When Silver Burned: Chapter 23-28 (ACT TWO) (Patreon)

ACT II.

SOLDIER

"A good man, you ask? It's hard to say. Hard to fill a glass of water with sugar on one side, salt on the other, and cast judgment when you knock back your drink.

"A man is a man, and he was the most peculiar of all I've fought beside. Maybe that's the salient bit. Not to be remembered as good, or to be remembered as bad; just being remembered is a cliff rocky enough to scale.

"What matters… is that he was one of us."

- The late recountings of Noémi Slipfall

23 - Dead Men

The very first thing Kalsin found out as an aspiring soldier of the Ember Republic is that barracks, in fact, do smell considerably worse than prisons.

Drab both from the outside and the inside, the building was no more than a couple dozen bunks shuffled together in orderly lines with little space left between them. Only a few people loitered around the crammed space, but nearly half of the bunks had already been claimed, made obvious by the ruffled sheets and trinkets left on bedside tables. Kalsin quickly settled in under the watchful gaze of the man who'd escorted him, and in minutes the same man was leading him further into the military complex.

"Training had already begun," the man explained. "Observe your mates, follow orders and you should be just fine. This here is a new batch of recruits—that includes you—and you'll have two weeks of rigorous drills before you're sent east."

"Is that nearly enough time to learn much of anything?"

The man didn’t pause in his marching, just shrugged and continued. "Reckon not, but learning isn't the expectation for now. Least, not under Brownweather, and that's a fact. The norm would be a whole month of whipping you in shape, but you're a late entry and the supply of men must arrive on time. Tough luck on your part."

As they turned a corner, the building ended in a large stone arch leading to a wide yard with trampled grass that might've been green once. It was occupied by roughly twenty men and women facing each other in pairs, going through a basic sword form of one-two-three-four pattern, filling the air with clanks of wood. The movements were at ease, though somewhat clumsy for those obviously less familiar with the weapon. It was early in the day, and Kalsin figured this was as good a warmup as any.

The man overlooking the yard was sitting on a knee-high stone fence, face bored as he observed the pale sky more than the recruits below it. His gray uniform was just as ruffled as his unkempt hair, but the marks at his shoulders identified him as lieutenant. Shirt untucked, there was a hole just above his waist on the side, baring his scar. Though such a display wasn't strictly required in Újtavak, the gesture came as second nature for many people born elsewhere in the Republic.

When the officer noticed Kalsin standing—now alone—in the archway, he gestured for him to approach. A face worn with elapsed years, there was little sympathy and even less intrigue as he looked Kalsin up and down, unimpressed. Just as well. Kalsin hardly thought himself an inspiring sight with not one, but two scars now decorating his face.

"Grab yourself a stick and get in line," the officer said. 

Kalsin opened his mouth, but the man interrupted him. "Shut. Don't rightly care what you call yourself. In line, now."

In short order Kalsin found himself standing with the other recruits who, following the lieutenant's barked command, formed a row stretching across the length of the yard. There were some muttered words as everyone shuffled in a line resembling a drunk sailor's artistic capabilities on a swaying barge. 

Lieutenant Brownweather's worn face sharpened as he scrutinized the lot of them. He paced, pushing and pulling at the recruits with the gentleness of dried fossil until the line was more or less even. 

"Thirteen days, or just about. That's how long you're gonna be enjoying this idyllic resort you ought to recognize as the better part of civilization. What you decide to do with it, I couldn't give a rotfin about. I'll say the words I have to say, show what I have to show, but I have no further duty for this queue of the deceased-in-waiting. Understood." Brownweather said the last word as a statement rather than a question. "Now, if you feel like getting some words off your chest, go ahead."

"Dead men don't speak,” Brownweather said when the yard remained silent. “Positively right, they don't. And don't mistake it either. You're all dead until proven otherwise. I don't care to get to know you, I don't care where you come from, and I sure as fucking don't care about the vowels and consonant your parents picked to represent their ill-fated offsprings." Kalsin felt the last statement was something of a theme here.

Raking his gaze across the recruit one final time, Brownweather muttered something under his breath and retreated to his position at the wall. "Duels today," he said, crossing his legs. "You ever held a sword before, Ghosty?"

It took a moment for Kalsin to realize the lieutenant was talking to him. The obvious mockery at the unusual color of his eyes made him take an instant dislike to the officer. But Kalsin only nodded, deciding after all the theatrics, it wasn't worth the risk badmouthing the fella.

"We'll see soon enough. Crawl, why don't you give it a twirl? Come on up. And the rest, give'em space."

Kalsin tested the weight of the wooden sword in his grip as the recruits cleared out a large circle around him, except for the one who reluctantly moved to stand opposite. He was a man not much older than himself, more lean than muscled and sporting a mop of reddish hair. Kalsin couldn't see his scar at first, but then he spotted the black mark at the base of his left ear.

"Remember, no surge," Brownweather said. "Nature-given gift is one thing, while learned skill another entirely. If you live long enough to master the latter—which, you won’t—only then will I allow power usage during training. That clear?"

Kalsin nodded, watching Crawl do the same. He assessed the recruit's posture, the way he held his weapon, the arrangement of his feet, and came to the conclusion that he wouldn't have much trouble beating him. Crawl must've suspected the same thing based on the trepidation in his eyes. But when the command to begin sounded, he was the one to launch the attack.

Kalsin easily parried the first few swings that came in a predictable pattern nearly identical to the ones practiced before, two hits aimed at the shoulder and two below the waist. He saw multiple opportunities to counter but didn't take them, only sneaking in a couple of prodding attacks of his own. Humiliating the man would've been pointless, Kalsin knew. 

So as the swings kept coming, Kalsin steadily took control of the duel and increased the pace, forcing Crawl to adjust on instinct, to strain his limits. It wasn't long until sweat poured down the recruit's face, his footwork becoming a jumbled mess and his swings losing their strength. Kalsin took no pleasure when he finally knocked the unsteady weapon from his opponent's grasp with a twirling motion. Good training for the lad.

Crawl only let his defeated expression linger for a moment before bending to retrieve his sword. Before the man could prove his determination and ask for a rematch—which Kalsin suspected he would do—Brownweather's drawl interrupted them.

"That's enough. Unless your intention is to amuse the Veiled to death with your incompetence, Crawl, I'd take these sessions a bit more seriously. Piss off, will you."

The next challenger was a young woman called Ringtail, though Kalsin had no clue where the lieutenant's inspiration for the nickname had come from. She was tiny enough to barely reach his chest, pale, her chin-length hair dark and windswept. More importantly, she carried herself with a seemingly reckless bearing as she stepped forward. Cuteish, but full of attitude. The way she moved reminded Kalsin more of an acrobat than of a fighter, and he knew right away that this time around he'd have to work for his victory.

Their first clash was quick and chaotic, both combatants exhibiting wildly different techniques that resulted in a jumble of glancing hits, misses, and stifled curses. When they separated to catch their breaths, a thin line of blood trickled down Kalsin's upper arm that might or might not have come from a sharp fingernail, while Ringtail had the faint line of a bruise forming at the base of her neck. 

