Forty-four more days into the grueling regimen at Fort Hope, the recruits stood in the usual number order in the courtyard. The air was different now. The Recruiter had slowly faded from the daily routine, replaced entirely by the three specialized instructors: Sir Red, Sir Blue, and Ma'am White.
Sir Red had taken command of the elite track—those who had ascended to Level 9 or 10. Among them, Recruit 1 had become a legend in her own right; her learning curve was a vertical line, adapting to complex maneuvers with a terrifying, cold grace that left everyone else in the dust. Sir Blue had turned his full attention to Recruit 13, who had become the group's biggest surprise. He had surged from Level 3 to Level 7 in just over a month, a rate of growth three times faster than Henry's own history. Meanwhile, Ma'am White kept Recruit 12 on a strict, personal regimen, pushing her from Level 1 to 3.
As the sun hit its peak, Sir Red stepped forward.
"We have reached the halfway point," he announced, his eyes sweeping the line. "Conditioning ends for the Level 9s and above. You've mastered the strikes; now I will teach you how to weave them into the true Lower Regium Style. Recruit 13, you stay with Blue to finalize your foundations. Recruit 12 remains with White. That all. You have the rest of the day off. Stay within the barracks, and stay out of the opposite gender's quarters. You don't want to know the punishment for that. Dismissed."
The group huddled together as the knights departed. The shared misery of the last month had forged a bond between most of them except for recruit 1, who remained a mystery.
"Let's do a relay race!" one recruit suggested.
"Hell no! We're off! Why would we want to move?" the group collectively groaned.
"How about we just... talk?" recruit 12 suggested, her eyes sparkling with a warmth that made the harsh barracks feel a little more like home. "Let's actually get to know the people we're sweating with."
Recruit 13 agreed instantly while Recruit 7 scoffed at the idea beginning to walk away from the group until he heard Henry agree.
He immediately pivoted. "I changed my mind. Team building is... vital," he muttered, trying to look dignified as he walked back to the group. Recruit 4 decided to join them as well and so they walked over to the bleachers on the left of the training pad.
"Let's play two truths and a Lie," Recruit 12 proposed. "Losers do 200 pushups. If we all guess correctly, the liar does 200."
"Who wants to go first?"
Before Henry or the others could even draw a breath to respond, Recruit 13 quickly got up from his seat. "I'll go! I'll do it," he blurted out eagerly.
"I'm sixteen, I love chocolate cake, and my favorite season is winter."
Henry, watching 13's expressive face, didn't hesitate. "Winter is the lie."
"You're right, Fourteen. Winter is a lie. I hate the cold," Recruit 13 admitted, his face falling as he dropped to the dusty ground to begin his 200 pushups.
"Boring! Too easy!" Recruit 12 teased, though her eyes were kind.
"My bad," 13 grunted between reps, his arms already shaking from the morning's training. "I've never played games like this before. Where I'm from, we didn't exactly have time for fun."
"It's fine, just try to make it spicier next time," she encouraged, though 13 looked more confused than ever. "Spicy? Got it..." he muttered into the stone, clearly lost on the concept.
Recruit 7, sensing a chance to reclaim the spotlight from Henry, crossed his arms and let out a loud, mocking snort. "I knew it was winter. My extensive analysis of his facial twitches and psychological profile made it obvious."
"Extensive analysis?" Recruit 4 laughed, leaning back on the bleachers. "And what analysis would that be, Seven? You looked just as stumped as the rest of us until he snapped his head toward Fourteen."
The group fell silent, all eyes landing on Recruit 7, waiting for the inevitable nonsense. He fumbled, his face reddening to match his shirt. "Well... obviously, he looks young enough to be sixteen, and being a kid, he has to like sweets, so the cake was true, and..." He paused, his brain spinning its wheels. "Why the fuck am I explaining my expert analysis to you guys for free, anyway?"
He suddenly shifted his gaze to Recruit 4, a greedy glint in his eyes. "If you want the rest of my secrets, you'll have to take over my cleaning duties for the week. And you," he pointed at 12, "you can pay me ten coppers when we graduate. How about that? A fair price for brilliance."
The training pad rang with Recruit 12's sudden, genuine laughter. "Ten coppers? That's enough to buy a week's worth of milk! Why don't you just rob me in an alley instead? It'd be more honest."
The joke landed, but for Henry, the words hit differently. He looked at her—really looked at her. He remembered the tattered rags she had worn on that first day outside the Sinclair gates, the way her bones had been just a little too prominent beneath her skin. To a Sinclair, ten coppers was the loose change forgotten in a coat pocket. To her, it was a week of sustenance.
Looking around the circle, Henry's gaze moved from the fake master analyst Recruit 7 to the honest Recruit 4. It dawned on him that, besides himself and perhaps the silent Recruit 1, everyone here had been running away from hunger just as much as they were running toward a career.
"Well, Thirteen," Recruit 12 shouted over her own laughter, "get to it! Those 200 pushups won't push themselves. I want to see chest to floor!"
"Alright, my turn," Recruit 12 said, her focus coming back to the game. "I have a photographic memory, I was born right outside Sinclair Castle, and I've met someone I like a lot recently."
THUD.
Recruit 13 face-planted into the ground, his heart hammering so loudly Henry thought it might burst through his ribs. His face was a mask of pure shock at her words.
"You okay, Thirteen?" Recruit 7 said. "200 pushups shouldn't break a Level 7!"
13 scrambled up, his ears burning red. "Shut up! Just... keep playing."
The atmosphere on the bleachers turned electric as Recruit 12 dropped her three statements.
