The car screeched to a stop in front of the tall iron gates where he stood, as snow began to fall flake by flake, landing on the shoulders of the coat draped over him.
Desmond lifted his head.
Eyes open—cold, hollow.
Beside him, only a hard leather suitcase. Plain brown.
No embellishments.
And the same expression he'd carried for years:
Nothing.
Then a soldier stepped out of the vehicle without a word.
Looking at him from head to toe the twenty-year-old young man.
Straight-backed, eyes like steel or rather, Antarctic ice.
A man who looked like a lone winter wolf from the mountains.
Expressionless.
Too controlled for someone his age.
As Desmond raised his gaze, slightly.
"Name." the soldier snapped as he approached him, face to face.
"Desmond Fontclair."
"¿Duke? ¿ A heir?" the soldier wrinkled his nose slightly.
"Titles mean nothing here."
"I know. I don't care either." Desmond replied, voice flat, feral like a dog that growls when someone gets too close.
The soldier narrowed one eye, raised a brow, and gave a lopsided smirk.
Then pointed towards the car with a tilt of his head
"In."
Desmond nodded and passed beside him, opening the door and taking the front passenger seat. And the soldier climbed into the back, slamming the door behind.
"To the military compound."
"Yes, sir." the driver replied.
And so they left, pulling away from the gate behind them toward the new fate that awaited him.
---
5:45 PM
The air smelled foul.
Of sweat. Dirty socks. Cheap leather. Dried blood. Rusted metal.
A stench that stabbed into the lungs, as if the entire place were an open wound that never closed.
But this wasn't a place for well-dressed, quiet men.
It was a meat grinder.
Life inside was a war without gunpowder from the very first day.
Walked the halls, taking it all in:
Men training.
Others eating.
Others fighting in groups.
Some stealing, packing, shouting.
No one welcomed him.
No one expected him.
They simply explained him the facility's purpose, showed him the base, pointed out the courtyard map, explained the training phases, the rules, introduced him to the staff.
Then, they threw him into a filthy room with seven other recruits.
Broken men.
Eyes full of fear.
Dirty hands.
Open wounds.
Desmond stared at them—unflinching.
As they avoided him the same.
His bed was a wooden plank with a threadbare mattress.
The water bucket for washing was freezing in the morning—putrid by afternoon.
The boots they gave him were the wrong size.
They scraped his heels raw, leaving them red and bleeding. Taking his old shoes.
So there he remained, seated, among the others.
Some stared, but none dared speak to him.
Not yet.
They only left to eat at nightfall, sharing the same dining hall.
Silent.
Too silent.
Then they returned to that same cramped room.
To rest, to see what tomorrow would bring.
---
At dawn, a trumpet blast echoed like a shot through every room, stirring the others.
No hesitation.
They formed ranks, marching into the rainy rear courtyard.
Beginning to train before sunrise, during the first pre-dawn drill, when the sky was still gray, a shrill whistle brought him out of his consciousness as he stood in line.
Shouts.
Shoes on mud.
"¡Line up, maggots! ¡Faces on the ground, hands in the mud! ¡¡Come on ladies, crawl like rats!!" —bellowed a sergeant with a cracked voice and a distraught look.
And without protest—they obeyed.
Desmond's body slid across the wet dirt, cold and sharp, rocks tearing at his skin.
Mud soaked his clothes, clinging like another layer of flesh.
He heard the others groaning, panting—some crying.
One vomited beside him.
But said nothing.
Then moved to sprints—laps around the open ground, carrying sandbags in the rain.
Fifteen laps.
Some fell.
One collapsed.
Another bled from the nose.
Desmond—still, ahead to every step.
His hands, still wrapped in bandages from the unhealed cuts, were soaked with fresh blood.
His boots had him on the verge of a limp, yet he held firm.
"This isn't worse than home."
But he was wrong.
---
At night, when he finally drifted toward sleep, he was yanked awake by screaming to clean toilets, to serve as the veterans' punching bag.
They shoved him.
Spat on him.