Kalsin knew his own limits. He and Jack had matched themselves enough both against humans and mythos for him to know exactly where he stood with the sword. He was good. Decent physique, impressive sword-form and an impeccable perception to read the opponent. Had he the ability to surge, Kalsin could've been great, even. But that handicap wasn't in play, and for now, that was all that mattered.

Ringtail’s speed was disconcerting, but her unwillingness to give up a losing trade was something he could exploit. They slowly tested each other's limits for the next minute; with her initiating, and him deflecting while pushing to gain ground only to realize a second strike was already coming from a different direction, forcing him to step out of range to dodge. Until he didn't.

Bracing himself, Kalsin stepped toward the coming strike instead of avoiding it. Pain laced through him as the wood smacked into his shoulder, but his left hand found the hilt of her opponent's sword, securing it in a tugging match while his own weapon came rushing down on her dominant arm locked in place. To give her credit, she didn't pull back or relent until her nerveless fingers forced her to drop the sword, even though she had ample time to pull back and save herself a bruised limb. 

Kalsin pleasantly noted by the end of their duel that he was somewhat out of breath. He flipped his newly acquired weapon and extended it to Ringtail, hilt first. She swept the training sword out of his hand with a glare and marched back in the circle without waiting for the order. 

"You're an embarrassment, Ringtail," Brownweather said with a bored tone. "Your shield form is like a flopping fish, your halberd handling rattled at the smallest farts of the wind, and now the only skill going for you is kicked up by a double-cracked fuck."

Kalsin smiled at the lieutenant with enough venom to fill at least one bottomless fracture. Scarrd once, twice, or three times, it only impacted one's ability to surge, nothing else. To assume he'd perform worse because of his scars was, quite frankly, twelve tons of ass-backwards prejudice.

"And you, Ghosty, don't look so smug. If you'd taken a hit like that in real combat, you'd have a single appendage remaining for three tasks that are best left separated; wiping your ass, shaking hands, and stuffing your gut."

Unpleasant imagery aside, Kalsin was aware the maneuver would've been beyond idiotic against a steel sword, so he accepted the lieutenant's admonishment as his due. He rested his hands on the crossguard of his propped up wooden sword. Still. He managed to come out on top within the context of the current predetermined rules.

"Alright, we've wasted enough time. Littleguy, will you?"

Of course, Littleguy turned out to be the largest damn figure Kalsin had ever laid eyes upon. The hulking man would've been hard-pressed finding a shirt to fit his frame, so Kalsin regarded his bare—and comically muscled—chest with both admiration and sympathy. In turn, Littleguy watched Kalsin, his clean-shaved face unreadable and clear of emotion. They didn't have to wait long until Brownweather's signal to begin came in the form of an unenthusiastic grunt.

Two things happened in that instance. What those things were didn't really matter. Why? Because Kalsin didn't have time to do much of anything while they happened.

Littleguy moved with speed that Kalsin would've never found possible without surge. In the time it took for Kalsin to bring his sword to block—which rattled his arms like a hammer—his opponent's next swing was already falling toward his lower body. Kalsin tried to salvage the fight, shifting his stance sideways, turning what would've been a painful hit into a marginally less agonizing graze.

The details got somewhat lost in his mind, but roughly two and a half heartbeats later Kalsin was sprawled out on the ground with an angry red wrist, bloody lips, and a healthy dose of force-fed confusion.

He could hear Brownweather talking but he wasn't paying it much attention, instead focusing on the meaty hand extended toward him. Kalsin took a second to gather himself before letting Littleguy pull him to his feet. Kalsin wondered how to address the man still displaying a stony expression, but before he could utter a word, Littleguy simply walked back to rejoin the recruits. As the lieutenant's irritated gaze fell on him, Kalsin followed Littleguy's example and scurried back in line, giving a mental thank-you to the large man for retreating before Kalsin could break the no-speaking rule. Which was, apparently, a major crime in the eyes of their superior.

"Now that we've established our next corpse in line isn't completely hopeless with a training stick, we'll be running some speed and accuracy drills." Brownweather said. "Get in pairs, coin toss and switch. You know what to do."

Kalsin ended up with the first man he dueled, Crawl. It wasn't easy to figure out the training process without allowance to talk, but with Crawl’s helpful gestures and a lifetime spent together with Jack, Kalsin eventually figured out the coins lobbed at him weren't just for entertainment. He was supposed to hit the coins with his sword, but only using thrusts, and aiming the swordpoint to perfectly intercept the coin trajectory as they fell. One man did the tossing, the other the hitting, and after irregular periods when Brownweather finally decided to pay attention to them and bark the order, they swapped roles. 

Disregarding the lieutenant's apathy, Kalsin found he enjoyed getting lost in the exercise. In the beginning he missed more often than not, but as the minutes stretched into hours, he saw definite improvement in both his and Crawl's performance.

Some time later, as Warmlight crested and started to fall away beyond the clouds, Brownweather's 'dismissed' rang across the yard. Then he walked off without another word.

The moment the officer disappeared through the barracks, the murmur of chatting recruits started up like a forever held sigh finally being released. What once felt like a grim, deathly atmosphere quickly discharged and something almost jovial took its place. Men and women addressed those next to them as they let loose repressed comments, or shouted across the yard to get in a jab or two. As expected, most of them were on the younger side, but Kalsin could see a handful of soldiers pushing their middle years.

"Er, Ghosty?" said Crawl with a cautiously hopeful tone. He waved toward the yard's rear edge. "Our training swords go there, in the baskets below the wall racks."

Kalsin followed suit as the recruits deposited their equipment, walking with the red-haired kid. "So how much agency does the average recruit have when it comes to their own names?"

"I don't know about other officers, but Brownweather leaves little wiggle room. Unfortunately he’s the one leading our batch, so you're stuck with what you're given."

"Really. This glorified mudbooter won't let his trainees use their own names? What happens if someone does it anyway?"

"No, just go with it. Trust me. Protesting won't do good for your health."

A long line of chipped wooden shields hung on the wall above a row of halberds that had their blades covered by protective fabric. Kalsin placed his wooden sword in a half-full basket. "I'll drop the 'y' then," he said.

Crawl shrugged. "Works for me, Ghost." 

"How'd you get yours?"

Even in the aftermath of their exercise, Kalsin could see a faint flush come to Crawl's face. "It's, well. I just kind of slipped during my first introductory duel."

"Slipped?"

"And, ah, kept slipping. It was pouring rain and the ground was muddy, and my legs couldn't find purchase, and I just kept sliding on all fours trying to stand."

"Ah," Kalsin said sagely. "The good old horse cock peeping maneuver."

Kalsin spent the early afternoon accompanied by Crawl giving a rundown of the army grounds, and then he spent the late afternoon wandering on his own as he observed the people loitering about the place. Aside from their batch of almost twenty recruits, he could see nearly double that amount of trained soldiers coming and going with purposeful steps. The dining hall was a busy space that might’ve been able to accommodate their numbers on a good day, attached to a steamy kitchen manned by a handful of cooks. Not the kindly, grandmother type of cooks that sneaked a cookie into your pocket when you happened by, but stern faced crones who would probably use an unfortunate trainee's amputated limb to spice their soups.

