Cale walked toward the table where Mirelle sat, his steps careful, as if afraid of another mishap.

  "Hi, Mirelle," he greeted as he approached.

  Mirelle looked up, offering a small smile. "Hi, Cale."

  The girls sitting around her exchanged gnces before a few of them burst into giggles, their eyes flickering between him and Mirelle. Cale hesitated, feeling a creeping self-consciousness settle over him. He didn’t know what was so funny, but the answer became clear soon enough.

  "Girls, be careful," one of them teased, a smirk tugging at her lips. "He might take another plunge—maybe this time right onto the table."

  More giggles erupted. Cale’s ears burned. He let out an awkward chuckle, trying to brush it off, though the embarrassment still lingered.

  "I don’t think he’d fall again," Mirelle said, tilting her head, amusement flickering in her green eyes. "But if he does, at least it’ll be a dramatic entrance."

  Cale smiled at her words, sensing she wasn’t mocking him like the others—just making light of the situation. "I’d rather not give everyone another show," he said sheepishly. "One is enough for today."

  "Hmm, pity," Mirelle mused. "It could’ve been something memorable."

  Cale exhaled a short ugh, his initial embarrassment fading. "I think I’ll pass."

  Mirelle leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her palm. "Are you sure? You do have a knack for making an impression."

  Cale rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ignore the warmth in his cheeks. "I prefer making impressions by helping people. Not by tripping over my own feet."

  Mirelle studied him for a moment, her expression thoughtful and then she smiled, softer this time.

  The teasing from the girls had quieted as they watched the exchange. Sensing that he wasn’t just going to be the butt of the joke, they gradually turned back to their own conversations, leaving Cale and Mirelle to talk.

  "Do you mind if I sit?" he asked, motioning to the empty spot beside her.

  Mirelle gestured toward the seat with a flourish.

  Cale leaned back slightly, letting out a deep breath as he gnced around the canteen. His muscles still ached from the day’s training, but his mind was too full of energy to care. He turned back to Mirelle, curiosity flickering in his warm brown eyes.

  "Do you think all days will be like this?" Cale asked, his voice tinged with both exhaustion and excitement.

  Mirelle thought for a few moments before answering, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the grain of the wooden table. "Isa said that we’re going to be trained very hard. I think this is just the beginning."

  Cale let out a small hum, rolling his shoulders. "At least I know my muscles will get bigger—just like my dad's!" He grinned with pride, his chest puffing slightly as he mentioned his father.

  Then, his eyes lit up with a new thought. "Ah, right! You said your parents were performers! Did you learn any neat tricks from them? Like sword swallowing? Spitting fire?" His enthusiasm was undeniable, his excitement almost contagious.

  Mirelle chuckled, watching how quickly his sad, tired expression from the morning had been repced with boundless energy. She had barely kept herself awake throughout dinner, while Cale was already bouncing back.

  Her smile softened. "Not quite," she admitted. "But they were amazing. My mother was a singer—her voice could make even the most restless crowds fall silent. And my father... he was a puppeteer and a fire-dancer. He used to control the fmes like they were part of him, weaving stories with flickering embers and shadows."

  Her gaze grew distant, the warmth in her voice tinged with sadness. "When I was eight, our troupe was attacked by raiders. I was the only survivor."

  The energy at the table seemed to still, the words hanging heavy in the air.

  Cale’s expression immediately shifted, his excitement giving way to deep concern. He wanted to say something—anything—but he could sense that this wasn’t something that needed an immediate response.

  Mirelle continued, her voice softer now. "After that, a reclusive artist took me in. He didn’t talk much, but he taught me how to paint, how to sculpt... how to turn my grief into something beautiful." She exhaled a quiet breath, the ghost of a memory passing through her expression. "It helped. It still does."

  Cale’s fingers curled slightly on the table. "Mirelle, I—"

  She shook her head before he could finish. "It’s alright, Cale. It was a long time ago." A faint smirk tugged at her lips. "Besides, I did learn a few tricks from my parents. Just nothing as dramatic as swallowing swords."

