"Too slow, again!" Vellien's voice cut coldly across the Yard, as the ten trainees stumbled through their latest drill that late afternoon.
From the third day of training onward—ever since the live demonstration with Sina Clemens—they had seen no more sparks, no more thunderous blasts of Ignis rounds. The rest of that week was nothing but endless dry practice.
Vellien drove them through the same tasks without pause: stripping and reassembling ignisers in the Armory until their fingers bled; drilling firing stances—prone, kneeling, standing—under the scorching sun; loading and unloading feed-boxes, cycling bolts, hundreds of times until the motions blurred. At first, they practiced with open eyes; soon, Vellien blindfolded them.
"You must build instinct," Vellien said. "On the move, behind enemy lines, instinct is the only thing that saves you."
Yet through it all, none of them was allowed to touch a single Ignis round.
By the end of the week, Soren's hands were a patchwork of raw blisters, his palms burning each time metal bit into them. His strength as an archer—the hardened muscles of his back, shoulders, and arms from years of drawing heavy warbows—made carrying the igniser's 4.5 kilos easy enough. But carrying it was not the same as running with it. The weapon's awkward weight and shifting balance turned every obstacle in the Yard into a punishment.
The sling rubbed his chest raw, the jolt of each stride wrenched his core and hammered his knees, his ankles buckling under the sudden pulls as he fought to keep the igniser from swinging violently out of control. Compared to this, he found himself almost longing for the simplicity of his bow—light, strapped neatly to his back, his arms free, his steps unencumbered.
His fellow trainees fared no better. Day after day, their bodies wore down together, until when they finally dragged themselves back to their dorm block each night, they collapsed onto their beds in unison, a row of weary thuds echoing through the room.
"Gods, Captain Tressine is going to kill us like this," Aren groaned from his bed, "I'll probably die before I even get to be an Ignisant."
No one bothered to answer him. Even Enari—who almost always snapped back—was silent, too drained to muster a retort.
A few of the trainees eventually dragged themselves upright, peeling off sweat-soaked shirts and trousers, bundling their clothes for washing before heading down for a shower. The rest stayed where they were, sprawled across their bunks, trading low mutters while waiting out the inevitable crowd at the baths.
Soren rose with the first group, Seppo beside him. Cold water sounded like salvation to his battered body, and besides, it spared him from having to listen to Aren's whining stretch into another round of gossip.
Those two—Aren and Enari—had never been close with him and Seppo back in the Archer Corps. The four of them had served in the same company once, stationed together at Feralina Base in Kessarine, before they passed the Ignis entrance exam and and got moved to the Ignis Compound in Solenna. That history made them acquaintances more than comrades, yet somehow Aren and Enari clung to the brothers at every turn. On a night like this, when exhaustion left him hollow, Soren preferred the quiet.
Down on the shower floor, he had to wait with the others—senior Ignisants occupied the stalls already. At least the facilities here were an improvement. Back at Feralina Base, the showers were little more than a communal wash: no partitions, no walls, men passing one another bare and hasty, all business. Privacy was impossible.
Here, the upgrade was plain. Each cubicle walled, a proper door, water falling strong from iron pumps above. The drawback was fewer stalls overall. With only a hundred and twenty Ignisants in service, the Compound had never been built for mass use. So, as trainees, they had to yield. Seniors always went first.
When at last his turn came, Soren stepped beneath the stream, and it felt like rebirth. The water came down cold and steady, drumming his shoulders, needling his skin, sluicing away the grime and ache that clung to his bones. He let it wash over him, soaking in the relief while he could. Tomorrow began the second week, and there would be no mercy. Better to savor the water now.
Then, from the cubicles around him, voices began to rise, bouncing against the stone walls.
"Heard Captain Perala's team was deployed to the palace today," a voice carried over the water, low and breathy, coming from a few stalls down on Soren's right.
"Oh yeah? Parading? Thought her squad was still stuck at Feralina last time I saw 'em," another voice answered, hoarse and careless.
"Not a parade. Just a small ceremony. A memorial."
"Memorial?"
"For those who died that year, from the poisoning. You know—the one that started the war."
"They're still mourning that?" the hoarse one scoffed. "It's been years. Boring, if you ask me. I wouldn't wanna stand around for that. Still, bet the palace is something. Wonder when I'll get to see it."
"Probably stunning. Extravagant. Heard the gardens are insane."
"Yeah? Then the King oughta shave some coin off the roses and toss it our way. Could use a softer mattress."
Laughter, then their talk drifted into the same tasteless chatter soldiers always filled silence with—rumors, women, complaints. Soren tuned it out. A few words, though, stayed with him.
The memorial. Held today.
No wonder he hadn't seen Sina in days. He'd half thought she'd returned to the front in Kessarine. But now... now it made sense.
The water pounded cold against his shoulders. He let it run a little longer, then shut the pump, dressed quickly, and stepped outside. The air of evening was cool in his lungs. He only wanted to walk.
From behind, another set of footsteps followed. Seppo had noticed him slipping down instead of up. His brother had looked weighed down lately, and with that Ignisant woman gone from sight these past days, Seppo guessed the reason well enough. Catching up, he clapped Soren lightly between the shoulders with a grin.
"Aren't you dead tired? What, still want more exercise?" he teased. The shower had left him refreshed, loose, even cheerful.
Soren shot him a glance but kept moving. He had already sensed Seppo's presence long before. "Just need fresh air. Too early for sleep."
"Got something on your mind?" Seppo pressed, matching his pace. "You've been dragging these past days. And I don't mean from training alone."
Soren didn't answer. He shifted the subject instead. "Do you remember what happened, around this time, eight years ago?"
Seppo frowned, digging through memory. "Eight years... The year I got conscripted? That year—" He cut himself short as it came back to him, his voice dropping. "Oh. The monarchs' death."
Soren gave no confirmation. "Can you believe we lived through that war?"
"We didn't just live, brother—we made it to the Ignis Corps," Seppo replied, the thrill still there in his voice. "But why bring it up now?"
"I don't know if you overheard in the showers. They said the palace still held the memorial. Today."
Seppo wavered, unsure why his brother cared so much about monarchs who'd died eight years ago, or the memorial itself. He answered softly, "For the King, I'm sure it's hard to forget."
They walked on. The Compound lay hushed in the night, darkness wrapping around its walls. One by one, the dormitory lights went out above, murmurs dimming, settling to sleep. At last, the brothers turned back upstairs.
Soren almost spoke—it's hard to forget for me too. But the words lodged in his chest.
But it wasn't the weight of the tragedy itself, nor even his grief for the dead monarchs and their guests, that fixed the memory in him. It was what came after.