The camp had no short supply of offices and private bedrooms used by those higher on the rank ladder, but since those were off limits for them, Kalsin didn't see much. Weapons storage was near the training yard with actual steel swords and shields, plus all the equipment required to maintain them. He figured once on the march, they'll be expected to keep their given weapons and armor in top shape; it was something that Kalsin had learned through his travels well enough.

Thinking of equipment brought his mind back to the present. Kalsin walked up to the man standing beside the storage room with a ledger under his arm. "Apologies. I was wondering where I could find my mount. Assuming you have him."

The man gave him a glance. "You a fledgling older boy?"

Kalsin arched his brows.

"New recruit, 's what I meant." The man frowned, looked through his ledger as if by habit, then stared in the distance with a suddenly clouded look. He was digging up memories with a rot's surge. A few long seconds trickled by. "That feller at the gate, 's that you?” He asked. “Right then. Your physical belongings had already been returned to you. You got a sword, that's good, won't be needing to strain army supplies on that front. One shield, one halberd, fish oil and beeswax, chainmail..." The man muttered off a string of words until he arrived at Kalsin's question, "...will be given for the duration of your service. For those fortunate enough to own a mount, whether it be horse, bahten, or kézmoon, they'll be kept with the stable master, and will remain in his care to be brought alongside the army on march."

After asking for directions to the stables, he thanked the man. But before turning to go, Kalsin said, "The medical wards. If I could visit—"

"Could not. The injured are housed off the perimeter, sorry. No allowance for recruits."

Kalsin gave a parting nod. It was worth a try. Though they hadn't spent much time together, part of him hoped Áron and Erazza would make it. 

The other part, the part that was still reeling with the revelation about being a scar-magnet… It was hoping he would never cross paths with them again. With him wearing the exact copy of Jack's scar after her miraculous healing—he couldn't even imagine how the heretics would react. 

Start up a fucking revolution? Publicly declare him some selfless savior right out of the pages of a fairy tale? Jump him in his sleep, hoping to cleanse themselves of their scars and soil him even more? No. Keeping a distance was the smart move.

Keeping a distance until he figured out what the hell he was supposed to do with this… this thing that he was now.

Jack would likely join the army’s Clenn division now that she was one of them, and march toward the eastern border when the time came, same as Cinder. Though he hadn’t seen his sister since the confrontation at the gate, he wasn't worried. Kalsin knew she'd show up eventually. 

She always did.

24 - The Company

"Hold!" wind carried Brownweather's shout across the yard.

It was the second day of Kalsin’s training, which was, according to the plump woman who'd introduced herself as Fals, the twenty-fourth day of their group as a whole. Kalsin was standing shoulder to shoulder with Crawl, Fals, and Shutter—a quiet, dark-eyed fellow—holding a shield formation mirrored by several clusters of recruits across the training field. The objective was quite straightforward; four defenders, one pusher. The four had to defend against a single man fitted in plate armor, no weapons, just a weight slamming across their shields over and over again. The issue was, the man bearing his weight against Kalsin's group happened to be Littleguy.

Clanks and thuds of steel on wood assaulted Kalsin's ears from all around as he was yet again jolted by the hulking man. His kite shield was partly layered on top of Fals' on his left, with Crawl's doing the same on the right, giving them a shared weight distribution against whatever lurked on the other side. In this case, it was a steeled up freak of human nature.

Fals swore as another hit rattled their defense. "Just me, or is he getting denser by the second?" The one good thing about shield training was the fact that Brownweather could never hope to hear them share words in this racket. Littleguy gave his answer in the form of a well placed kick, eliciting another swear from Fals. 

Crawl winced. "May I ask you two to settle this somewhere off the field?"

"Nothing to settle here, all's good in poking fun. Last I had someone trying to sweep me off my feet this hard was back in Seven Fallter's best gambling den. Got a mighty fine night outta it," Fals said. "Watch it, Ghost, your shield is slipping."

Kalsin hitched his shield back in position, sweating. There was a reason why he had a bodyguard doing this for him. A hard surface between you and the thing wanting you dead was all good and well, but Kalsin would much rather have his left unencumbered for a quick jab. Planting his feet didn't come naturally to him. "Better now?" he asked.

"Yeah. Still wouldn't want you next to me in line though, 'pologies. You understand, I'm sure. If you need private tutoring, Littleguy here would surely bash you in shape."

"Fucking hell," Kalsin said when an almost unnoticeable smile flickered across the giant's face, followed by a shoulder planted directly into Kalsin's shield.

"That it does," Fals agreed.

As far as Kalsin could tell, their training shields were bulked up to weigh nearly as much as the real thing, similar to how their wooden swords imitated steel ones. Brownweather had told them they would transition to steel soon enough, right after the recruits learned the process of sharpening, oiling and otherwise maintaining the expensive items. In this, Kalsin couldn't find fault, though it wasn't for the lack of trying. You could buy a house for the price of a half-decent sword. About the cost of shields, Kalsin had no clue. Jack would probably know.

Before his mind could drift off in the direction of his friend, his attention snapped back as Brownweather called for a break. The noise of grunts and abused equipment slowly retreated like a balm over the ears. Unfortunately, not everyone realized sounds would die down quite so quickly. 

Ringtail's laugh cut through the air in the wake of something she'd told Dweller, a tall woman in her group. The lieutenant's eyes honed in on her like a wild dog marking its prey.

He walked up to her, now the yard cloaked in silence. "Got something amusing to share, recruit?"

Ringtail knew better than to answer. She straightened her back, staring ahead.

"I asked a question."

She gave a brief headshake.

"No, of course not. Soldiering, that's a grand joke compared to rotting in prison, hm? Funny business, funny until I say otherwise. After all, it takes guts to stand up for yourself, and you're nothing more than a spineless thief quivering in fear. Isn't that right, Ringtail?"

He moved in her face, spittle flying and voice low. "Admit it. Ran from the law, ran from probably everything in your worthless life. You're only here because you were too much of a coward to bear the judgment for your crimes."

"Shut your—" Ringtail burst out, but didn't get a chance to finish as the lieutenant backhanded her. 

For a second, everything stood still save from the ringing clap of skin on skin, the cold eyes of their officer staring down the reddening recruit. With a shout of rage, Ringtail surged. Her knee flew out toward Brownweather's stomach in concert with a powerful fist like a blur, but the lieutenant sidestepped the knee and grabbed the fist in his own hand. Ringtail spun out of his grasp, raining down a barrage of hits, most of which the lieutenant blocked or evaded altogether. A few appeared to connect though, and Kalsin found himself rooting for his fellow recruit.

That was when Brownweather's surge rose. Not the surge of a dirt, but that of a hive.

Hopelessness crushed into Kalsin tenfold stronger than Littleguy's weight against his shield, carving his feelings void, emptiness calling to him in a hundred voices. His knees gave out, noting somewhere far away that he wasn't the only one toppling to the ground. Like an insidious worm, despair burrowed through his mind eradicating everything good and joyful. There was no point resisting. If a sword had been descending on him, Kalsin would have let it fall, his arm leaden and his shield only held by the straps across his arm.

