A voice cut through the morning air—sharp, commanding, unshakable.
"Fall in line!"
The recruits snapped to attention. Dust hung in the sunlight like smoke, drifting between the rows of nervous faces. At the head of the yard stood the general—tall, broad-shouldered, his coat still carrying the faint scent of gunpowder and rain. His eyes moved over the crowd, weighing each soul as if measuring steel.
"Listen well," he began, his tone cold and measured. "Tomorrow, you will be tested. Each of you will be judged by your seniors. Your role—your place in this army—will depend on the weapon that chooses you."
He let the silence hang. "Examination begins at dawn."
The words fell heavy, sinking into every chest like lead.
To most, it was a test of skill.
To William—it was a challenge.
A call.
A gauntlet thrown at his feet.
Tomorrow would decide not just how he fought, but how he would one day settle his score.
The night passed in restless silence.
Before the first light of dawn, William sat awake on his cot, his sword resting across his knees. Around him, the others slept fitfully, their dreams thick with fear and ambition. But his mind was elsewhere—wandering through memories he couldn't quite reach.
The whisper of steel against his palms felt… familiar. Almost comforting.
Like a voice he once knew, calling from somewhere beyond the dark.
By morning, the courtyard was alive with noise.
The clang of weapons, the bark of orders, the heavy rhythm of boots on stone—it all merged into a single heartbeat. From the balcony above, a young woman watched silently. She was William's age, draped in a pale gown that caught the wind like silk. Her eyes, though calm, carried a quiet sorrow.
She watched the recruits below not as soldiers—but as ghosts already lost to war.
Her gaze lingered on William.
The general stepped forward, his voice carrying across the yard like a drum.
"Today, you prove your worth!"
The trials began.
First came the bow. Arrows sang through the air, slicing into straw targets. Some struck true, others wobbled, some shattered. When it was William's turn, his arrows flew wide—one grazing the outer ring, another falling short. His grip was too tight, his stance too stiff.
"Next!" barked the officer.
William exhaled slowly, jaw tight. Archery wasn't his craft. Not his language.
Then came the sword.
When he stepped forward, a strange calm settled over him. His heartbeat slowed. The world around him—murmurs, clanging metal, the heat of the sun—all began to fade.
He reached for the weapon, and the moment his fingers brushed the hilt, something stirred deep within. The weight felt right. Balanced. As if it had been waiting for him all along.
He drew the blade.
Steel gleamed in the light—sharp, cold, and alive.
The general's eyes narrowed. He had seen countless soldiers hold swords before, but there was something different here. Something dangerous.
"For the sword trial," the general announced, his voice echoing through the yard,
"You will spar against the captain."
A murmur swept through the recruits.
The captain was no ordinary soldier—his name alone carried stories of countless victories.
William looked up, unflinching.
"So be it," he said quietly.
And from the balcony, the girl in the pale gown leaned forward, her breath catching in her chest.
Tomorrow, he would fight the captain.
And everyone would learn whether fate had chosen him—or whether he would force destiny to kneel.