logistics. City Watch. Errand duty. That left thirty-five of us.
Physically, sure, we were stronger. Our bodies had started adapting. Bruises faded quicker. Blisters toughened into calluses.
But the real difference wasn’t muscle.
It was our minds.
Something about the constant push, the sleepless nights, the endless drills hardened something inside us. Not just willpower, but a shared grit. We’d been ground down together. Broken. Reforged.
And out of that came something close to trust.
This morning, five of us had been selected for latrine duty.
No reason given. No offense noted.
Just five names barked out by Varik at 2:45 a.m., followed by a single word:
“Shovels.”
Now we stood knee-deep in damp earth, half-lit by the faint glow of moonlight. The cold wind cut through our armor as we dug, Edward, Henry, Erik, Farid, and Leif, each of us moving with tired, practiced rhythm.
The sky was still dark, just a faint hint of gray on the horizon.
The air had a bite to it, the kind of chill that made your fingers ache before the work even started. The earth was wet and stubborn, clumping at our boots as we worked. Every footstep sank. Every shovel load felt heavier than it should have.
We had been at it for over an hour.
“Is it just me,” Henry said, stabbing his shovel into the mud, “or does it feel like we’re being slowly murdered one pit at a time?”
Erik grunted. “Don’t be dramatic. This is just psychological warfare, with extra steps.”
“If we dig deep enough,” Farid added, “maybe we’ll strike freedom. Tunnel straight into the next kingdom.”
“Just make sure to write my name on the wall before you leave,” Leif said. “Tell my bunkmate I went out like a hero. Covered in shit.”
We all chuckled, low and dry. Not loud enough to carry. Just enough to keep the cold from settling in our bones.
I leaned on my shovel, rolling my sore shoulder. “Let me know if you find the exit tunnel. I’ll bribe the rats for directions.”
“You know what I think?” Henry said again after a beat.
“Oh no,” Leif muttered.
“I don’t think Private Varik is a man.”
Farid gave him a look. “You think we’re being trained by a ghost?”
“No,” Henry said. “I think he’s a punishment. A relic. Some barbarian war god carved him out of hate and dropped him here to finish what the beast tide started.”
Farid nodded solemnly. “Or he’s a saboteur. Barbarians sent him south to break our army before the real war begins.”
“Too late,” Leif said. “He’s made us stronger. Joke’s on them.”
I smirked. “Unless that was their plan all along, send one demon to toughen up the enemy, then fight an army that doesn’t flinch.”
We paused, and then the laughter came, tired, cracked, and absolutely unhinged. A grim harmony of five idiots with shovels and shared trauma. A cold gust of wind swept across the field, sending goosebumps up our arms. A few birds stirred in the trees, but the sun had not yet touched the horizon. The pits were almost finished, and yet none of us slowed down. We weren’t digging for punishment anymore. We were digging because we could. Because we weren’t the same recruits we were two weeks ago. Because we still had the whole day ahead of us, drills, formations, maybe more sparring, and we knew we could survive it.