On the morning after the lists were posted, the camp looked different, though nothing had changed in its outward appearance.
The tents stood where they stood, the squares stood where they stood, and the officers’ voices rose as they always had.
But something in the way the conscripts walked had changed, as though each of them now carried a number suspended over his head, three days and no more, then a departure to some place no one knew anything about except its name on paper.
Oren woke before the bell as usual, and walked to the Theft yard feeling something like urgency, though he couldn’t pinpoint its cause precisely.
Perhaps he wanted to make use of every minute left to him before he was left alone with what he had learned, with no Mark to correct his mistakes.
“Three days,” Mark said when he arrived, as though reading his thoughts.
“I won’t teach you much that’s new in this time.
We’ll work on what you already know, until it becomes faster and more precise.” The exercise began with the usual brass piece, but at a greater distance than before, and Mark kept moving it a little farther each time Oren mastered the previous distance.
By the end of the first day, Oren could move the piece across a distance of nearly two full arm-spans, at a speed far greater than his stumbling first attempts days earlier.
“Try this,” Mark said on the second day, taking a small knife with a wooden handle from his pocket and setting it on the stone before Oren.
“A bit heavier than what you’re used to.” It took him more attempts, and he felt a deeper exhaustion after his first success, but he managed in the end to move it, even if across a shorter distance than he’d grown accustomed to with the brass piece.
“Weight matters, then,” Oren said.
“Everything matters.
The weight, the material, and your own state in that moment.” Mark answered without elaborating further, then added in a tone closer to seriousness than usual: “You won’t become an expert in two days.
But you now know the foundation well enough to build on it later.
That’s all I can give you here.” Mark explained nothing more than that, and mentioned nothing about the path’s limits or its further possibilities.
Oren’s understanding of his path remained what it had been since the first day: moving something from one place to another without touching it.
He didn’t think that this definition might be incomplete; he was occupied enough with trying to master what he already knew.
In the Transformation yard, Daren faced a different challenge.
His instructor asked him to try with a small piece of iron, far harder than the wood he had begun with.
“You won’t succeed the first time,” she told him, watching him hold the piece between his fingers.
“Iron resists more.” Daren tried again and again, concentrating on the piece as he’d grown used to, trying to understand its structure before asking anything of it.
He failed the first several times, but didn’t seem as bothered as some of his fellow trainees looked when they failed; rather, he watched each failed attempt as though it gave him a new piece of information about the nature of iron itself.
By the end of the second day, he finally succeeded in slightly changing the hardness of the piece’s surface a very minor change no one but him and his instructor would notice but it was enough for him to feel something like the deep satisfaction he’d known before, watching metal finally yield to his hammer.
“Good,” the instructor said.
“I won’t ask more of you than this in the time remaining.
Remember this feeling you’ll need it later.” As for Silen, he continued developing his ability with Binding at a notable pace.
In the last two days he managed to bind two stones separated by a greater distance than before, and to hold the bond for longer without it suddenly fading, as it used to.
But during training, he began talking more than usual even for him, asking his instructor a string of questions with no direct relation to the exercise before him: Did Binding work between living things?
Could it bind two people together?
What happened if one end of a bond died?
The old instructor answered some questions with his usual patience, and refused to elaborate on others with a single sentence: “That’s beyond what you need to know now.” But he noticed, without commenting, that the questions grew more frequent the closer the date of departure came.
On the evening of the second day, all the conscripts whose names had appeared on the list were gathered in a large tent, where a mid-ranking officer stood before them to explain the nature of their mission.
“You are not fighters in the direct sense,” he began, without a long preamble.
“Your paths are not primarily offensive ones, and you’ve trained on them for a very short time.
Your task is to support the combat units, each according to his path.” He explained briefly that those on the Theft path were sometimes used to move equipment or small supplies across distances the soldiers couldn’t reach quickly; that those on the Binding path were sometimes called upon to fasten or bind heavy equipment or parts needing extra cohesion; and that those on the Transformation path helped adjust simple properties in tools or equipment when the field required it.
“This doesn’t mean you’re far from danger,” he added, in a more serious tone.
“You’ll be near the front, and sometimes inside it.
But your role is supportive, not directly offensive.
That’s all you need to know for now.” He explained nothing further, and mentioned no details about how these abilities were used in real situations.
The conscripts made do with this much understanding; some felt a slight relief at not being directly in the front lines, and some seemed uneasy at the ambiguity still surrounding what actually awaited them.
On the morning of the third day, the outfitting phase began.
