Henry pushed the lingering sorrow of his departure to the back of his mind as he reached the town square. Standing in the cold pre-dawn light were thirteen other hopefuls—ten young men and three women—all lined up before the seasoned recruiter and the two knights. Behind them, the massive, monstrous war-steeds were now hitched to a heavy carriage.
Henry took his place at the end of the line, standing with a soldier's posture until the first sliver of sunlight broke over the horizon.As the sun rose, the old recruiter's voice sliced through the silence. "From this moment until your basic training is complete, I am Sir Recruiter. To my right is Sir Red," he indicated the lean, unarmored knight with the saber, "and to my left is Sir Blue," gesturing to the armored giant.
The process was clinical.
"Count off!"
The voices rippled down the line until it reached the end. "Fourteen," Henry stated, his voice clear and unwavering.
"You are no longer individuals," Sir Recruiter announced. "You are Recruit One through Recruit Fourteen. You have been assigned to Fort Hope, the primary gateway to the Willder Mountain Range. Your specialized training begins now and will last three months. Recruit One, step forward."
Henry watched with a sharp, analytical gaze as the first recruit, an unassuming woman with dark hair and brown eyes, touched the foundation rod. To his absolute shock, the crystal flared with the number 10. She was at the peak of the foundation realm, and she looked even younger than him.
The testing continued, revealing a surprisingly high-caliber group consisting of four recruits at Level 8, four recruits at Level 9, and four recruits at Level 10 including Henry and recruit one.
The final two were true outliers. Recruit Thirteen, a lanky, brown-eyed boy standing at a towering 6'2" despite his youthful face, registered a mere Level 3. Lastly, Recruit Twelve, a stunningly beautiful blonde girl dressed in rags and covered in grime, measured at a nearly non-existent Level 1.
Sir Recruiter tucked the rod away, his expression turning grim. "Fort Hope is 450 miles east and 50 miles south. We are running there. Breaks for food and water will be minimal."
A ripple of unease went through the line.
"The carriage is for those who fail," he continued, glancing at the wagon. "But know this: if you fall behind and are forced to ride, you will be penalized with an extra three hours of training every single day until graduation. If you want to survive Fort Hope, you do not get in that carriage."
Henry scanned his peers. While the Level 10s remained stoic and the Level 3 boy seemed strangely confident, the Level 1 girl looked as though she might faint, the blood draining from her face. Henry felt a pang of pity; for a Level 1, this journey wasn't a test—it was a death march.
"The run begins the moment we clear the town gates," Sir Recruiter commanded.
They marched through the Barony in a rhythmic, somber cadence. Henry kept his eyes forward, silently bidding farewell to the only home he had ever known. As they crossed the threshold of the gates and hit the open road, the pace shifted instantly.
"Good luck," Sir Recruiter called out over the sound of thundering hooves. "Let the run begin!"
The steady thrum of boots against the dirt acted as a rhythmic mantra, successfully drowning out the lingering echoes of Henry's emotional departure. He pushed himself toward the front, settling into a comfortable stride just behind the dust clouds kicked up by the war-steeds. Beside him, the Level 10 and Level 9 recruits maintained a disciplined silence, their movements efficient and practiced.
For the first six hours, the run felt almost like a victory lap. They were still within the Sinclair Barony, passing through familiar rolling hills dotted with bustling farmsteads and small hamlets. Villagers paused their work to cheer, children raced alongside them for a few yards, and the sheer energy of the crowd provided a much-needed adrenaline spike. Even Recruit 12 and Recruit 13, despite their lower levels, kept pace, though their faces were beginning to flush.
But as the sun began its slow descent, the landscape changed. The lush pastures gave way to rugged, unsettled terrain where villages were fewer and the silence was deeper. By the twelve-hour mark, the psychological weight of the journey settled in. This wasn't a sprint; it was an endurance test that would span days.
Henry glanced back, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed the tail end of the formation.
Recruit 13 was struggling. His long limbs, once an advantage, now seemed heavy and uncoordinated. His shirt was soaked through, but he kept his head down, teeth gritted in a display of raw stubbornness.
Recruit 12 on the other hand was at her breaking point. The evening sun caught the salt crystals forming on her skin. Her breath came in ragged, wet gasps, and her beautiful blonde hair was matted against her forehead with grime. Every step looked like a battle against gravity.
Just as her knees buckled—fourteen hours into the grueling pace—the command finally rang out.
"Stop here!" Sir Recruiter roared.
The group collapsed into a ragged halt. The silence that followed was broken only by the sound of fourteen people gasping for air. Sir Recruiter moved to the back of the massive carriage, unlatching a heavy crate.
"Two hours!" he barked, his voice devoid of sympathy but acknowledging their survival. "Drink. Eat. Rest your legs. We move again when the moon is high."
He began distributing rations: two heavy jugs of water and a dense, protein-packed sandwich for each recruit. Henry took his and sat on a nearby boulder, his muscles humming with a dull ache that he knew would only intensify. He watched Recruit 12 collapse onto the grass, barely having the strength to unscrew her water jug.
Fourteen hours down, hundreds of miles to go. Henry took a large bite of his sandwich, his mind already calculating how many more of these sessions the group could survive before the carriage claimed its first victim.
The silence of the break was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic chewing of bread and the occasional slosh of water. Henry looked around, noting that only he, the other three Level 10s, and a pair of Level 9s had the breath to spare for conversation. Yet, no one spoke. They were bound by the same contract, but for now, they were just fourteen strangers sharing a patch of dirt in the fading light.
Recruit 12 and 13 lay sprawled on the ground, their chests still heaving. Just as the color seemed to return to their faces and their muscles began to lose their iron-tight tension, the recruiter's voice cut through the air like a whip.
"Line up! We're beginning the next leg."
A collective groan seemed to vibrate through the group, though no one dared let it reach their lips. They rose begrudgingly, joints popping and muscles screaming as they fell into formation beside the carriage. The cool night air hit their sweat-chilled skin, sending shivers through the line.
As Henry settled into his spot at the rear, he caught sight of Sir Red. The knight hadn't just survived the first fourteen hours; he looked as though he'd merely taken a leisurely stroll through a garden. Not a single bead of sweat dampened his brow, and his relaxed posture remained infuriatingly intact.
Sir Red looked down the line of exhausted faces and let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Why the long faces, recruits? The fun is just beginning! The first day is always the easiest."
His laughter was like salt in a wound. Henry saw Recruit 12 flinch, her eyes staring blankly at the dark road ahead, while the others gritted their teeth in silent fury. But there was no time for self-pity.
"Move!" the recruiter roared.
Without further ceremony, the horses lurched forward, and the recruits were forced back into the grueling rhythm. The shadows of the forest swallowed them as they left the last remnants of the Sinclair Barony behind, heading deeper into the dark, unfamiliar plains of the Jasper Barony.