The morning horn blared like a dying beast—low, deep, and unrelenting. It shattered whatever shallow sleep Duncan had managed, yanking him upright before his mind could catch up.
The barracks was already stirring. Men shoved on boots, strapped worn belts, and shouldered spears dulled from previous owners. Duncan grabbed the old ironwood practice sword issued to him the night before. Its weight was off-balance, its hilt wrapped in cracked hide, but it would have to do.
Outside, the training yard was a slab of wet dirt ringed by high walls and spiked logs. Rain had turned the ground into sticky muck, but no one complained. Complaining here was weakness—and weakness got you reassigned to the Beast Vanguard, which was a fancy way of saying "meat shield."
Iron Sergeant Valen stood waiting. His breastplate bore three deep claw marks across the chest. A scar ran from his forehead to his left ear, never healing fully. A beast hadn't just struck him—it had tried to remove his face.
"All conscripts, form up!" Valen barked.
Duncan took his place with Squad Theta-Seven. Twelve in total. None looked friendly.
Valen walked the line. "Today begins the Fang Trials. You'll learn the Dominion's ways: sword, bow, spear, shield. Fail, and you wash out. Wash out, and you get reassigned to waste patrol, or worse—the northern frontier."
He stopped in front of a thin conscript with dark circles under his eyes. "Name."
"Caz," the boy said quietly.
Valen grunted. "Caz, grab a shield and spar Duncan. First to three touches. Move."
Duncan barely had time to lift his sword before Caz charged. The boy's form was fast, wild, but untrained. Duncan dodged the first strike, then countered with a blunt blow to the ribs.
"Point, Duncan," Valen snapped.
Caz snarled and came again, but this time Duncan caught the shield strike and twisted. Another solid tap to the back.
"Two."
On the third round, Caz faked left—but Duncan didn't fall for it. He dropped to one knee and swept the leg.
"Three."
Caz hit the ground with a splash of mud and curses.
Valen gave a small nod. "Not bad, legacy."
The word again—legacy. Duncan didn't like how it sat in the air. It made him a target.
Hours Later – The Beast Pen
The sun broke through the clouds just long enough to cast a sickly yellow hue over the pit.
It was surrounded by iron fencing and a half-circle of stone seats. Duncan's squad and three others stood waiting as Captain Eryndor stepped into the ring.
"Each unit will offer a volunteer," he said, voice loud and clear. "The trial is simple: survive. Do not kill the beast unless instructed. If the beast pins you, the trial ends."
One by one, names were called.
Caz volunteered first, eager to redeem himself. He entered the pit with twin short spears. When the gate opened, a Splitjaw Grollhound charged out—a hound-like creature with two mouths and scales like stone.
Caz lasted fifteen seconds.
Two others fared worse.
Then, "Duncan Vire."
Duncan stepped forward, feeling every stare on him.
He entered the pit and was handed a boar-lance—a long, heavy weapon designed for stopping charges.
The beast that emerged was not a trial creature.
It was a Stonehide Groxx, nearly six feet tall at the shoulder, with moss-covered armor plates and tusks blackened with dried blood.
Whispers rippled.
"That's no training beast…"
"Who ordered that in?"
Even Valen looked confused.
The beast roared, pawed the dirt, and charged.
Duncan planted the lance, timed his breath, and sidestepped at the last second, using the beast's momentum to drive the shaft into its rear leg—not to kill, but to cripple the charge.
The Groxx spun, lashing out with its tusk. Duncan ducked, rolled, grabbed a fallen practice sword from the mud, and struck a blow to its exposed underbelly.
The beast reared, snarled—
"Enough!" Eryndor's voice rang.
A team of handlers rushed in with nets and chains.
Duncan stood panting, mud-soaked and trembling—but upright.
"Trial passed," Eryndor said, looking at Duncan longer than necessary. "...Unexpectedly."
Armory, After Dark
Duncan dried off near the forge, his hands still shaking.
Valen appeared beside him, tossing down a rolled cloth. Inside: a better sword. Dominion steel. Nothing fancy—but sharp, balanced.
"You've got instincts," Valen said. "That Groxx wasn't meant for today."
"You're saying it was a mistake?"
"I'm saying someone wanted to test you differently. Or break you."
Duncan said nothing.
Valen clapped him on the shoulder. "Beastland officers don't live long, Vire. But the ones who do? They're the ones who see the knife before it's drawn."
Watchtower Edge
That night, Duncan climbed the outer watchtower, looking past the forest's edge.
Somewhere beyond that line were the wild territories—the Ironwilds, where no kingdom's banner flew, and the beasts didn't care for politics.
He was no longer just a farmer's son.
He was a soldier of the Dominion.
But someone in this camp didn't want him to survive long enough to wear armor.
And out there, in the wilds, something older than beasts was waiting.
Watching.
Hunting.