Dawn seeped through the barracks windows like watered wine, too weak to properly warm but strong enough to wake every recruit. Soren rolled his stiff neck, the whiskey from last night's conversation with Veyr Velrane still clinging to the back of his throat.
His muscles ached from yesterday's training, a dull throb that had become as familiar as breathing.
The barracks hummed with unusual activity. Whispers cut through the typical morning grunts and complaints, recruits hunched in small clusters, glancing in Soren's direction before returning to their hushed conversations.
"Now it's Ayren," he caught from a pair of wide-eyed boys folding their blankets with unusual precision. "First Veyr takes him for special training, now his brother wants a turn."
"Wonder what's left when they're done," another muttered.
