**Borin Ironvein's Log, Supplemental**
**Borin recording**
**32 days after Rothgard's Fall**
Old selves die.
New steel is born.
The run tests the will.
The Spaceport gate stood like a steel sentinel at the southern edge of the valley, its heavy panels retracted just enough to frame the broad paved apron beyond. Classes One, Two, and Three had been ordered to assemble there at first light, and the mixed crowd of cadets now milled in the open space, gray uniforms stark against the black pavement. Kira Emberwhisk and Torin Shadowear stood together near the front of Class Two, their twin and single tails flicking with quiet tension. Borin Ironvein had found them moments earlier, his broad frame cutting an unmistakable silhouette among the shorter recruits. Sylvana Starveil joined them shortly after, her graceful steps carrying her through the press of bodies until she stood at Borin's shoulder.
"Glad you all made it," Borin rumbled, offering each a firm nod. "Class Two for me. They liked the axe work and forge stories. You?"
Kira's twin tails swayed once. "Same. Class Two. They seemed to approve of border scouting and the trouble we've seen."
Torin's single tail curled neatly behind him. "Class Two as well. The questions were precise. They wanted to know how we watched the land without being seen."
Sylvana's voice remained soft, yet carried clearly. "Class Three for me. Balanced training, they said. My forest lore and healing ways caught their interest. It feels… right."
Before any of them could say more, the low electric hum of approaching vehicles cut through the morning air. Three HAS-Vs rolled out from the gate in tight formation, their wheels whispering over the pavement, electric motors whining softly as they braked in a precise line. The side doors slammed open and Drill Instructors exploded out—Marines in rolled-sleeve fatigues, faces carved from granite, voices already shredding the air like chain saws.
"GET YOUR SORRY ASSES IN LINE!" the lead instructor roared, striding forward like a predator. "Classes One, Two, and Three—MOVE! Shoulders back! Eyes front! You call that a formation? I've seen drunk goblins line up better! GET IT DONE!"
The instructors fanned out like wolves, screaming directly into faces, jabbing shoulders, shoving chests. "You—yes, you with the ears—get that tail under control! This isn't a damn parade! Line up or I will personally plant your face in the pavement!" Recruits stumbled and scrambled, the three classes sorting themselves under the relentless barrage until something resembling three ragged formations stood trembling before the gate.
From the center HAS-V stepped the Marine commander, a broad-shouldered woman whose voice cracked like a whip. "ATTENTION!"
The instructors pounced again, aggressively correcting every flaw. A sharp jab to the ribs here, a barked order an inch from a cadet's nose there—"Chin up, recruit! You're not hiding in the forest anymore! Straighten that spine or I'll straighten it for you!"—until every back was ramrod straight and every gaze locked forward in rigid silence.
The commander planted her boots and surveyed them with a gaze that could strip paint from steel. Her voice rolled out, loud, demeaning, and merciless.
"Listen up, because I will only say this once, and I do not repeat myself for civilians! You are no longer who you were yesterday. I don't care what noble blood runs in your veins, what race you claim, or what you have between your legs. That all ends at this gate. You are now Republic Guardian Cadets. Nothing more. Nothing less. In the next two weeks you will be forged in a crash course more difficult and more demanding than anything you have ever had nightmares about. You will sweat until you puke. You will bleed until you cry. You will break—and if you are very, very lucky and work harder than you have ever worked in your pathetic little lives, you might come out the other side as something resembling competent soldiers. Welcome to the Republic Guardian Force."
The silence that followed was absolute. Then the instructors exploded into motion again.
"Forward—march! Into the base! Keep those lines tight or I will personally make you regret every step you ever took!" They herded the cadets through the gate with relentless shouting and stinging insults, driving them along the paved roads toward the training grounds. "Pick up those feet! You call that marching? My grandmother moves faster on her deathbed! Eyes forward! No talking! You are nothing until I say you are something!"
The moment they reached the open training fields the instructors launched them into a fast march—fifteen brutal miles under constant, merciless pressure. The pace was punishing, far quicker than any normal march, and the instructors ran alongside, screaming corrections without pause. "Faster! You call that a march? My dead aunt could outpace you! Keep those knees up! Breathe through your nose or I'll make you breathe through your ass!"
Kira's lungs burned by the third mile, her twin tails heavy with sweat as shock crashed over her in waves. *This isn't training… this is destruction. They're going to kill us before the Imperia even arrives.* Torin ran in grim silence beside her, his single tail lashing with each stride, desperation tightening his jaw. *They strip everything away in days. How can anyone survive this? I have to stay sharp… for Kira, for the mission… but gods, I'm already breaking.*
Borin's powerful legs pumped steadily, yet even the dwarf's broad chest heaved as the miles stretched on, his mind reeling in stunned disbelief. *I've swung axes in battle and hammered iron until my hands bled, but this… this is meant to shatter us. What kind of monsters are these Americans?*
Sylvana maintained her graceful rhythm longest, but by the tenth mile her elven features were drawn tight with exhaustion and raw desperation. *The forest never demanded this. I thought I understood endurance… but they are forging us into weapons, and I fear we will break before we become anything useful.*
By the final mile each of them ran in their own private hell of shock and desperation, legs like lead, lungs on fire, the instructors' voices a constant storm in their ears. The valley's new guardians were already learning exactly what the Americans truly meant by "forged."