The gate to the eastern compound looked older than anything else on palace grounds. Its iron hinges were rusted deep in the corners, the stone walls darkened by moss and age. It sat behind the main barracks, tucked between a thin grove of trees and a bone-dry creekbed that hadn't seen water in years. No banners. No colors. Just stone, quiet, and time.
Leon stepped through it alone.
His silver crest stayed buried in his belt pouch. Roselyn had told him—Cohort Seven didn't care for pageantry. Officially, they weren't ranked above the others. Unofficially, everyone knew what they were: misfits, hardened dropouts, the ones too rough for court dances or polished duels.
They were the ones who fought.
The air here felt heavier. Closer.
No instructors. No welcome.
Just a cracked fountain and a chalkboard nailed to the wall beside it.
Leon approached.
The names were scratched in rough hand:
Vailan
Oskar
Rix
Fena
Corwin
Eris
Thorne
His fingers brushed under the last one.
Scrawled beneath, in a different hand:
Fresh meat.
A quiet snort behind him.
He turned.
A woman leaned against the stone wall. Arms folded. Bandages wrapped around her knuckles. Her jaw was sharp, scarred—like it had once broken and healed crooked.
"Guessin' you're the noble runt they threw in with us," she said.
Leon said nothing.
She stepped forward, slow. "Don't look like much."
"You haven't seen me fight."
"Don't have to. You've still got noble eyes."
She circled him once—not hunting, just studying. His balance. His stance. The wear on his boots. His breath.
"Fena," she said. "Senior among the rejects."
His brow twitched. "You're not rejects."
She smirked. "We are. Just the kind that hit harder than the ones who get picked first." She pointed a thumb at the board. "Wanna last, Thorne? Keep your sword up, your mouth shut, and don't touch that crest unless you're ready to bleed."
He gave a small nod.
"Good," she said, turning away. "You start tomorrow. Drills at dawn. Grab a bed before someone else does."
—
The barracks weren't anything like the Academy dorms.
No servants. No polished floors. No tidy linens. Just bunk rows, wooden crates, and the lingering stink of oil and vinegar from the mess hall.
Leon found an empty upper bunk wedged between a broken window and a dented water bucket. No pillow. No sheets. Just straw and wood.
He dropped his satchel and sat.
A few heads glanced up. No words.
One boy—a freckled archer with a scar across his cheek—nodded once, then went back to oiling his bowstring.
It wasn't cold.
Just quiet.
These weren't kids chasing glory.
They were veterans waiting for bruises.
Leon leaned back against the wall, steadying his breath.
He didn't need comfort.
He needed edge.
—
Morning drills came without ceremony.
No horn. No announcements. Just a bell at dawn and a one-eyed instructor in half-rusted armor barking orders through cracked teeth.
They ran. First with packs. Then logs.
Blind parries came next—eyes covered, ears straining, reacting to steel that whispered toward flesh.
Leon fell once.
Then again.
The third time, he caught the blade, twisted it, stayed upright.
The instructor didn't speak.
But Fena nodded.
That was the only praise.
—
By midday, Leon's shirt stuck to him like skin. Sweat burned his eyes. His shoulders throbbed. His legs shook. But when sparring rounds were called, he stepped forward first.
Didn't ask who.
Just waited.
Rix volunteered.
Big. Heavy blade. Wyvern ink across his back and arms like tree trunks.
He grinned when he saw Leon. "Finally. Let's see if the princess's lapdog can bleed."
They circled. No ref. No signal.
Just steel.
Rix struck first—wide swings, raw power.
Leon kept his distance. Let it come. Dodged. Blocked. Slipped in low, caught his side.
Rix barely blinked.
He grunted, twisted, smashed the flat of his sword into Leon's arm.
Leon winced—but stayed upright.
Another charge.
Leon feinted high, cut low, clipped the ankle.
Rix roared, staggered, raised his sword—
Leon was already in.
His hilt slammed up into Rix's throat.
The big man dropped, coughing.
Silence.
Then one clap—from the instructor.
"Again," he growled.
They fought three more times.
Leon didn't win them all.
But he never stayed down.
—
That night, arms limp, Leon washed at the basin.
Fena passed by, dropped a salve packet beside him.
"Use it," she said. "Or don't. Either way, you'll need both hands tomorrow."
Leon caught it mid-fall.
For the first time in a long while…
He felt like he fit.
The salve burned going in, but he didn't flinch. His arms hurt deep—muscle, bone—but his fingers still gripped. Still moved.
That was enough.
He stepped outside just before dark fully settled.
The moon hung low, yellow, over the training field. No stars yet. Just long shadows stretching over the targets.
Somewhere nearby, metal rang.
Someone was still training.
He followed the sound.
Around the broken wall, past the old split tree, a woman moved in the dust. Fast. Smooth. White hair pulled back in cords. A staff in her hand.
Not a sword.
Not a knight.
A mage.
But her form was clean—thrust, pivot, step, arc.
Leon didn't move closer.
"You can come out," she said without turning.
He did.
"You're not one of mine," she said.
"Thorne. Cohort Seven."
She turned—raised a brow. "The new one."
He nodded.
"Elena said you might be worth watching."
Leon's shoulders stiffened. "You're a mage."
"Battle-class. House Faltier. I'm here for spell-break coordination."
He narrowed his eyes. "There's a mage in our unit?"
She gave a half-smile. "Not really. I'm not here to shield you. I'm here because some of you swing blades at magic. And if you swing wrong, people die."
She walked past him, staff across her shoulders.
"Tomorrow," she said. "You and I spar. I want to see how you react when the rules change."
Leon watched her leave.
Magic.
He hadn't trained against it in this life yet.
But he remembered what it felt like to burn.
And he wasn't planning on feeling it again.