Mocked him.
Calling him "Filthy little aristocrat. Porcelain boy. Fresh meat."
One night, three surrounded him.
"What's with the stare, noble bastard? You think you're better than us?"
one growled.
Desmond just sat bolt upright without changing his gaze, just sharpening his eyes at the big talker with defiance.
And with a sharp punch to the jaw, they quickly grabbed him by the arms, cornering him against the wall and twisting his arms behind his back.
One kicked him in the ribs.
Desmond didn't cover up.
He didn't defend himself.
He just let out what breath he had left, inhaling shakily through gritted teeth, without a single complaint.
And there, cornered, they threw him violently to the ground, raining kicks and blows one after another. Ending with laughter, mockery, insults, and stamping on his hands, spitting on him on the ground before leaving. Leaving him lying there, his face drenched in blood and mud.
Dragging his legs and hands toward him as he staggered to get up without help. Gasping.
One of them, the youngest, the copper-haired boy, who looked at him with fear, watched Desmond's skill as he stood up firmly without a limp. Straightening his back and posture, he straightened his uniform and headed to the laundry room.
Luca, the 17-year-old boy, stunned, only gulped as he heard nothing from the man who had simply stood up. No insults, no complaints, not even a shout. But he felt ridiculously useless for not knowing how to defend himself or even stop the fight.
For a moment, Desmond washed his face in the bathroom, staring at his crooked reflection in a shard of broken mirror. Remembering the words of those who had upset him.
"I am no more than them. No less. Just a Fontclair."
He thought as he washed his hands and tore the hem of his white nightgown, tying it like a bandage around his left hand as he walked back out to join the other recruits who were beginning to form up.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
His knuckles hardened like stone.
His blows were accurate, violent, and firm without flinching.
When he fought in hand-to-hand training, the others began to fear him, staying away, and not even eating near him.
A silence was more threatening than the shouts of his superiors.
He learned to shoot.
To carry wounded bodies and unconscious people.
To disarm men in the mud.
He learned to survive on less than a liter of water a day.
He learned to ignore the pain. To close his eyes when it hurt to breathe.
To get up without a second thought. To move nimbly even with a wounded leg or limb.
But also... He learned to hate.
To hate the soldiers' laughter.
To hate the memory of his mother, because it hurt.
To hate himself for not being able to forget, for doubting some of the times he thought he couldn't take it anymore.
Then came the rage..
Lit like a fire that rises and consumes instantly.
Recalling that memory, that fleeting memory, that hateful moment when his father threw that lighter into the fireplace as a child. Burning what little of his mother remained, and just watching...
During one of the training sessions, a superior officer pushed him until he fell.
The second Staff Sergeant.
Mocking him with intent, challenging him, beating him up, saying he wasn't even good for cannon fodder, and other obscene insults, worse than any he'd ever heard.
Disarming him and holding him in the mud beneath his fists.
Just as the duke had asked.
Then, with a sharp kick to the stomach, he pushed him away. Rising from the muddy puddle like a beast exhaling heavily. And his breath in the cold looked like smoke, his mouth bleeding.
—"What did you say?" —he said with his hoarse chest that was rising slowly.
The sergeant just laughed out loud.
And without granting him another word, Desmond lunged at him like a beast until his back was slammed against the wall. Breaking his nose with a single punch.
Another.
Again.
And he covered his bleeding face. Then he kicked him in the stomach. He lashed out with years of suppressed rage, until five other soldiers had to restrain him by force.
—"Enough! Enough!! FONT!!!" —they shouted as they subdued him.
Once back, he just looked at the sergeant with contempt, breathing heavily, his eyes blazing and piercing, unblinking, just large and fixed.
He looked... like an aggressive polar wolf.
And from that afternoon, as night fell, no one touched him again. Not even the higher-ups.
They punished the extra, and the other severely until they removed him.
Turning into a wild dog.
One that didn't bark.
That bit with intent at the slightest proximity.
"...They wanted a monster. That's what they'll get."
He muttered while exercising in the field.