And then it was over as quick as it came. The morale influencing surge receded, and the only one left standing was the man responsible for it.

Brownweather looked over the stricken recruits, finally resting his eyes on Ringtail in the dirt. "There it is. The glorious defenders of the Ember Republic. Fucking pathetic." There was a flicker of consideration in his gaze before he raised his foot and crunched down hard on Ringtail's side with his heel. She let out a scream, trying but unable to hold it back.

"Dismissed." His job considered done, Brownweather strode away.

"Shit," Littleguy said as they watched Dweller and another recruit help Ringtail stand, folk all around keeping their voices low, kept under a grim cloud. 

"Is it the first time he disciplined someone like that, or... a repeat performance?" Kalsin asked.

Fals furrowed a set of thick eyebrows. "The beatings? No, those are normal. Never saw him choke the liveliness out of us before, though. I couldn't have guessed he was a hive. And a damn strong one at that."

"All lieutenants are at least hives," Shutter spoke for the first time today, so far Kalsin could tell.

"And since we're the Scarrd Division, they're not going to get higher than that. Good riddance, too. Imagine the prick with a manifestation, slapping you with a gust of wind from across the yard," Fals said. She shivered. "No, don't do it. Imagine it, that is."

"Ringtail let him get under her skin. Can't do that," Crawl said, in the process of unstrapping the shield from his arm. When he realized his one-handed pawing was futile, he glanced at Littleguy until the man took pity on him and moved to help. He shook a red lock out of his eyes, blinking at Fals. "Say, have you been spending time with our good lieutenant recently?"

"Ha! Nice one," Fals grinned. "So anyways, how's your mother, Crawl? I'm just asking since the last time I saw her she was down on her knees licking my—"

"Fals," Littleguy said with a warning tone, voice deep, not looking up from loosening the straps. "Control yourself. At least while I'm here."

Kalsin guessed there was at least one inside joke buried somewhere along that exchange, but he didn't feel like digging into that pile right now. After getting his shield off and helping the others—he had enough practice doing the same for Jack—they started back inside. With the wind having grown stronger in the last few minutes, Kalsin was glad to be with a roof over his head.

"Brownweather’s talk about dead men, giving us false names, this outburst," Kalsin said. "Personal issues aside, does the lieutenant actually have a reason for loathing us? We haven't got a chance to prove ourselves. He doesn't seem to want us to prove ourselves."

"Have you spoken to soldiers around the camp?" Littleguy said.

"Sure."

"Regarding your question."

"I haven't, no."

"Right." He glanced at Crawl, as if he was better suited for this topic.

Crawl took the hint. "If you did ask them, they would've said... Well, first they would've offered their condolences for being put under Brownweather's command. But more importantly, they would've said; survive your first battle on the border. Once you're bloodied, and once you've bloodied the Veiled back, that's when recruit becomes soldier. Thing is, Brownweather doesn't seem to have any problems with the soldiers stationed around here, it's just us he tears into. Meaning…" He scowled at Fals, who had been whistling with increasing volume over his speech.

"Meaning, he's going to be our best buddy when we survive our first encounter with the Veiled," Kalsin summarized.

"If," Shutter said.

Kalsin ignored that. "So you're saying I have to pretend I'm an incorporeal wraith from beyond the grave for possibly the length of several months?"

Ghost wasn’t the worst of names… but he did have something of a foreboding feeling about it. Long red hair flashed in his memory and made him shiver.

Fals mock pouted. "Cry me a fracture. I'll make sure to let our fellow recruits know that it was you, in fact, who got the shorter end of the stick. Hah, as if. One of the lads Brownweather named Batshit. Another one Uggo. Poor guy so hideous even our beloved leader couldn't get past it."

"What about you, Fals? Where'd his inspiration for your name come from?"

Crawl actually groaned out loud, while Littleguy shut his eyes in resignation. As for Fals, a lopsided smirk started forming on her lips. "That's a mighty fine story if I do say so myself. It was on a rainy summer day that I fled from the righteous claw of the law, and who would've guessed that when I walked through the gates and into the training yard for the first time—"

"Fuckin' annoying little shit," Shutter said. "The lieutenant named her Fucking Annoying Little Shit. She also might've been the reason for the no-speech rule in the first place."

25 - Tough Bastards, They Say

Losing control over the direction of your life is a curious thing. It can be a frustrating experience, yet once you let go and give in, it invokes an odd sense of comfort, like warming your cold hands over the flames of a wildfire blazing through the forest. Agency over what happens next is out the window. Responsibility over your well-being, as well as the well-being of those around you rests on the shoulder of someone so high up the ladder you'll probably never meet them. It's a scary thing, especially for one so reliant on plans for the future.

The following week should've given Kalsin plenty of time to think, but between physical conditioning, integrating into a new branch of standards and training to march, fighting in formation and learning discipline, there was precious little he could discover about his curse. 

Was there a limit on how many scars he could leech from others? Were they permanent? Was there a correlation between the way scars stuck to him and his inability to surge? Worthless questions with no possible answers, and it wasn’t like he could experiment to find out. 

It was a piss-poor situation altogether that only complicated his day to day life. Mounting anxiety. Sleepless nights. And a bad case of keeping others at arm's length—even more so than usual—to avoid accidentally brushing over a stray scar.

He never asked for this, damn it. And he was terrified of what people would ask of him, if anyone knew.

Another concern on his mind was the Civil House itself. He had no idea if the monocled agent at the gate had put things together—the fact that Jack’s exact scar was claimed by him, and that she now enjoyed a life free without it. Did he manage to take a look at Kalsin’s face while he was out and inside the vision of Jack’s memory? He had no idea.

Yes, he evaded the machinations of the upper crust's secret service for the time being, but they sure as hell wouldn't be sitting around with thumbs in their Clenn asses while he went off fighting the eastern invaders. They had resources beyond Kalsin's comprehension. Perhaps enough influence to reach him in the middle of the Scarrd Division and hundreds of miles away from the archipelago's mainlands.

Kalsin hated being in the dark. He hated not having Jack and Cinder by his side to face whatever came next. With them serving in the Clenn Division, there was no way to reconnect, not yet. But there was one little spark of hope he kept alive, knowing they were both going toward the same destination. To the east. 

So, yes. Things weren't rosy. His own body was playing a cruel game on him, his friends were out of reach for the moment, and daggers were likely being sharpened against his own good self. Oh, and he might or might not have seen an actual, true-to-life, godsdamn fucking ghost in the military office.

Not rosy at all.

But on the bright side, he wasn't alone in his woes.

His mates had plenty of hardships adjusting to proper 'soldering'. Crawl was lagging behind in sword training even with both Kalsin's pointers and Littleguy's private sessions, and it took a minor miracle to get through the day without Brownweather snapping at him. Shutter, for some reason, couldn't comprehend that you were not supposed to lather the steel blade in an entire jar of dripping wax, and Kalsin promised himself he would beat some proper weapon maintenance into him before the man depleted the supplies of the entire Ember Republic. As for Fals, she treated the whole thing as a joke, some holiday resort where you could sing, loiter and just generally be a pain in the ass for all recruits involved. Actually, the singing part wasn't half bad. She used to be a bard if her word could be believed. It was strange she would swear on earth and sky about her past profession, everyone instantly dismissing it as a lie because, well, Fals being Fals, then hear an expert strum of lute as she launched into a bawdy song.