  The shift in tone made Cale smile, though his concern remained. "I still think that’s incredible. Turning something painful into something beautiful. Not everyone can do that."

  Mirelle met his gaze, something unreadable in her green eyes before she finally nodded. "Yeah. I guess not."

  Cale hesitated for a moment, then leaned in slightly. "Can you tell me about your sculptures or paintings?" he asked, curiosity bright in his voice.

  Mirelle’s fingers absentmindedly brushed her braids. "I mostly sculpt small figurines, things that remind me of the past. People, moments. I carve faces I barely remember, but somehow... it feels like I do when I’m working on them."

  Cale listened intently, his brows furrowed slightly in thought. "So it’s like bringing them back in a way?"

  Mirelle nodded. "Something like that. My mentor told me that memories fade, but art lets you hold onto them a little longer. I guess I clung to that idea. I like painting, too, but sculpting feels... more real. Like I can touch what I’ve lost."

  Cale swallowed, sensing the emotion behind her words. "That’s beautiful, Mirelle. Do you still make them?"

  She sighed, gncing down at her hands. "Training, adjusting to everything here... it takes a lot out of me. But I’d like to get back to it."

  Cale gave her an encouraging smile. "You should. If it makes you happy, you shouldn’t let it go. Maybe you can even teach me. Maybe after we learn how to bend metal, we can try to make statues out of it. I bet those would st a long time."

  Mirelle raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering back into her expression. "You? Sculpting?"

  "Why not?" Cale grinned. "I’d probably be terrible at it, but at least I’d get to learn something new."

  Mirelle chuckled. "Alright, maybe one day."

  Cale smiled at her warmly, happy that she had agreed.

  Cale and Mirelle fell into small talk, their conversation drifting from training to idle thoughts. The weight of the day’s exhaustion lingered, but for a moment, the warmth of companionship dulled the fatigue.

  Their conversation paused when Cale spotted Davion returning from his css. His broad frame moved through the canteen with a purposeful stride, his expression one of quiet determination.

  "Talk to you ter," Cale said with a smile, pushing himself up from the table. Mirelle gave him a wave,

  Cale walked over to where Davion was heading, joining him at the table where Tristan still sat, looking lost in thought. His arms were crossed, eyes distant as if he were somewhere far away in his mind.

  "How was the css?" Cale asked, sliding onto the bench beside him.

  Davion shook his head, exhaling a short breath. "It was hard, but I'm slowly getting the hang of it." A smile broke through his tired features, he looked proud. "Finally, I get to write and read."

  "Good for you, Davion!" Cale praised, his genuine excitement clear in his voice.

  Encouraged, Davion unched into a series of stories about what had happened in his css, describing the moments that had challenged him, frustrated him, and even embarrassed him.

  "Why did you make the letters so big?" Cale asked, puzzled.

  Davion’s ears reddened, and he scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "I always liked the big writing on the pques and boards I saw." His voice dipped with embarrassment.

  Tristan’s serious expression finally cracked. A smirk tugged at his lips, and before he could stop himself, he let out a small chuckle. He lifted his hands, pressing them against his face, as if trying to stifle it—but it was clear that he was amused.

  Cale smiled, relieved to see that Tristan wasn’t upset anymore. Whatever had been weighing on him earlier was finally lifting.

  But before they could continue their conversation, a gray-robed man stepped inside the canteen, his voice booming across the room, commanding attention.

  "The advanced physical training will start in ten minutes! Everyone, move to the courtyard!"

  A groan rippled through the canteen as kids reacted. Some paled, others slumped forward in exhaustion, their spoons cttering onto their trays. They had already trained so much—both their minds and bodies had been pushed to their limits. And yet, more was still to come.

  Cale’s stomach twisted in anticipation, his sore muscles already aching at the thought of more drills. He gnced around the room, seeing the same weariness reflected in every face.

  And yet, there was no choice.

  With a sigh, he pushed himself up, already mentally preparing for what was ahead.

