**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 exhausted cadets stood in agonizing attention on the training field, chests heaving, legs trembling, barely able to remain upright after the punishing fifteen-mile forced march. Sweat soaked their gray uniforms, and the morning sun beat down mercilessly. Kira Emberwhisk fought to keep her breathing steady, her twin tails limp with fatigue. Torin Shadowear stood rigid beside her, his single tail twitching with the effort of maintaining posture. Borin Ironvein's broad chest rose and fell like a bellows, while Sylvana Starveil's graceful frame swayed slightly, her elven features drawn tight with exhaustion.
The Marine commander strode forward again, her boots crunching on the gravel. "Now that you're warmed up," she announced, her voice carrying across the formation like a hammer on anvil, "let me introduce your class instructors. They will be your gods, your devils, and your only friends for the next two weeks."
Each class had its own lead instructor supported by three additional Marines. Class One's lead was a stocky man with a voice like grinding stone, flanked by three hard-eyed assistants. Class Two's lead was a tall woman whose glare could cut steel, backed by three equally unforgiving subordinates. Class Three's lead was a lean man with a deceptively calm demeanor that hid razor-sharp aggression, supported by three more who moved like shadows ready to strike. Every instructor eyed their assigned cadets as if sizing up raw material for the forge.
The commander gestured sharply toward several large crates of MREs and coolers of water bottles lined up at the edge of the field. "You have thirty minutes to eat and hydrate. After that, training resumes. Move!"
The cadets broke formation in a chaotic scramble as the instructors moved among them. The Class Two lead instructor demonstrated with brutal efficiency, ripping open an MRE packet and showing the heater and utensils in one swift motion. "Thirty minutes starts now—get it in you or go hungry!" The timer on her comm chimed loudly.
Kira and Torin pushed through the press toward the crates, grabbing water bottles and whatever MREs they could reach. Borin shouldered his way in beside them, snatching a packet and a bottle with his thick hands. Sylvana slipped through more gracefully, securing her own supplies. They found a small clear spot near the edge of the field and tore into the meals.
A young human cadet from Rothgard dropped down beside them, panting. "Name's Garrick. You lot from the carriage line? I saw you talking earlier."
Kira nodded between bites, the MRE's salty contents tasting like salvation. "Kira. This is Torin, Borin, and Sylvana. Class Two for us three—except Sylvana in Three. You?"
"Class One," Garrick replied, wolfing down his food. "They liked my militia stories. Never thought I'd be eating this strange packaged stuff so soon after leaving home."
Borin grunted, tearing open his heater pack. "Tastes like salted leather, but it fills the gut. Better than starving in the woods while the Imperia burned everything."
Sylvana ate with quiet dignity, sipping water between small bites. "They speak as if the body must be broken like dry wood to burn brighter. Yet the oldest trees grow strongest when the storm bends them without snapping."
Torin ate methodically, his eyes scanning the field. "Thirty minutes is generous by their standards. Eat fast. They won't wait."
The cadets shared quick stories between bites—Garrick spoke of his family's flight from the coast, while another nearby elf cadet mentioned losing her bow in the chaos of evacuation. The brief camaraderie felt fragile under the looming pressure of the instructors circling like hawks.
Exactly thirty minutes later the instructors pounced. "TIME'S UP! FORM UP! NOW!" they bellowed, charging into the scattered groups. Uneaten food was knocked from hands or left abandoned on the grass as cadets were violently shoved and yelled into rough ranks. "Drop it! You don't get to finish! Move, move, move!"
The commander's voice cut through the chaos. "Five miles to aid digestion! March!"
The forced march began immediately, the instructors running alongside and screaming corrections without mercy. "Faster, you worthless sacks of meat! You call that moving? I've seen recruits crawl quicker after three days without sleep! Drive those knees up or I'll drive them up for you! Eyes forward! Mouths shut! You're not people anymore—you're targets until I decide you're worth the air you breathe!"
The company staggered to a halt inside a vast hangar where rows of tactical vests with heavy plates and racks of Mk1 Carbines waited. The Marine commander stepped forward once more.
"These are your weapons and armor," she announced. "Treat them like your lives depend on it—because they will. Class instructors, demonstrate dry fire operation."
The lead instructors moved down the lines with predatory focus, each supported by their three assistants. Class Two's lead instructor held up the Mk1 Carbine, a simplified electromagnetic design built for rapid fabrication and new recruits. "This is the Mk1 Carbine. Lightweight polymer frame, electromagnetic propulsion for low recoil, magazine-fed with a thirty-round capacity. Selector switch here—safe, semi, and full auto. Charging handle pulls back to chamber a round. Safety lever flips clean and positive. Low power output makes it forgiving for training, but it will still put a hole through anything you point it at. Watch."
She demonstrated each step with sharp, deliberate motions: magazine insertion with a solid click, charging handle racked, safety flipped, dry-fire squeeze that produced a crisp mechanical snap. "That is how you handle it. Any questions get asked once. After that you are expected to know."
The cadets were issued their rifles and vests, the weight settling heavily on exhausted shoulders. Then they were force-marched again to the firing range for familiarization and baseline marksmanship assessment.
At the range, the instructors halted the company and the Class Two lead instructor stepped forward. "Range safety rules. Pay attention or you die here instead of on the battlefield. Rule one: muzzle always pointed downrange. Rule two: finger off the trigger until your sights are on target. Rule three: weapon on safe until you are ready to fire. Rule four: treat every weapon as loaded. Break any rule and you will eat dirt until you bleed. Clear?"
The cadets answered in a ragged chorus. "Clear!"
The instructors exploded. "What the hell was that?" the Class Two lead instructor roared. "You will address me as 'Clear, Drill Sergeant!' Every single time! Again!"
"Clear, Drill Sergeant!" the company shouted back, voices raw.
The first dry-fire cycles began under strict supervision. Most managed basic function, but one trembling wolfkin cadet in Class Three fumbled his carbine on the firing line. His claws slipped on the safety lever as he struggled to flip it, panic widening his yellow eyes. The weapon jerked upward. A sharp crack split the air. The round slammed into a tree trunk ten feet above an instructor's head, bark exploding in a shower of splinters that rained down on the Marine's helmet.
Time seemed to freeze. The wolfkin cadet stood frozen, rifle still raised, horror etched across his muzzle as the echo of the shot faded. The instructor's expression shifted from shock to volcanic rage in a heartbeat. Every instructor from all three classes—leads and their three supporting Marines—converged on him like a storm.
"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT, RECRUIT?" the Class Three lead instructor roared, inches from the wolfkin's face, spittle flying. "You nearly painted the range with my brains!"
The Class Two lead instructor snatching the rifle from his shaking paws and wrenching it away. "Drop and give me fifty—now! Face in the dirt, Trigger-Tremble!"
The Class One lead instructor piled on, voice thundering. "Eyes up! You are a walking disaster! Fix it or get the hell off my range before you kill someone who matters!"
The wolfkin cadet dropped into push-ups, ears flat against his head, trembling under the combined berating as the rest of the company watched in horrified silence. The instructors' voices thundered on, relentless and unforgiving, as the day's true forging continued.