Other than Brownweather, they rarely came across another ranking officer around the camp, which meant the recruits were pretty much forced to teach one another if they found holes in their knowledge. For Kalsin, who had been a loner in school growing up, it was a pleasant surprise to see that interaction between soldiers-in-training was an entirely different beast. Though people still gravitated toward their circle of mates, there were no childish cliques or hostile gangs. Sure, disagreements were aplenty. Fights broke out, and there was a good deal of bad blood to go around. But at the end of the day everyone knew the next person lying in their bunk could be the difference between life and death tomorrow, and that belief only strengthened as the date for their inevitable mobilization drew closer. 

These things, they're not something you discuss, yet everyone's aware of the untold truth like the undeniable fact that humans cease to function without air. Kalsin would've never admitted to Ringtail—who still tried besting him in duels with a fierce hatred exclusively reserved for him—he never would've admitted that he wanted to see her improve, a small part of him feeling proud whenever she came out victorious. It happened rarely, Kalsin's body hurting all over afterwards, but he found solace in the fact that she wasn't trying to kill him for real. 

At least, he hoped she wasn't.

Since Kalsin's arrival, a little more than half a dozen new recruits joined their ranks and earned a fresh new identity from the depths of Brownweather's twisted imagination. Kalsin didn't envy them; getting sent off to war was bad enough already, but with only a few days of training under your belt? A shitty situation from all angles. Sure, each recruit technically volunteered to be here, but for many of them it was basically a choice between likely death and certain death, whether by defending the Republic or executed by a headsman's axe. As for the patriot types? Eh. In Kalsin's opinion, only the unhinged would join out of nothing but the good of their golden hearts.

One quizzical character such as that was a polearm prodigy with the fitting name Pike. At first, Kalsin thought he was some weapon expert payrolled by the army as a halberd instructor, but soon he found out the fellow who always had a helping hand ready for anyone in the vicinity was, in fact, just another recruit not unlike themselves. 

"Thrust, don't let it waver," Pike said next to Kalsin in line. "Good, now chop backwards like this." Pike demonstrated, showing the strange technique that was unique to halberds. The axe-like blade, at the base of the spear point, had an odd crescent shape designed to inflict damage when pulled back after a thrust, Pike had explained. It gave the wielder the chance to turn a defensive move into an offensive one.

Kalsin followed his example, arms grasping the pole shakily after a long hour of practice. Though the weapon felt foreign in his hands, he couldn't deny its supposed effectiveness against large, immobile targets. Or against a crowd.

"Good, now swipe back. Lively, Ghost! Mythos hide ain't gonna open itself up."

Aching and out of breath, Kalsin still couldn't hold back a snort. "Ah, yes. The army and their prowess against mythical creatures, heroically rescuing villages ravaged across the length of the Republic."

"Ouch. Touchy subject?" Pike drawled.

"Coy doesn't suit you. But anyway. Everyone knows hunting mythos requires finesse rather than brute force. Soldiers might put down a mindless beast tearing through the population, provided it's big, loud, and alerts every human soul in a hundred mile radius. No debate there. But the most dangerous creatures are the ones you don't see coming. The ones intelligent enough to lay low. These types of nightmares, they wipe out a handful of families, then scurry the moment they hear the marching steps of military boots shaking the earth. The army has no subtlety, no creative thinking. Soldiers are novice in the art of monster-killing."

Kalsin wanted to say more, but he stopped at that. There was no point letting his companions know about his past as a hunter. He didn't have a reason to keep it a secret, per say, but giving away information with no gain whatsoever was something an amateur would do.

Pike rotated a shoulder. "I wouldn't know. But seeing how you serve in the army now, I'm sure you understand if I find that take a little hysterical."

Kalsin didn't put up a debate, instead thrusting his halberd forward in the practiced motion, then pulling it down and back with protesting muscles. He sneaked a glance around the training yard. "I still think Brownweather should give you a salary, seeing how you're here doing his job while he always disappears to Gods know where."

Pike shook his head, dark skin barely sweating as he put another length of steel through an invisible opponent. "The lieutenant has enough on his plate already, and me, I can afford to take a small portion off of him." He wretched his halberd downward, cleaving the nonexistent creature in half and bringing the weapon back to ready position. "Someone has to. I swear. The whole lot of you respect him 'bout as much as an inflamed pimple, and that won't do much good in the long run. Nor for us, not for him." he said, though cushioned the edge with a sour smile.

"Maybe," Kalsin allowed. The lieutenant wasn't his favorite topic of discussion, and their impending march was weighing heavily on his mind. It was only a few days before they would be sent off toward the border. "I just hope we'll make it in one piece."

"Batshit said he had visited a fort along the Inner Line of Defense once," Crawl butted in as he moved past them toward the weapon racks, balancing a halberd in his arms. "Said the place looked cheerful enough. The ale served wasn't all that special, but the storytellers made up for it. The Clenn side had the largest surge-training ground he'd ever seen. He could hear explosions from a mile away."

"What about Scarrd establishments?" Pike asked.

Crawl shrugged, shouting over the noise of recruits stashing away their gear, training done for the day. "Didn't say. He'd been Clenn, back then." He smiled. "But we'll get to see for ourselves during the honor parade."

"The what now?" Kalsin asked.

Pike snorted. "It's customary to send recruits off with a little something as they march through the Inner Line. Drinks, celebration, rose petals, that sorta deal. Supposed to warm our innards with the last pleasant memories we’ll ever acquire, when sitting there in the Old, out in the grim vastness and waiting for the knife to fall."

"We'll be fine," Kalsin said, putting enough resolve in the words to sound genuinely reassuring. He stole a last glance at Pike's exemplary stance with the long weapon, and for the third time today, came to the conclusion the sword was more his speed. "The Old, hm? That's what they call us, the other soldiers. Older boys in training."

If Brownweather's constant bitching had any basis in reality, the recruits would not survive the bloodshed that was the daily norm in the Outer Line of Defense. As an older boy, the life of a soldier was short, brutal and isolated. The lieutenant liked to mention the dirt. Dirt that carried on the wind and across the barren land, coating the inside of your mouth when you talked, ate, drank. Dirt that slid past the folds of your uniform and filled up your boots. And the Scarrd, they were treated like dirt, used as bait to hold off the Veiled until reinforcement from the inland forts arrived. The older boys were, by all meanings of the word; expendable.

"It can't be that bad," Pike said. Maybe he was serious. Maybe he was convincing himself. Kalsin couldn't tell either way. "Older boys are the toughest bastards in the army, and respect is hard to come by for people of our social standing."

"Renown, more like," Kalsin said. No Clenn would ever respect a Scarrd. 

As was proper, he heard his mother echo. 

