The outer barracks reeked of sweat - mixed with grease, damp rock underneath.
Aiden paused at the bottom of the broad stairs, Rowan just a bit back, letting the view settle into his lifeless senses. Up ahead, the structure climbed three floors, marked from time spent training and bar fights. People in uniforms moved through the front entrance - some joking around, others swearing under their breath, a few so worn out they didn't even notice anything anymore.
Back then, this place felt like where I belonged.
Now this place belonged to them - hostile, watchful, dangerous.
"Big house," Rowan muttered. "For people who like yelling."
"They like order," Aiden said. "Yelling is just how they decorate it."
He adjusted his armor to show off the lion emblem up front, while the fake documents stayed tucked near his heart. As he moved ahead, the city's chaos melted away - now all he heard was the thud of military steps and sharp orders echoing through the courtyard.
Recruits tripped along practice rows as an old-sergeant blasted them nonstop. Some seasoned guys stood by pillars, murmuring bets on who'd drop earliest. A wagon stacked with lances clattered across dirt, its rider cursing each person near him.
No one paid attention to another guy in armor.
Good.
Aiden walked across the yard, then stepped up onto the porch, shoving the barracks door open and entering the main room. The stone walls soaked up the noise from outside, replacing it with something else entirely - boots hitting floorboards, loud talk, metal banging around somewhere farther in.
A desk sat shoved to the left - behind it, some skinny guy with little hair curled over a notebook like it held his last breath. Stains of ink coated his fingertips. He kept glued to the paper while barking, "Come here to moan about food? Pick a wall and fight it alone."
"I'm not here to complain," Aiden said. "I'm here to be put to work."
This got him a blank stare. The clerk's eyes moved slowly across Aiden's gear, spotted the emblem, then jumped to Rowan. "You lot are here for labor," he told them. "What's your name?"
Aiden dropped the crumpled sheets on the table. "That's Elias Grant - office grunt job, straight from Captain Holt."
The clerk flinched slightly when he heard Holt. As he opened the scroll, his mouth quietly followed the words while his fingertips ran along the crimson wax. That lion symbol shone back - solid proof that made his nerves settle.
Rowan moved closer to Aiden. Inside the bag, the kitten made a small squeaky sound, like it was annoyed.
The clerk grunted. "Always sending more bodies, never more ink," he muttered. "Fine. We'll find a corner to stuff you in."
His quill scratched a quick note into the ledger. He shoved the papers back. "Second floor, east corridor. Records room. Report to Sergeant Varro. If he throws a book at you, you're in the right place."
"And the boy?" Aiden asked.
"What boy?"
Aiden tilted his head toward Rowan. "Labor recruit. Sent to be assigned where needed. Put him on record."
The clerk let out a sigh, as if it drained every bit of energy he had. "What's your name?"
"Rowan," he said, speaking up. From a place called Westvale
The clerk wrote it without looking at him. "Stables, outer yard. Report to the first man who shouts at you. Next!"
They moved back from the table. Rowan exhaled - finally letting go of air stuck in his lungs. "Figured he'd spot it all right off."
"He doesn't see people," Aiden said. "He sees whether they mean more writing."
They got to the steps. From up top came sound - boots moving, people laughing, then a deep bang like something thick smacking plaster.
Rowan hesitated. "So this is where we…?"
"For now," Aiden said. "Stables hear everything officers don't want to hear themselves. Keep your ears open and your head low."
Rowan gave a nod, his gaze steady. What about you? he asked
"I start being Elias."
Rowan stared at him - just a second - like he was trying to remember every detail. "Just because you've got a new title, don't lose yourself."
"That one is hard to lose."
They went separate ways by the stairs - Rowan ducking through a side exit, while Aiden headed upstairs into the frame of the barracks.
The second floor stretched out - a cold stone path, light slicing through thin windows while torches coughed along the walls. On each side, doors stood spaced apart: some cracked open showing stacked cots, weapon racks, or a dining room where tables bore cuts from blades and restless minds.
Over by the back, a door was left partly open. Above it, a broken sign said: FILES.
Aiden rapped on the door, then moved into the room.
The room swirled with loose papers. Shelves bent under old scrolls while notebooks teetered in wobbly heaps; specks of dust drifted slow in the dim glow. Right in the middle slumped a thick-built guy - bald, scar slicing over his nose - staring hard at a page like it said something rude about his family.
Without looking up, he growled, "If you lost another requisition form, I swear I'll staple your fingers to the—"
"I'm not here to lose anything," Aiden said. "I'm here to be lost in this mess."
The man looked up. His gaze moved across Aiden, glanced at the emblem, flicked through the documents, finally locking onto his face. "So, you're the latest one hired?"
"Elias Grant," Aiden muttered, handing over the slip.
The sergeant took it, skimmed, snorted, and dropped it onto a pile that might never be seen again. "Varro. You answer to me. You don't touch anything I don't tell you to. You don't file anything I don't tell you to. And if you mix up unit rosters, I will throw you out a window and make you write the report about it on the way down. Clear?"
"Clear."
Varro jerked his chin toward a cluttered corner. "Empty stool. Stack of patrol reports. Some genius spilled ale all over them. Copy them onto clean sheets. If I can smell drink on the paper, I'll use you to wipe it."
Aiden moved across the room, then dropped onto the seat. Under his weight, the stool groaned softly. Reaching out, he grabbed the first file on the stack. One edge was smeared where ink ran through paper - yet both names and paths stayed clear enough to read.
His fingers got the hang of the pen quick. Words came out clean, steady. Ranks. Hours. Shift changes at the gates. Guards moving across town, kind of like blood lines.
Information.
Voices floated down the hall - guys strolling by the doorway, chatting without care.
"…Holt wants the readiness numbers again…"
"…he's hunting for something. Or someone…"
"…you hear the priests still won't open that coffin…?"
Aiden's pen stopped - just for a sec - before moving again.
Inside his head, another quiet force woke up.
[Identity: Elias Grant accepted.]
From inside files, also the outside guard area
[New Goal: Watch what Captain Holt does. See how he affects things. Figure out how dangerous he is.]
Varro snapped the book closed - dust flared up. "Fool."
Aiden looked up. "What's wrong?"
"Same one as yesterday," Varro said. "Captain wants another summary on unit readiness by sundown. As if numbers make lads stop dropping their spears."
"Sometimes numbers make captains stop shouting," Aiden said.
Varro snorted. "You haven't met Holt. He shouts even when the numbers look good."
"I can draft the summary," Aiden said. "You approve it. Saves you time."
Varro stared, as if someone handed out free beer. Doubt faded - too tired to care. "Can you even write proper?"
"I write like someone who doesn't enjoy being dragged into his office," Aiden said.
A corner of Varro's mouth twitched. "Good enough. You do the ink work. I'll do the suffering."
Aiden leaned into the paperwork again. Outwardly, he looked like any worn-out office worker, fingers stiff from endless forms. Inside, though, his mind tracked the base's rhythm - timing gate switches, noting patrol departures, spotting shifts in hallway crowds.
The corpse came stumbling into the pack's hideout, dragging a fur across his frame.
Soon he'd get near Holt - along with the others in charge - and take that initial snap.