Oren stood in a long line before a large tent filled with crates, where a soldier in charge of distribution handed him a bundle of new military clothing, heavier and sturdier than the training clothes he was used to, along with leather boots, a backpack, and a leather belt with slots for small tools.
“This is yours,” the soldier said, setting a short knife in a leather sheath before him.
“For defending yourself only, no more.
You’re not an offensive soldier.” Oren held the knife a moment, feeling its light weight in his hand, before fastening it in place on the belt.
Beside him, Silen was trying to adjust his belt, which seemed a bit wider than his waist, tightening it and loosening it without settling on a comfortable position.
“This belt was made for a man much bigger than me,” he said, tightening the buckle again.
“Try the second hole,” Daren said, without lifting his eyes from a small piece of metal he was examining between his fingers, part of his new gear, turning it over as though assessing the quality of its craftsmanship with a blacksmith’s eye he couldn’t stop using despite everything.
“Where’d you get this expertise in belts?” Silen asked, laughing.
“From a father who used to make his own work belts.” Daren answered without smiling, but his tone carried some of the quiet warmth Oren had grown used to hearing from him.
Each of them also received a quantity of dried food carefully packaged, and small official papers bearing his name and unit number, which they were required to carry at all times.
“Keep it somewhere you won’t lose it,” said the soldier in charge of distribution.
“If you’re wounded, this paper is what identifies you.” Oren made no comment on the sentence, but placed the paper carefully in the same pocket that held Marin’s letter and the cloth pendant, as though wanting these three things to stay together no matter what happened.
In the afternoon, the conscripts were gathered in the main square one last time before departure, where a man awaited them wearing a long robe of pale gray, embroidered with simple symbols at the collar, whom an officer identified as a priest from the Imperial Temple, come to bless the new units before their departure.
The priest stood before them, a man in perhaps his sixties, his voice calm but reaching the edges of the square clearly without needing to shout.
“Today you are not merely sons of villages and towns,” he began.
“You are shields protecting those behind you your fathers and mothers, your brothers and sisters, and everyone who sleeps safely tonight thanks to those who stand at the border in his place.” He went on speaking of the Empire, of the duty resting on the shoulders of everyone called to defend it, of the honor of being part of something greater than oneself, and of the sacrifice some might make so that others could return safely to their homes.
“I won’t promise you the road will be easy,” he said at a later point in his speech.
“But I promise you that what you do has meaning, even in the darkest moments.” Oren noticed, as he listened, that some of the conscripts around him stood with straight backs, their eyes shining with something like pride, while others stood in stiff silence, looking at the ground more than at the priest.
He saw one conscript, a very young man, quickly wipe away a tear before anyone could notice.
“Seems like he’s enjoying his own voice,” Silen whispered to Oren, very quietly, trying to ease some of his own tension with a small smile.
Oren didn’t answer, but he noticed that Silen’s hand was clenched at the hem of his shirt as he whispered, and that his smile didn’t reach his eyes.
During the speech, Oren noticed that the priest held a small device between his hands, round in shape, made of a dull-colored metal etched with finely carved lines.
It did not look like a weapon, nor a practical tool, but closer to a decorative piece or a ritual object he carried while speaking, sometimes turning it between his fingers without using it for anything obvious.
Oren felt something strange as his eyes fell on it, not fear, nor sharp curiosity, but a vague sense of familiarity, as though he’d seen something like it before, somewhere else.
He tried to remember where, and after a moment recalled his village’s small temple, and that similar device the old priest there used to use in certain rites, once or twice a year, without anyone ever explaining to the children present what it was or its purpose.
He didn’t think about it further.
It was only a passing observation, something familiar in an unfamiliar place, and then his attention drifted elsewhere as the priest raised his voice in closing his speech, calling on everyone to return “with victory and with life,” before the officers stepped forward to begin organizing the rows in preparation for departure.
The carts began gathering at the eastern edge of the camp, long rows of covered wooden wagons, drawn by massive horses that seemed accustomed to this kind of long journey.
Oren stood with Daren and Silen near one of the carts assigned to their unit, waiting for the order to board.
The place seemed full of noise, crossing shouts of commands, the creak of wheels, the neighing of horses, and low talk among the conscripts each trying to hide his tension in his own way.
“I’ll admit I’m afraid,” Silen said suddenly, in a voice quieter than any he’d used before, as though he’d waited for a moment when some of the noise had drawn away from them to say it.
“I didn’t think it would end this fast.