And he hated the fact that a part of him agreed with her.

26 - We’re of the Same Cloth

He joined the crowd of recruits dispersing after another exhausting day. Some faces were still unfamiliar to him, but he could spot a few of his acquaintances well enough. Ringtail idly twirled a long piece of dried grass as she listened to Dweller, the stoic woman easy to notice due to her height. Fals was animatedly gesturing in the company of two recruits who'd arrived the previous morning—Crux and Shoreline, he thought the lieutenant named them. Joe, an average looking middle-aged man Kalsin had only swapped a few words with, stepped sharply around Kalsin when their paths crossed. Kalsin gave him a cheerful smile. He didn't fault the man for avoiding him. He'd do the same thing if he ever happened to cross himself. 

Kalsin left the yard through the stone arch and made his way to their bunks. It's been a while since he had drawn, and the peaceful company of his pen sounded downright divine just about then. With recruits about to swarm the dining hall to catch up with their neglected stomachs demands, their sleeping quarters would be calm for the next hour or half. Or so he figured.

The first thing he heard was the rhythmic thumps growing louder as he drew near their bunks. There was a regularity to it, a wooden drumbeat accented by an idle second, followed by another beat, looping indefinitely. Though he'd been a hunter for most of his years, Kalsin had never come across any hauntings…well, except for that strange occurrence in Atlas Nevor’s office. 

He instinctively glanced behind him, then faced back toward the sound. If it ended up being the same unsettling woman without the face, then today he would see if ghosts could bleed.

When Kalsin peeked around the corner and into the barracks, the reason for the racket became evident in the form of a very flesh-and-blood man. All of a sudden, the name for one of his fellow recruits made a whole lot more sense.

Shutter sat on his bed, his hand wrapped around the handle of his nightstand's drawer as he pulled it out, waited a second in intense reverence, then slid the piece of furniture back in place. He pulled it out again, starting the process all over as if the activity was the very height of entertainment. His motions were smooth and practiced, and strangely familiar. Almost verging on intimate.

Under normal circumstances Kalsin would've cut a quick retreat. Nope, away and out of there. Strange habits and odd behavioral patterns were complications he didn't need in his life. He almost turned on his heels to let Shutter have his peace—but then thought better of it. 

Eh, why the hell not. Him and these people, they would be stuck together for the better part of an unforeseeable amount of time. Better to rip off the bandage sooner rather than later.

It spoke volumes to the strength of his trance that Shutter failed to notice the double-scarred man until Kalsin plopped down on the opposite bed, just an arm's reach away. When he did, Shutter jumped, nearly pulling the contents of his entire nightstand on the floor. 

"Whaagaahsorhmph—" 

The garbled words pouring out of the recruit might've formed something resembling speech had Kalsin not interrupted.

"Well damn. If everyone managed to find joy in things so simple, theaters would be bankrupt right now. I'm jealous."

Shutter's face was red, but at least he stopped making unintelligible sounds. Taking a long look at Kalsin—probably wondering if he was being mocked—the reclusive man slowly pushed the drawer closed. He wiped his hand in his bedsheets, then glanced at Kalsin again. "I'm not crazy," he said quietly. His tone was subdued, as if trying to make up for the noise from moments ago.

"No, you definitely are," Kalsin said.

Shutter tensed up like a cocoon, but Kalsin pressed forward before the shell could manifest. "You're crazy. A nutjob. A right and proper lunatic for sure. And like I said, I'm still jealous of you."

"That makes no sense."

"It doesn't?"

"No."

Kalsin reached out toward Shutter. The man flinched away, but the fear on his face turned to bewilderment as he watched Kalsin pull out the same drawer. Kalsin took his time, trying to dedicate all his focus on the motion, the way wood scraped against wood, the smooth contact of the polished handle pressed against his palm. He slid the drawer back in place, then pursed his lips. "Shit, just as I thought. It doesn't work for me."

At this point Shutter was past confusion. His expression was stuck between relieved and offended, as if his brain had failed the laborious job of figuring out which one was appropriate for the situation.

"Hold that thought," Kalsin said. He turned away, rummaging around his own storage space for a minute to finally emerge with his notebook in hand. He pulled out the pen attached to the back of the leather casing, opened at a seemingly random page, and started sketching. He let out a relieved sigh. "Aaah. Much better."

Long seconds passed. 

"I've never seen a pen like that," Shutter said eventually. A somewhat awkward attempt to gain back some vestige of comfort after a distressing experience. A rookie diversion, if you will. But a valiant effort for someone clearly not versed in the annoying art of small-talk, regardless.

"Hm, this pen? Crafty little design. The coal tip is coated in an, eh, unknown substance. I bought it a few years back when visiting Neardawn. To be fully honest, I couldn't tell you the technicalities. I just pop the lid off, replace the coal-rod and voila, the thing works like a whipped mule." Kalsin tilted his head to observe his drawing from a different angle, then continued. "Cost me two months' haul in coins. That's another point in your favor; your method of unwinding seems a lot cheaper on the wallet."

"It's not, I mean, I don't..." Shutter started. He took a deep breath, swiping his hands again. "I'm having some trouble here. Are you flagging me as insane or not?"

"Why does it matter if I think you're insane or not?"

"Matters because people who draw the same conclusions you just did, they tend to attach a good amount of hate with the package," Shutter said, his flat tone almost concealing his dread. Dread that could be only born from first-hand experience.

Kalsin nodded, still not looking up from his work. It was a messed up truth, but the young chap was right. Normal people—normal being a relative term—would either distance themselves from people with irregular patterns of behavior, or they would target them with harassment, verbal, physical, or both. Sometimes it might even be warranted. In Shutter's case though, well, opening and closing objects was hardly harmful for anyone, save for some wooden furnishing. He was a harmless category of crazy that Kalsin was all too familiar with.

"Alright, enough of that. As much as I enjoy teasing the clueless; no, I don't think less of you now than I did an hour ago."

"That's a nice way to say you thought little of me beforehand."

"Aaaahnd that's not what I said, but anyway, shit, let me get to the point. I'm trying to be sincere here." Kalsin paused, made a final stroke, then directed his full attention toward the man sitting in front of him. "Okay. You shut things. You get a rush out of it. For horsenut’s sake, so what? I mean really, who the hell should give a fuck? Emphasis on 'should'. Sure, had it been someone other than me finding you today, it might've been the start of an ugly string of unjustified hatred. But I'm letting you know that's not the case. I try not to hold grudges against people who are different from me. If I did, I couldn't take a step outside without risking a brawl."

"Oh," Shutter said. Though his feathers still seemed ruffled, he was starting to calm down. "Well. Right then." Another awkward silence followed. "So uh, you're any good with that pen?"

Kalsin didn't reply. Instead he turned the notebook toward Shutter, showing him the page he'd been working on.

"It's... just random lines?" Shutter observed with a frown of surprise.

"See? My motions aren't all that different from your own." 

His 'drawing' was, indeed, a jumbled mess of criss-crossing lines. Sure, he could've drawn a lifelike sketch of Shutter's priceless expression, but that wasn't the point he was trying to make right now. He didn't want to flaunt his skill. He only wanted to show that useless habits could always be useful to the right person. If for nothing else, then for peace of mind.

