The Iron-Garrison did not welcome people. It endured them.
Located three hundred leagues from the capital, on the jagged, rocky precipice of the borderlands, the garrison was a fortress made of gray stone and grim faces. It was where the kingdom sent its criminals, its political exiles, and the recruits too stubborn to fit anywhere else.
"Name?"
The logistics officer didn't look up from his ledger. He was a balding man with a massive ink stain on his thumb and an aura of profound boredom.
"Kai," Kaelen said, leaning against the wooden counter with an easy, confident posture that immediately drew a sharp glare from the man.
"Just Kai? No house? No family?" The officer finally looked up, squinting at Kaelen’s clear skin and untamed, sharp eyes. "You look like a city boy. Ran away from a debt? Or did you get a lord's daughter pregnant?"
Kaelen chuckled, flashing a cocky smirk. "Let's just say I had a disagreement with my family about my career path. I heard the food here was excellent."
The officer snorted. "Right. Another arrogant pretty boy thinking the border is a storybook. Sign the parchment with an X if you can't write."
Kaelen grabbed the quill, signing the name Kai in a flawless, elegant cursive script that made the officer’s eyebrows shoot up. Before the man could ask any more questions, a heavy, iron-toed boot slammed into the floor behind Kaelen.
"Fresh meat!"
The voice sounded like two boulders grinding together. Kaelen turned to see a man who looked like he had been carved out of the mountain itself. Drill Sergeant Vane stood seven feet tall, covered in thick, scarred leather armor, his face split by a jagged scar that ran from his temple to his jaw. His eyes were small, dark, and utterly devoid of mercy.
Vane looked Kaelen up and down, his gaze lingering on Kaelen’s clean hands and the battered iron sword strapped to his back.
"What do we have here?" Vane growled, stepping into Kaelen's personal space. The scent of stale ale and old sweat rolled off him. "A poet? A stage-actor?"
"Just a guy who wants to learn how to swing a sword, Sergeant," Kaelen said, his smile never fading. He didn't take a step back. Most recruits flinched when Vane got this close. Kaelen just looked amused.
Vane’s eyes narrowed. Arrogance in a recruit was a disease, and Vane was the cure.
Without a word of warning, Vane reached down, unstrapped a massive, sixty-pound iron-weighted rucksack from a nearby bench, and hoisted it with one hand. With a brutal grin, he slammed it directly into Kaelen’s chest.
Oof.
The wind was instantly knocked out of Kaelen's lungs. The sheer weight of the pack forced his knees to buckle, his boots skidding across the stone floor as he struggled to maintain his balance. He didn't fall, but his face went pale, his muscles straining against the sudden, crushing load.
"That's your gear, 'Kai,'" Vane sneered, leaning down so his scarred face was inches from Kaelen's. "You think you're special because you can write your name? Out here, you are less than the dirt under my boots. You will carry that pack up the mountain trail before sunset, or you will eat your dinner out of the latrine trench. Do you understand me, boy?"
Kaelen ground his teeth, his fingers digging into the rough canvas of the heavy rucksack. The weight was agonizing, his shoulders already screaming. But as he looked up into the sergeant's mocking face, the rebellious spark inside him didn't dim. It flared.
He forced his lips into a strained, defiant grin, sweat already textbook-beading on his forehead.
"Is that all, Sergeant?" Kaelen gasped out, his voice shaking but his eyes burning with cocky amusement. "I thought you said this place was tough."
Vane’s smile vanished. The entire room went dead silent.
"Ten more pounds in his pack," Vane whispered to the logistics officer, his eyes locked on Kaelen. "And put him on latrine duty for a month. Let’s see how long that mouth stays open."