The morning wind smelled of frost and firewood.
Smoke curled upward from the mountain encampment, blending with the mists that hugged the jagged cliffs. The Stormfangs stood in a staggered line, twenty-one strong, fresh off the Ember Trials. Their shoulders bore the scorched mark of the sigil, their eyes gleamed with a new kind of focus—no longer wide with fear or desperation, but sharpened by purpose.
They were not yet soldiers.
But they were becoming something more dangerous: men with belief.
Throy paced before them, wearing his leather battle vest and a dark blue cloak stitched with silver thread—Elarin's doing. It marked him now, not just as a leader, but as someone chosen. He hadn't asked for that.
But he accepted it.
"You've been burned. Bled. Lied to," he said, his voice calm, steady. "You've been tested not just for strength, but for will."
He looked each of them in the eye.
"And now, we begin the second trial—learning to fight as one."
A few shifted uneasily. Weapons were one thing. Marching in formation, relying on someone else to guard your blind side? That was harder. Trust didn't come easy for boys raised in hunger and violence.
But Throy wasn't building an army of perfect men.
He was building a unit that could survive hell together.
"From today forward, you will train like your lives depend on each other," he said. "Because one day soon… they will."
The First Drills
It began with simple formations—shield walls using wooden planks, rotating strike positions, flanking maneuvers across uneven terrain.
They weren't elegant. They weren't disciplined.
But they were learning.
Sorn, the giant one-eyed brawler, was hopeless with coordination. He'd break formation by charging ahead like a bull. Throy stopped him mid-rush and drove a wooden pole across his chest.
"Discipline," Throy growled. "A lone spear can stab. But a phalanx can conquer."
Sorn grunted, more annoyed than angry—but he nodded.
Myrin, the clever youth, adapted faster. He began whispering quick corrections to his squadmates mid-drill, adjusting spacing, correcting grip. By noon, his five-man team was the most in-sync of all.
"He's smart," Elarin said, watching from a ledge above. "Dangerously so."
"He's a survivor," Throy replied. "Like us."
The Clash
By dusk, Throy divided the Stormfangs into four squads, each named after a trial they'd overcome:
Squad Ember – Led by Sorn, raw power and aggression.
Squad Ash – Myrin's group, cunning and calculated.
Squad Stone – Defensive unit, led by a former miner named Halrik.
Squad Wind – Fastest runners, nimble and precise.
He threw down a simple challenge:
"Capture the banner."
A single flag, stitched with the Stormfang symbol, planted atop a small rocky outcrop. No rules, no boundaries. Last squad holding the flag after thirty minutes won.
The melee that followed wasn't clean. It was chaos: dirt flying, spears clashing, fists slamming into faces. Ash baited Wind into an ambush. Ember ignored strategy entirely and charged uphill, scattering opponents like leaves. Stone dug in and refused to be moved.
When the dust cleared, Ash held the banner—but barely.
Myrin limped, bloodied and bruised, but grinning.
"Told you brains win wars," he wheezed.
Throy clapped once.
"Tomorrow, the losing squads carry firewood. Victory earns rest. That's how war works."
They groaned.
But deep down, every one of them wanted another chance.
System Awakens
That night, as Throy sat beneath a crooked pine with a fire crackling nearby, he felt the familiar tingle—the System stirring again.
[System Notification – Squad Training Phase: 33% Complete]
Stormfang Squad Level: 2
New Perk Unlocked: "Pack Instinct"
Your unit gains a temporary +5% speed and reflex bonus when fighting together against a single target.
A faint hum echoed in his skull.
[Title Progress Update: "First Flame" – 17/20]
The System was quiet about what would happen when the title completed. But Throy had learned not to question it. Only to earn it.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the fire warm his skin.
Flashback: The Broken Field
A memory bubbled up—uninvited, bitter.
He was younger. Bleeding. Hiding beneath a cart as soldiers trampled past. Smoke in the sky. Screams in the wind. His mother had told him to run.
He didn't run fast enough.
That day, he'd seen what untrained men looked like in battle. He'd watched friends die because their lines broke. Because no one trusted each other. Because no one had taught them how to stand together.
That was the day he promised himself: if he ever led men, they wouldn't be like that.
They would endure.
A Rival Returns
Two days later, word came from a border scout: a new warband had entered the broken lowlands. Not raiders. Not bandits.
Something worse.
Stormfang's old enemies—the Stormbreakers.
Led by Commander Voss, a former lieutenant of Ironmoor, they were disciplined, brutal, and well-supplied. They'd defeated every militia sent to stop them.
Throy stood at the edge of the ridge, scanning the smoke on the horizon.
Elarin approached, cloak flapping in the cold breeze.
"You're not ready," she said quietly.
"Neither are they."
He paused. Then:
"That's why we'll win."