  They reached the courtyard, where the drill instructor from the morning was already waiting for them. Under the full gre of the midday sun, Cale finally took a closer look at the man who commanded so much authority.

  The instructor was built like a bear—thick muscles yered over a frame meant for war. No softness, no excess—only strength. His piercing blue gaze swept over the recruits like a predator assessing prey. Short, dark hair framed his stern, battle-hardened face, making him look like he had stepped out of the warrior stories Cale’s father used to tell him.

  Laid neatly on the ground in front of them were rows of full metal armor sets. Some were rusted, others bent and dented—a clear sign that they had seen use.

  "Form two lines and take your armor!" the instructor barked.

  A boy hesitated before raising his hand.

  The instructor’s head snapped toward him, his gaze so intense that the boy yelped before he even spoke.

  "Uh... ugh..." the boy stammered, regaining his composure. "Sorry to ask, sir, but some of these armors look too big for some of us."

  The instructor’s head tilted slightly before snapping to the side. A dark-armored figure stood nearby, its face hidden beneath a helmet, unmoving and silent.

  "He will adjust the armor for you."

  "T-thank you, sir!" the boy stuttered before quickly stepping back into line.

  One by one, the recruits took their armor, the metal cold and heavy in their hands. Under the instructor’s watchful eye, they strapped the pieces on, fumbling with buckles and belts.

  "I feel so stiff," Tristan muttered, shifting uncomfortably in his armor as he tested his movement.

  Cale, however, felt... at home. The armor didn’t feel awkward or restrictive—it felt natural. Like an embrace. Like a second skin.

  He resisted the instinctual pull to absorb the elemental essence lingering in the metal. ‘The instructor wouldn’t be happy if I did that,’ he thought to himself, swallowing down the urge.

  Once everyone was fully equipped, the instructor raised a hand and pointed toward the area where they had trained that morning. Two rge piles of round stones sat there—one with boulders the size of their heads, the other with smaller ones.

  "Everyone pick a boulder!" the instructor commanded.

  Some kids hesitated, while others rushed forward, grabbing the rocks with both hands. Cale hefted his boulder easily, but he could see others struggling.

  Once everyone had their boulders, the instructor’s next command boomed through the courtyard:

  "March!"

  The first steps were clumsy, awkward. Armor ptes jostled, metal weighed down their limbs, and the added weight of the stones only made it worse.

  Their footsteps cnked against the ground as they staggered forward, each step a battle against exhaustion.

  Cale gnced at Tristan, who was starting to g behind.

  "Tristan, are you okay?" Cale asked, concern creeping into his voice.

  Tristan gritted his teeth, his breath coming in short, bored gasps. "I... am... fine... This... fucking sucks."

  "You can do it, Tristan!" Davion said, his tone steady, encouraging.

  Tristan clicked his tongue, but kept moving.

  And they walked.

  And walked.

  The weight pressed down on their bodies, draining their energy with every step. The midday sun was merciless, beating down on them as sweat dripped from their brows. Their breathing grew ragged, their limbs burned, but still, they marched.

  And just like the morning run, one by one, kids started to fall. Some stumbled to their knees, their bodies trembling from exhaustion. Others colpsed entirely, their arms too weak to hold the boulders any longer. Some simply slumped forward, the combined heat and weight too much to bear.

  Cale’s gaze darted around, watching as more and more kids faltered.

  The instructor said nothing. No orders to stop, no words of encouragement—only silence.

  And still, they marched.

  His chest clenched as he spotted Mirelle among the kids who had stopped, but he forced himself to push forward.

  The drill instructor’s booming voice grabbed everyone attention.

  "Stop! That’s enough!"

  Cale’s breath came in ragged gasps, his lungs burning from the effort. His legs felt like they’d turned to stone, every muscle in his body screaming for rest.

  Davion despite seeming a little tired too , he still look like he had a long away until he was exhausted.

  Cale had been so focused on keeping himself upright that he hadn’t noticed the moment Tristan fell.