A few weeks ago I was at the market selling vegetables, and now…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but looked at the carts around them as though they were enough to explain what he meant.
“We’re all afraid,” Daren said in his usual calm, without looking at him directly, as though admitting it was enough for him without needing more words.
Oren said nothing at first, but felt the same weight of fear settle in his own chest, not a fear abstracted from death alone, but something more specific, a clear image forming in his mind every time he thought about it: Marin alone in the house, waiting for a letter that might never reach her, running her life without knowing exactly what had happened to him.
He thought that he didn’t want to die, not because he feared death in its abstract sense, but because he knew what he would leave behind if it happened.
He remembered news he’d heard months before, of a man from a neighboring village who had fled conscription during the war, been caught a few days later, and executed before his unit as a lesson to others.
He wasn’t actually thinking of fleeing, but the idea passed through his mind in passing, immediately followed by the memory of that ending, as though his mind shut the door on any such possibility the moment it opened.
He thought instead: if I must go, I’ll try to stay as far from the most dangerous places as I can, and do what’s asked of me without drawing extra attention.
It wasn’t a heroic decision, and he didn’t feel it as one; it was simply the only way he saw to reduce the chance of never returning to Marin at all.
They were called to board the cart, and the three moved together, sitting on the hard wooden benches inside it, beside other conscripts, most of them silent.
The journey took nearly a full day, the carts stopping now and then at checkpoints or small supply stations along the road.
Oren noticed, through a gap in the cloth covering the cart, a gradual change in the landscape around them.
At first the roads seemed somewhat familiar, farms and small villages resembling his own from a distance, but as the journey went on, the signs began to change: military supply carts more frequent on the road, armed guard posts at every important crossing, large storehouses surrounded by temporary wooden fences.
At one stretch, a cart passed them going the opposite direction, covered with heavier cloth than usual, and Oren glimpsed through it the limbs of carefully wrapped bodies.
No one in the cart commented, but he saw Silen quickly avert his gaze, and Daren keep looking straight at it, as though forcing himself not to look away from the sight.
They also passed a small village whose houses appeared partly burned at the edges, roofs collapsed, walls blackened with fire, while a small number of residents stood beside what remained of their belongings, waiting for a supply cart someone had promised would arrive soon.
No one said a word toward this sight either, but Oren felt something shift inside him, a clear difference between the war he’d heard of in stories and the war now taking shape before his eyes, in its small, unsettling details, more than in any heroic description he’d ever heard before.
As evening approached, the carts began slowing, then finally stopped at a wide area filled with tents and temporary structures, far larger than the camp they’d left, but appearing far less organized, full of constant movement, shouting, and crossing commands.
Oren climbed down from the cart, feeling stiffness in his body from the long sitting, and stood a moment taking in the scene around him.
The place’s smell was different from that of the previous camp, a mixture of smoke, metal, and sweat, unlike any smell he’d been used to before.
He heard, from a distance, sounds he couldn’t quite place, closer to intermittent explosions, occasionally punctuated by dim flashes of light glinting above a low line of distant hills.
A row of wounded soldiers passed near him, some walking with the help of comrades, while others were carried on simple wooden stretchers toward a large tent marked as designated for treatment.
Oren noticed the face of one of the wounded, a young man about his own age, his eyes half-closed and his lips dry, making no sound as he was carried.
“So this is the place,” Silen said in a low voice, the usual note of jest entirely gone from it.
Daren made no comment, but his eyes moved slowly among the surrounding scenes, as though trying to take in the full scale of what awaited them.
Their units were called by different names and numbers, and the conscripts gradually began to scatter, each toward a different gathering point.
Oren walked off with a small group from his own unit, leaving Daren and Silen behind, heading in two different directions, without even managing to say a complete goodbye to each other only a quick glance, and another, before the crowd swallowed them.
Oren finally stood with his new unit, at the edge of a slightly elevated area overlooking a wide stretch of land.
From there he could see the distant front lines, smoke rising at more than one point on the horizon, and intermittent sounds reaching him carried on the wind, not entirely clear, but enough to make him feel that everything he’d seen so far was still far from the real picture of what awaited him.
He reached, without meaning to, into his inner pocket, where Marin’s letter rested beside the cloth pendant and the paper bearing his name, and pressed his fingers against them for a moment, as though making sure they were still there.
He felt nothing like the enthusiasm the priest had spoken of, nor that honor he’d described in his speech.
He felt only a silent weight settling in his chest, standing there, at the edge of something far greater than everything he’d trained for in the past weeks, waiting to be told when he had to move.