"Naïve," Recruit 4 muttered, shaking his head. "There's no way you met someone you like. We've been trapped in this fort for weeks, covered in dirt and sweat. No one's exactly at their most romantic."
Recruit 7 leaned in, his eyes narrowing. "Forget that. I think the lie is being born right outside Sinclair Castle. I've been to the castle walls they'res nowhere to give birth and patrols that guard the perimeter."
Henry nodded in agreement. While the idea of a photographic memory sounded like a stretch for someone with her upbringing, his knowledge of his own home was absolute. There was simply no place for a civilian to be born "right outside" the castle gates. "I'm with Seven," Henry said. "The location is the lie."
Recruit 13, finished his 200th pushup, climbed back onto the bleachers and wiped his brow. "Me too," he said. "Castle birth is definitely a lie."
A triumphant grin spread across Recruit 12's face. She clapped her hands together, the sound sharp in the quiet courtyard. "Oof! That was a close one! I almost had to do pushups!"
The group went still.
"Wait," Recruit 4 said, his eyes widening. "So the castle birth was... true?"
"Born in the back of a merchant wagon right at a checkpoint," she laughed. "And the memory? I can tell you every crack in the women's barracks ceiling if you want."
The realization hit the group like a physical weight. If the castle birth was a lie and the memory was true, then the third statement, the spicy one was also a truth.
"So you really do like someone here?" Recruit 4 asked, his voice full of genuine, bewildered curiosity. "Who is it?"
Recruit 12 just laughed, a playful, guarded sound as she stood up and stretched. "Wouldn't you like to know? Too bad you have some pushups to do. Get down!"
As Recruit 4 and the others began their penalty, Henry glanced at Recruit 13. He looked devastatingly hollow. The revelation hadn't surprised him, he had always noticed the way her looks at Henry always lasted longer then normal, but hearing her confirm it left a terrible taste in his mouth.
"Hey, guys," 13 said suddenly, his voice thick. "I'm... I'm not feeling so well. I think I'm going to head back and rest."
"What's wrong?" 12 asked, her voice softening with genuine concern.
"Just a headache," he lied, refusing to meet her eyes. "The sun, probably."
"Feel better," she said warmly. Henry offered a supportive "Get well soon," but 13 was already halfway across the yard, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
The mood shifted, the air growing a bit more serious as the circle grew smaller. Recruit 12 turned her bright, expectant gaze toward Henry. The playful glint was still there, but there was a new layer of curiosity in her eyes.
"Alright, Fourteen," she said, leaning back against the wooden railing. "You're the man of mystery. Let's hear yours."
Henry tried to buy time, his mind racing for something—anything, but his brain couldn't help draw blank.
"Let 7 go," henry muttered, but Recruit 7 was already jumping in, desperate to reclaim the ego he'd lost to the heavy sword weeks ago.
"I got it!" Seven barked. "My favorite color is blue, I love mountains, and my father was in the King's Army."
Recruit 12 rolled her eyes. "Those are even worse than Thirteen's! I bet your dad wasn't in the army; you're too much of a loudmouth."
Henry looked at the horizon—the jagged, cold peaks that had defined his entire life. He saw the way Seven looked at them: with a faint, unconscious shiver of resentment. "I don't think you like the mountains," Henry said.
"How the hell did you guess that, Fourteen?" Seven snapped, his face reddening.
Henry just shrugged. "Lucky guess."
"Alright, who's next?" Recruit 12 asked, her eyes darting between the remaining boys.
Recruit 4 held up his hands, laughing. "I'm tapped out. I can't think of a single lie to tell. Fourteen, you're up."
Henry felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He wasn't used to this—this casual vulnerability. "I don't have anything either," he muttered, hoping they'd move on.
"Oh, come on," 12 nudged him, her smile challenging him. "You've been the quietest one here for over a month. Give us something. Think."
Henry went still, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He wanted to be a part of the group, to bridge the gap he'd felt since the first day. He took a breath and let the words out, though they felt heavy on his tongue.
"I have C-rank aptitude. I've been training since I was twelve... and, my father's name is Arnold Sinclair."
The second the name left his lips, he realized the magnitude of his mistake. In this region, there was only one Arnold Sinclair. He had just handed them his bloodline on a silver platter.
Recruit 7 broke the tension with a loud, abrasive bark of laughter. "You suck at this! If your dad is the Baron, then I'm the crown prince! What a pathetic lie, Fourteen!"
But Recruit 12 didn't laugh. She leaned forward, her sharp, photographic gaze tracing the lines of Henry's face as if seeing him for the first time. "The lie is that you've been training since you were twelve," she said softly.
Recruit 4 nodded, his expression remarkably calm. "I agree with her. You would definitely be at least F rank with how hard you work with 8 years of training. You've got the hunger of someone who started late."
Henry blinked, a wave of shock and relief washing over him. He had expected gasps, awe, or even immediate resentment. Instead, they had focused on his effort. "You're right," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I started at sixteen."
Recruit 7's laughter died, replaced by a look of bug-eyed disbelief. "Wait... no way. You're serious? You're actually a noble?" He searched Henry's face for a long, tense moment. "Which one are you? The heir or the young master?"
Henry remained silent, his gaze returning to the horizon. The lack of an answer clearly agitated Seven, who stood up with a huff. "Whatever! It doesn't matter whose son you are here. In the King's Army, we're all just numbers in a red shirt. I don't care."
Seven stomped off, his pride clearly wounded by the revelation. Shortly after, Recruit 4 stood up, offering a tired but friendly wave. "I'm going to go find some quiet before curfew. Good luck, you two."
The bleachers creaked as he left, leaving only a lingering stillness.
And then, there were two.