The rest of the journey to Stonegate was uneventful, just long, grueling, and bone-deep exhausting. We marched for ten to twelve hours each day, stopping only to make camp, clean, cook, and sleep what little we could. I'd estimate Stonegate was about a hundred kilometers from Oxspell, my hometown.
When we weren't on the move, we were working, setting up tents, starting fires, and fetching water. There was no time to relax, barely enough to recover. We got maybe six to seven hours of sleep per night if we were lucky. Food was thankfully sufficient. On the second day, Sergeant Cole's team hunted and brought back several deer. We got a share, small, but a welcome change from the jerky and dry biscuits.
Still, by the end of the second day, my feet were blistered, and even the venison felt like a hollow reward. The third day was the worst. My legs ached, my shoulders throbbed, and the weight of my pack felt like it had doubled overnight. I wasn't the only one; every recruit looked dead on their feet. Even Lela, who had seemed mostly fine the first two days, was visibly worn down by sunset.
I still tried to carry my gear, both the camping pack and my essentials, but I had to take longer breaks now. The only thing keeping me from collapsing completely was my breathing. The same rhythmic practice I'd started back in town had now become instinct. My body knew it. Whenever I was in motion, I found myself falling into that pattern: breathe in for four, hold, exhale for six. Even when I wasn't thinking about it.
By late afternoon on the third day, we crested a hill, and there it was.
Stonegate.
The view took my breath away.
From a distance, I could trace the outline of its massive stone walls, nearly a perfect hexagon. The city was wedged between three man-made borders and a natural one. The walls stood nearly two hundred feet tall and at least twenty feet wide. On the northeastern side, the walls vanished into sheer mountain cliffs, stone rising straight up into the sky. Those mountains had to be over eight hundred feet tall, maybe more. A natural fortress.
"Wow," Tom muttered, wide-eyed.
"How many people live there?" Mik asked.
One of the nearby soldiers answered without turning his head. "About a hundred thousand civilians. But that's not what makes the city important. Two ducal capitals are within a twenty-day march. This city coordinates and supplies the border forts to the north and west. You're looking at the last great stronghold before the wilds. Also happens to be the seat of Count Petrae."
Stonegate wasn't just a city. It was a hub, a command node, a supply depot, a wall between civilization and whatever waited beyond. The massive roads leading north and northwest hinted at the flow of men and resources to the frontlines. The southeastern gate, from what I overheard, connected to another duchy.
It took us another hour to reach the southern gate, where we waited in line to pass inspection. The gate itself was a monstrosity, thick iron bands across reinforced wood, easily forty feet tall. After the checkpoint, we helped unload the wagons, moving crates into the storehouse. Another hour passed in sweaty labor.
After we finished unloading, while others dispersed to settle down, I made my way toward Ben. The sun was already low, painting the sky in soft oranges and purples.
"Thank you, sir," I said quietly, the words carrying more weight than I expected.
He gave me a half-smile. "You're still fragile," he said, "but you're tenacious. I saw you walk the last three days without complaint."
I hesitated, then asked, "Any last-minute advice?"
Ben nodded. "Listen to your instructors. Most of them are veterans. They'll help you survive deployment. Try to get your stats above ten, ten is considered average. Local Knights Academy eligibility requires at least fifteen in one physical attribute."
He looked me in the eyes. "And no matter how tough it gets, don't give up."
He gave me a firm pat on the back, then paused.
"I'll be heading out in two days," he added. "Assigned to one of the border forts. It's likely we won't cross paths again."
I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Instead, I nodded, offering him a silent farewell.
"Make the most of training," he said, turning to leave. "You've got grit. Don't waste it."
He made his way toward the barracks.
By the time the sun dipped beneath the horizon, we were finally assigned tents. I had hoped, naively, perhaps, for a small bunk, maybe even a shared room somewhere indoors. But those hopes disappeared the moment I saw the rows of canvas pitched across the open ground.
This wasn't an academy.
The quartermaster handed us our standard-issue gear: camping supplies and equipment for six months. If we didn't join the army within that time, we'd have to formally request an extension to keep the gear.
One of the sergeants informed us of the schedule. Training would be under rotating leadership. Each month, a different sergeant would oversee our drills and development. It wasn't a school. It was a soldier's crucible.
Twelve-hour days. Six days a week. We were told to report to the main barracks by eight in the morning. There, we'd meet our assigned sergeant for orientation.
"Rest while you can," the man had said. "Because once training starts, you'll forget what rest feels like."
As I sat by the fire that night, eating a bowl of thin stew, I felt the fatigue settle into my bones like cold iron. I'd been picturing something else, something more structured, maybe even formal. An academy, with instructors, lectures, and organized routines.
But what greeted us was something raw. Stripped of frills and comfort. No banners or speeches. Just tents, drills, and the weight of expectations.
I didn't even remember lying down. Only that the moment I did, sleep came like a hammer.