Chapter 4: Formation and Weapons Training

# Chapter 4: Formation and Weapons Training

The harsh clang of the training bell shattered Ramon's uneasy sleep, dragging him from dreams of shadowed figures and whispered words he couldn't quite remember. His hands throbbed from yesterday's grip training, the skin raw and blistered where the wooden sword had rubbed against his palms.

Around him, other recruits groaned and stumbled from their bunks. Ramon rolled to his feet, wincing as his muscles protested. Through the narrow window, the sky was still dark, stars fading against the approaching dawn.

"Move it, whelps!" Captain Voren's voice boomed across the dormitory. "Training square in five minutes, or you'll be running laps until noon!"

Ramon pulled on his training clothes—rough cotton that chafed against his skin—and hurried toward the door with the stream of other recruits.

"Hey," came a familiar voice behind him.

He turned to see Jera jogging to catch up. Unlike most of the recruits, he looked alert, as if he'd been awake for hours.

"Ready for another day of—"

"QUIET!" Captain Voren's roar cut across the training square like a blade. His steel-gray eyes fixed on Ramon and Jera. "Did I give you permission to chatter like market women?"

Ramon's face burned as the other recruits snickered. "No, sir."

"Then keep your mouth shut until I tell you otherwise." Voren's gaze swept over the assembled recruits. "Today we begin weapons training. But first, your bodies need to be ready. Twenty laps around the outer perimeter. Begin!"

The recruits broke into an uneven run, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls of the training complex. Ramon tried to keep pace with the middle group, but his shorter legs and lighter build worked against him. Within five laps, he was struggling. By ten, he was gasping for air.

Kael passed him easily, his longer strides eating up the ground. "Come on, Ramon!" he called back. "Think of it as running toward your future!"

Easy for him to say. Kael's noble upbringing had included regular physical training, proper nutrition, and the confidence that came with never doubting your place in the world. Ramon pushed himself harder, his lungs burning and his legs feeling like lead.

By lap fifteen, he was walking more than running. The lead group had already finished, standing in formation while Captain Voren glared at the stragglers. Ramon forced himself into a shambling jog, determined not to be the absolute last to finish.

He wasn't. A boy named Tam, pale and reed-thin, collapsed two laps from the end. But Ramon crossed the line with his vision graying at the edges and his stomach churning with nausea.

A strong hand gripped his elbow, steadying him. "Breathe slowly," Kael said quietly. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. It helps."

Ramon nodded gratefully, following the advice until his heartbeat slowed to something approaching normal.

"Showers," Voren commanded. "Ten minutes. Then weapons training begins."

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The weapons training hall was a vast stone chamber lined with wooden practice dummies, their surfaces scarred and splintered from countless sword strikes. Racks of blunted practice weapons lined the walls—swords of varying lengths, spears, axes, and maces.

"Form ranks!" Voren's voice echoed off the high ceiling. "Today you learn the foundation of all combat: the sword. Pick up a practice blade—wooden for now. Steel comes when you've proven you won't cut off your own fingers."

Ramon selected a practice sword from the rack, testing its weight and balance. It was heavier than it looked, and awkward in his grip. Around him, other recruits were doing the same, though some—like Kael—handled their weapons with obvious familiarity.

"First exercise," Voren announced. "Basic strikes against the practice dummies. Overhead cut, diagonal cut, horizontal slash, upward cut. One hundred repetitions of each. Begin!"

Ramon approached his assigned dummy and raised his sword overhead. The first strike felt clumsy, the blade bouncing off the hardened wood with a jarring impact that sent vibrations up his arms. By the twentieth repetition, his shoulders ached. By the fiftieth, his form was falling apart.

"Pathetic," came a voice from beside him.

Ramon glanced over to see Marte at the neighboring dummy, his strikes clean and powerful despite the smirk on his face. The bigger boy's technique was solid—not as refined as Kael's, but clearly the result of training.

"Focus on your own form," Ramon muttered, turning back to his dummy.

"Hard to focus on anything with that sloppy display," Marte replied. "Maybe orphans just aren't cut out for real training."