It spoke to Shutter's intelligence that he understood without having to spell it out. Kalsin wouldn't give him a hard time for his antics, having gone as far as to show a slice of kinship.

"Good," Shutter said. "We're okay then?"

"Don't get cozy now. Just because I'm not one to discriminate doesn't mean I don't think you're weird as shit," Kalsin smiled.

From this day onward, though Shutter still retained his quiet demeanor, he was visibly more at ease in this new environment. Maybe Kalsin's act of solidarity was only for show, a fabrication. Maybe it was a genuine attempt to reach out to a kindred soul. 

His memory of one small bedside conversation would eventually fade as time pressed on, unable to ever recall the words he'd extended. 

But perhaps it doesn't matter. It was something.

27 - Onwards Toward Destiny

The day of the march had finally arrived.

There was an unusual sense of urgency amidst the recruits as they went to devour their early breakfast. Words were dull if spoken, and Kalsin made it a guessing game to see who would be the next person to break the monotony of clinking cutlery amidst the tightly packed dining hall. He wasn't typically a morning person, but this morning was far from typical.

Kalsin raised another mouthful of badly cooked beef as he observed the others. Crawl, sitting on his left, poked at the meat with a faraway look that could've easily been mistaken for a halfway state out of sleep. That wasn't it though, since Kalsin knew his food rarely went uneaten in the mornings.

Littleguy caught Crawl's eyes as he leaned in from Kalsin's left, receiving a small shake of head when he pointed at Crawl’s plate. Kalsin pushed back in his seat to avoid the large hand questing for fresh food, scooping up Crawl's plate to set it before himself. At least Littleguy retained his usual appetite.

"Twenty-three days," Uggo said from across the table. Other than Kalsin, he was the only person in their company with a scar on his face. A large-ass scar that started at his forehead, stretching down along his nose and curling over to the other end of his mouth like a fish hook. The black line pulled on his muscles into a lopsided sneer whenever he spoke.

"Twenty-six days over here," Dweller muttered from two seats down the row. "But I doubt even another month of training would make a real difference."

"Please. Fresh air, open skies, and the eventual whiff of Veiled corpses decomposing after a good night's work. What's not to love?" Ringtail said with an oddly upbeat tone, almost knocking over a water jug as she lightly bumped Dweller with one shoulder.

Kalsin wondered if she really meant that. Though most had committed crimes to get here, there was a long gap between minor infractions such as thievery, and acts like murder. Even if said murder was necessary to defend one's homeland. Part of him wanted to ask, but he and Ringtail were uneasy acquaintances at best. She'd never give a straight answer.

Instead, he simply said, "It'll take a while until we reach the border, so. I'm sure we'll get our fair share of training in the meantime."

"Tell that to my feet," Crawl said. "Gods, I can already feel their protests and we haven't even started out."

Littleguy didn't look up from his feast. "Putting those legs to work, there's no better way to build endurance. Gotta harden up, Crawl. Been telling you."

"I know you have. And I will, but it's the principle of it, you see. Sometimes, you just need to sit down in peace and get all the bitching out of your system, lay it all out before you're neck deep in shit."

"Truth," Kalsin said around a half-chewed piece of bread, going along with a general murmur of agreement around the table.

"Rum? Anyone's got rum left?" Youthere's voice rose, followed by a hurled bottle meeting a tragic end against a wall suspiciously close to his head. Apparently, that was a negative.

Other than a few disappointed glares, nobody paid much attention to the unfolding argument between Batshit and Youthere, whose daily verbal clashes could almost be considered tradition at this point.

"Mhm, Ghost," Crawl said with visible effort to shake off the last dredges of sleep. "I saw your bed empty at dawn, and thought, righto, that's a first. Made me wonder where our resident creature of the night slipped off to."

"Maybe he found another bed to haunt?" Littleguy said with a wooden expression, wagging his brows at Ringtail. She gave him a middle finger.

"You remember the people I came to join up with?" Kalsin asked. He'd painted them a rough picture about how he ended up joining the army—leaving out names and replacing his crimes with a severe case of tax evasion instead of the whole Civil House tomfuckery. And he never mentioned Jack and her cleansing, of course. That was a pile of bones he had enough issues dealing with in his own head. But he did tell them about his injured traveling companions. "I wanted to try and check on them one last time."

A sympathetic expression surfaced on Crawl's face. "Let me guess. Request denied?"

Kalsin nodded. "But one of the guys watching the gate was nice enough to run over to the medical ward. He returned awful quick. Said neither of them were in good enough condition to make it through a single day of training, let alone march."

He wasn't lying, but he wasn't telling the whole truth either. The guard told him Erazza still hadn't woken, the doctors uncertain about her condition. Áron was healing up nicely, but that was about it. The azTél brother would be bedridden for at least another two weeks. Which meant that, save from Cinder and Jack somewhere in the midst of the Clenn ranks, Kalsin was being whisked away toward the eastern border on his own.

"My cousin tried dodging a boar hunt, once,” Dweller said. “He was a peaceful sort, never touched a bow, but his name was pulled from the hat and so he had to go along. You know what he did? He put a hammer to his finger." She shook her head. "Everyone thought him a moron, at first—him included. Coward of the village. Then the hunting party returned with two people mauled to death by game they failed to catch. And then? Nobody was laughing then. Who knows. He could’ve been one of those folk. A broken finger might've saved his life."

"Good for him. Here though, circumstances are a little different here," Crawl said. "Ghost's friends are in the army now. Medics are gonna do their best to patch them up, then bam, send their asses right into the fray. If they’re not coming with our batch of recruits, then they're going along with the next one."

Kalsin figured the same, though he hoped the azTél siblings would take their sweet time recovering. No offense to them, but confronting prime fanatics of this seb hordozó thing, well, that was a bridge better left uncrossed.

By the time they finished up, Lieutenant Brownweather was waiting for them just outside the barracks with several gray uniformed men in his company, including the stablemaster, a stout man Kalsin had only seen a handful of times when visiting Sap. The horses had been herded together with large packs tied to their backs. The recruits had been warned the journey would be spent on foot. For one, only about half the men owned a mount. For two, unless the recruits wanted to haul a pile of dead weight that was their armor, halberds and shields all the way to the east, they had to make peace with small sacrifices, such as the luxuries of horseback. 

Understandable, that. At least for someone as versed in traveling as Kalsin. With his pack hoisted over his shoulder and sword sheathed in his underarm sling, adding a five foot long metal pole on top would’ve proven problematic.

The recruits' gray attire was a simplified variant of the Wounded Division's outfits, missing the black accents around the neck and at the sleeves. It was their first time wearing the uniforms, the clear distinction between soldiers and soldiers-to-be made all the more pronounced by the entourage waiting for them. They fell in the practiced line in front of the lieutenant.