  A sharp thud to his left made his head snap around.

  Tristan y face down in the dirt, his boulder rolling a few inches away from him.

  "Tristan!" Cale was beside him in an instant, dropping his own boulder without a second thought.

  He hooked his arms under Tristan’s shoulders and carefully turned him over, easing him onto his back. Tristan’s face was pale, beads of sweat running down his temples.

  "Thanks..." Tristan whispered, his breath shaky and weak.

  Cale nodded, his grip still firm on Tristan’s arm, making sure he wouldn’t colpse again.

  The instructor gave them little time to recover. His unforgiving tone cut through their exhaustion.

  "Take a short break. Then we move on to practicing movement while wearing the armor. And stly... each of you will be given a sword and shield. It is time to learn how to fight like true soldiers."

  Despite their exhaustion, a ripple of excitement spread through the recruits. Even those who had been on the verge of colpse found a spark of energy at the thought of holding a real weapon.

  Cale and Davion exchanged a gnce, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

  For Tristan, however, none of it mattered.

  He closed his eyes, chest still rising and falling in shallow breaths. Right now, all he wanted was for this nightmare to be over.

  As the kids finished their short break, the drill instructor cpped his hands together, the sharp sound echoing across the courtyard.

  "On your feet! The next lesson begins now!"

  Groans rippled through the exhausted recruits as they forced themselves up, their muscles aching under the unrelenting weight of their armor. Cale reached over and helped Tristan to his feet, steadying him as he swayed slightly. Davion exhaled sharply but stood with ease, his endurance carrying him forward.

  The instructor paced in front of them, his piercing blue eyes scanning the group with measured intensity.

  "Moving in armor is not like moving in your everyday clothes. It will feel stiff, heavy, and unnatural at first. But a true warrior learns to make his armor a second skin—not a burden. Today, we focus on movement. If you cannot move well, you cannot fight well."

  He let his words settle over them before continuing.

  "One day, when you master your elemental affinity, you will be able to shift and shape your armor for better mobility. But until then, you must learn to fight with what you have. In the thick of battle, you won’t have the luxury to compin. You will not always have time to adjust. If you cannot move well now, you will be dead before you can even think of bending metal."

  A heavy silence followed, the weight of his words pressing down harder than their armor.

  "Now—watch."

  A dark-armored figure stepped forward, carrying a set of full pte armor. With practiced ease, the instructor donned the huge heavy suit, his movements smooth, as if the armor was simply another yer of his body.

  Then, he stepped onto the training ground and demonstrated.

  He did not stomp. He did not drag his feet. Every step was measured, controlled. His stance was banced, his weight shifting with precision. When he turned, it was swift yet effortless, his movements unencumbered by the heavy metal ptes. The armor didn’t cnk loudly—instead, it moved with him, not against him.

  "Your instinct will tell you to stomp or force your steps. Do not do that. Walk heel-to-toe, keep your knees slightly bent, and let your armor move with you, not against you. You must work with its weight, not fight it."

  He gestured for them to follow.

  Cale stepped forward, carefully mimicking the technique. Heel to toe, knees bent, absorb the weight. To his surprise, it felt... smoother. Heavy, yes, but not as cumbersome as before.

  Around him, the other recruits struggled. Some stomped too forcefully, their steps clunky and unbanced. Others walked too stiffly, their armor shifting awkwardly, throwing off their coordination. Tristan nearly tripped over himself, cursing under his breath, while Davion quickly adjusted, his strong frame giving him a natural advantage.

  The instructor strode among them, correcting postures with sharp taps of a wooden baton.

  "You—stop locking your knees! You’ll tip over the moment you lose bance."

  "Too rigid! Armor is meant to move with you, not act as a cage. Loosen your shoulders!"

  "Keep your weight even. If you lean too much to one side, you won’t st in a real fight."

  Cale focused, repeating the steps in his mind. Heel to toe. Keep banced. Let the armor guide you.

  Slowly, it became easier. His movements felt lighter.

  A smirk tugged at his lips.

  Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all.