The week passed in a blur of drills, bruises, and brief, rare moments of rest.
Morning bells rang before the sun even breached the hills. Nights ended with limbs sore, boots caked in mud, and lungs aching from wind sprints and command shouts. Rain came twice—once a steady drizzle that turned the course to soup, and once a downpour that soaked even the gear packed in oilskin. But not once did Inigo let them stop.
"You don't choose your battlefield," he'd said, the rain dripping from his soaked collar. "So you train for every one."
And they did.
They learned how to fight uphill with wet rifles. How to fall and recover without snapping ankles. How to pass orders with a gesture or a whisper. How to stay calm when the fog was so thick they couldn't see each other, only hear the thump of boots and the click of safeties disengaging.
