The Vanguard barracks felt closed in and heavy, the air stale and pressed down, as if the presence of death lingered above it, unspoken but understood.
Kael had passed other camps on the way here—loud with argument, laughter, men full of noise and movement. Here, there was almost no talk at all. Only the sound of boots on the floor, and the occasional, low exchange that never lasted long.
Kael stood in the doorway, holding the bundle of "gear" the Sergeant had just shoved into his chest.
Inside, the room was dimly lit by tallow candles. It was crowded. But it wasn't the number of men that filled the space—it was the size of them.
Not all of them had been sent here in chains. Some had come on their own. The Vanguard drew men who were out of chances, men who chose the front line because it was the only place left where a life could still be won.
When Kael walked in, the noise stopped.
Twenty pairs of eyes turned to him. They looked him up and down—at his thin wrists, his servant's tunic, his slight frame that looked like a strong wind could snap it.
A heavy snort broke the silence.
"You've got to be joking," a voice grumbled from the corner. A man with a nose broken so many times it lay flat against his face spat on the floor. "They're sending us children now?"
"He's dead weight," another muttered, turning back to his dice. "He'll trip and put a spear through my back before we even reach the wall."
The Sergeant ignored them. He pointed to an empty bunk near the drafty door—the worst spot in the room.
"That's yours," the Sergeant said. "Now listen up. Two rules in the Vanguard."
He held up a thick finger.
"One: No infighting. You want to kill something? Wait for the enemy. You touch a blade to a brother inside these walls, I'll hang you myself."
He held up a second finger.
"Two: Eat."
He gestured toward the far end of the barracks. "The Vanguard mess hall is through there. Take as much as you want. Waste nothing."
"Meat's unlimited. Ale's unlimited. Fill your bellies." The sergeant clapped Kael on the shoulder. "I've got a good feeling about you, lad."
"Get settled, lad. Don't worry about the fit. The previous owner doesn't need it anymore."
The sergeant turned to leave, then paused. "Stay alive." He gave Kael a brief look. "I wagered five coppers you make it past the first charge."
He went out, and the heavy door boomed shut behind him.
Kael looked at his gear. Garbage.
The gambeson was dark with old blood around the neck and reeked of rot. The chainmail coif had rusted stiff. The spear, at least, was serviceable. Kael inspected it—the shaft cracked but tightly bound with twine, the head pitted with rust, yet straight enough to hold.
It was gear recovered from the battlefield, taken from the dead and handed to whoever came next.
"Hey, Runt," the flat-nosed man called out. "Do us a favor. When the fighting starts, just lie down and die quietly. Don't get in the way of the men."
Laughter moved through the room—short, rough bursts. To them, Kael was dead weight. Someone who would slow the line, break early, and get others killed.
Kael moved past them without a word. He went to his bunk, dropped the rusted armor onto the straw, and set the broken spear against the wall.
Then he headed for the mess hall.
Hunger hit him hard. Under the pull of Aether, it went beyond anything he had known before. He felt as if he could eat an entire ox and still keep going.
He sat down at the end of the bench. Before him, the table was crowded with food—beef, mutton, pork, chicken, bowls of beans, piles of potatoes. There was even cheese.
He grabbed a leg of roasted mutton, greasy and heavy, as big as his face.
Kael took a bite. He tore a massive chunk of meat from the bone, swallowed it almost whole, and went back for another at once.
He ate without pause, hands moving, jaw working, meat disappearing from the bone.
The mutton leg vanished in under a minute. Kael tossed the bone aside and grabbed a whole roasted chicken. Bones crunched between his teeth. He ate the skin, the meat, the cartilage.
He reached for a loaf of hard bread, tore it in half, and shoved it down to soak up the grease.
Then he grabbed a slab of beef brisket.
Others in the mess hall watched. At first, there was amusement. Then confusion. Finally, surprise.
"By the gods," someone muttered. "How does he even fit all that inside him?"
"Maybe he's a starving ghost in disguise," another voice answered.
Pile after pile of food disappeared into Kael.
By the time he finished the brisket, he had consumed enough food to feed three grown men. The pile of clean bones next to his plate grew higher.
He grabbed a pitcher of water and drained it in one long pull. Kael wiped the grease from his mouth with the back of his hand.
A stronger warmth spread through him, deeper than what Aether alone had given before. He paused, considering it. Perhaps Aether needed food to fully take hold.
He finally stopped.
He raised his head. The mess hall was silent.
He raised his head. The noise in the mess hall had died down. Several men were staring at him, forks hovering halfway to their mouths, looking at the mountain of bones and then at Kael's flat, unbloated stomach.
Where did it go?
Kael left the mess hall and returned to the Vanguard barracks.
He would need to be ready. Fully ready.
Staying alive was only the beginning. On the battlefield, he would kill as many as he could.