Ramon's grip tightened on his sword, but he forced himself to continue his exercises. He wouldn't give Marte the satisfaction of a reaction.

When the striking practice ended, Voren called for sparring partners. "Random selection," he announced, pulling names from a worn leather pouch. "No exceptions, no switching partners."

Ramon's stomach sank when his name was paired with Marte's.

They faced each other in one of the marked circles on the floor, practice swords held in ready position. Marte was bigger, stronger, and clearly more experienced. But Ramon had survived three years on the streets. He knew how to endure pain.

"Begin!" Voren shouted.

Marte attacked immediately, his sword cutting down in a vicious overhead strike. Ramon barely got his blade up in time to parry, the impact nearly knocking the weapon from his hands. Marte followed up with a horizontal slash that Ramon ducked under, then a thrust that he twisted away from.

For a few seconds, Ramon thought he might actually hold his own. Then Marte's next attack came too fast to dodge. The practice sword cracked against Ramon's ribs, sending him stumbling backward. Another strike caught him across the shoulder. A third knocked his sword from his grip entirely.

Ramon dove for his weapon, but Marte was faster. The bigger boy kicked the sword away and leveled his own blade at Ramon's throat.

"Finished already?" Marte's grin was cruel. "I thought street rats were supposed to be tough. Maybe your mama should have taught you to fight before she died. Oh wait—" his voice took on a mocking, simpering tone "—she can't teach you anything from her grave, can she? Poor little orphan boy, all alone in the world."

Something snapped inside Ramon's chest. The training hall seemed to fade around him, replaced by a red haze that pulsed with each heartbeat. His mother's face flashed before his eyes—not as he'd last seen her, pale and still in their tiny room, but as she'd been when he was small. Singing him to sleep. Teaching him letters by candlelight. Promising him that someday, things would be better.

With a wordless snarl, Ramon lunged upward. Time seemed to slow as rage consumed him—not the cold anger of survival he'd known on the streets, but something deeper, more primal. His fist caught Marte square in the nose, and he felt cartilage crunch under his knuckles. Blood exploded across Marte's face, and the bigger boy staggered backward, his eyes wide with shock.

Ramon rolled to his feet with fluid grace he'd never possessed before. His practice sword was in his hand—he didn't remember picking it up—and he swung it in a devastating arc that caught Marte across the temple. The impact sent vibrations up Ramon's arms, but instead of the jarring pain he expected, he felt something in his blood surge—warm and alive, like it recognized this violence as familiar terrain.

Marte crashed to the ground, but Ramon's assault was far from over. The red haze had consumed everything—the training hall, the watching recruits, even his own sense of self. There was only the enemy before him and the overwhelming need to destroy it utterly.

The wooden blade cracked against Marte's desperately raised arms as he tried to protect himself. Ramon's strikes came from impossible angles—overhead, diagonal, spinning low to catch ribs and kidneys. Each blow carried the weight of years of humiliation, of sleeping in gutters, of being told he was nothing.

"Please," Marte gasped, curling into a ball. "Stop!"

But Ramon couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop. His sword rose and fell in a rhythm that felt ancient, hereditary, as if he were channeling the combat instincts of a dozen generations. Blood—Marte's blood—splattered the wooden floor, and still the rage burned hotter.

For a terrifying moment, Ramon felt something else moving through him, something that whispered of darker possibilities. The practice sword in his hands felt different, heavier, as if it might transform into something far more lethal. The air around him shimmered with heat that had nothing to do with exertion.

"ENOUGH!"

Captain Voren's roar cut through the blood-rage like a bucket of cold water. Strong hands seized Ramon's arms, pulling him back from Marte's curled form. The red haze faded, leaving Ramon gasping and shaking.

Marte was alive, conscious, but his face was a mess of blood and developing bruises. He glared at Ramon with a mixture of hatred and something that might have been fear.

"Impressive display of temper," Voren said dryly. "Completely undisciplined, but impressive nonetheless. Help your partner to the infirmary, then report back for hand-to-hand combat training."

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