"This year, Lostpoint Station is sending you off as the second group of miscreants unfortunate enough to lend aid to our Republic," he said, tone just a hair more lively than usual. Didn't bring much color to his dead voice. But at least Kalsin had the pleasure to discover what it felt to be promoted from manure on the roadside, to puke stain in a fancy ballroom. "Had you gotten Lieutenant Lemming or Cogmann, you'd be listening to a different sort of speech right now. Instead, you got me. Fucked lucked, you lot are."

He said something to the stablemaster, dismissing him from his side, then turned back to pace down the line of recruits. "See these four-legged mules behind me? You owned them before you joined up, now I own you, which means I now own whatever the hell you owned beforehand. I can aaalready hear it. 'But sir, it cost me two halves of my family home and my auntie's overgrown spine to buy a horse!'" He stopped, leaning into Joe's face. "Too. Bad. The holiday resort spots are rented out to the most valuable assets present, and since every last one of you is a worthless sack of rancid sock, it's gonna be foodstuffs, tents, and heavy weaponry taking the saddle."

To Joe's credit, he didn't as much as flinch in the face of the spittle storm. Brownweather stepped back and continued. "Now, that might sound unnecessarily harsh, so let me share a snippet of good news, then. I'm not a discriminatory man. Nobody," he said, eyes sweeping over Littleguy, "will get special treatment. Everyone has a pair of army-grade boots, well, you'll get to use them over the coming weeks. Everyone's got a sword and shield to their name, you'll continue that monkey parade you call training every time we stop and rest, and before we break camp. If you're a big boy with the sword and figure there's nothing else anyone could teach you, you'll be pushed double at the halberd. Mastered hiding behind your shield, I'll smack you to train without one. Think you're good at something, good fucking job, it's still nothing I haven't seen a Veiled extinguish in a second. Think of that before you think of getting lazy with your training." 

He turned, signaling to the gathered soldiers. They started filing out the gates, some leading horses, others doing last minute checks of equipment. Over his shoulder, Brownweather called, "These men, don't bother them. Good and proven soldiers. They're our escorts to the Outer Line. You got something to say, pretend they're me and otherwise stuff it."

Kalsin watched a balding man tighten a harness across Sap's back amidst the bustling crowd. Save for a small flick of his gills, his bahten tolerated the man's administrations without issue. Kalsin thought of Hollow, and immediately pitied the poor soul who would try and turn Jack's warlander bahten into a mere pack animal.

"Still nothing about surge," Crawl said. Kalsin didn't need to look at him to hear the frown in his voice. "Weapon training, building endurance, hammering us to follow orders, that's all good and well. Basics of soldering. But I thought by now the lieutenant would've at least asked the extent of our surges. Why's that, you think?"

Sap would be fine. He was used to Kalsin's absence, and he had better things to worry about. Anyone treats Sap gently, the only thing you need to look out for is keeping your hair from turning to munched grass.

"Ghost?"

"We're Scarrd, Crawl. No one gives a toss about our surge. You're either a dirt, a rot, or a hive, none of which makes a ton of difference on the battlefield."

"Hive does. You saw Brownweather's power. Felt it, all of us did."

Kalsin glanced at him. "Apologies, correction then. Unless you're hive, your surge won't make a difference. If you are one, you might look forward to a potential leading position in the Scarrd Division somewhere down the line." He shrugged. "Which still means fuck-all for most of us."

By now Crawl has probably picked up on his annoyance, but if so, he chose to ignore it. "What are you?"

"Rot. With my dirt surge so weak it might not even exist." The practiced lie rolled smoothly from Kalsin's tongue.

"I'm a dirt. Mediocre one at that, too. Not much, honest, but it's a tool I will use when fighting for my life. So, I dunno—it just comes off as strange that Brownweather wouldn't let us train with it." Crawl pulled on his pack, shifting the weight on his back higher. He appeared more collected than before, not fidgeting quite as much as recruits got ready to move out around them.

"We train to improve," Kalsin said. "You swing a sword, eventually you get better at it. Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results ain't insanity. It's practice. That's why our sweet-and-sadistic lieutenant wakes us at the crack of each morning, telling us again, again, again, using nothing but the muscles of our body. When we spar, the only factor in play is the knowledge and skill we have accumulated with sweat and tears. And the surge? Adding surge to that mix would be like spitting in the face of our growth. There's no respect in beating Littleguy simply because the surge you were born with is just a little faster than his. No lessons to draw from it. Just pure, meaningless disrespect."

Kalsin took a deep, calming breath. He said his piece, and if Crawl wasn't open to his views being opposed, then that was that.

Thankfully, Crawl remained silent for a while, as if he really did mull over his words. Far as Kalsin was concerned, that was a rare quality in people. "I just don't think it's helpful to act as if the surge doesn’t exist. Maybe… an extra hour a day to test our limits, setting aside some time for it? Dunno. But I see your point. We are what we are. As Scarrd, we’re never gonna rain fire and flames down on the enemy lines."

Kalsin nodded. "An extra hour a day wouldn’t help you much, I’m afraid. The only way you improve your surge is by advancing, which isn't something you can train."

Not to mention, Crawl's suggestion would make keeping his secret—his complete lack of surge—much harder. 

His secret? One of his secrets, more like. No surge, scars sticking to him, friends with Clenns... 

At the rate he was piling them up, he'd be lucky if he wasn’t buried under ten feet of bullshit by the end of the year.

28 - Emberek (INTERLUDE)

We long to enter. 

Realm of all that is good and striveful, Éden, where the Almighty walk and carve canyons with their footfalls. Éden, where plentiful harvest never wilts and silken wine-threads hang on the winds. The forever ending afterdream, Éden, we beg of you to accept us within your breast.

Let the Clenn pass under the white coral gates of Tűzmother, warmth giver, the eye who keeps its target in sight, who stands above and guides those who had kept their souls clean in the grayness. For we studied your histories, kept your orders, and found ourselves deserving as you had declared in the beginning.

Tűzmother, you're all that was.

Let the Clenn march across Hadúr's maroon warpath, chaos and decreation may follow in his fall, for whom defeat and victory are blight. Like shower to a scorched desert, like hammer to a shapeless lump, it is through your cruel hand that we become our true frames.

Hadúr, you're all that is.

Let the Clenn walk the silver-misted trail of Vadász, bringer of the whitening orb, arrow in flight that finds the target that was never. May we lose ourselves within your direction, and may those who had never shunned Blindlight's glory embrace you with closed arms.

Vadász, you're all that will be.

And we beg of you, Almighty trinity, that you forgive those you had cast below, the Scarrd. Inside the grayness, the sinful home of men, they carried your marks of punishment upon their skin, shunned, and shamed, and gentled. But their atonement complete, if paid in gold and misery, now they smile toward the heavens in hope of sharing in the fruits of Éden.

We thank you for your divine gift, the surge, sent from Éden that is a slice of your realm shining through our mortal lives. It is through diamond will and boiling sweat that we may step closer to your warmth, Under, and Over, and Arch, but only a peek through the cracks until we breathe our final sigh in the grayness.

Oh Almighty trinity, we long to enter your realm. 

We remain your servants, the Emberek, and plead for the end times when we, inevitably, nest by your side.

- Thirteenth prayer of the Church of the Ember Republic, from the quill of Bernárd Regola, 694