Trainee Guard

Zonaar didn't say anything that night to his sister but he remembered her words.

He worked the full week, four shifts in the trench mines with rotating teams and the same breather relic was lodged in his chest each time. But after nearly dying on his first day, he had started to work on his breathing and learnt to calm his heart in the waters especially when he had the breather under his collar bone. The weight of the relic still pressed into his lungs when it was activated, but it didn't burn like before. He'd figured out the rhythm of how to move slow, breathe shallow, and brace himself before it started to shift.

By the fourth day of working in the underwater mines, he was able to even forget that it was there.

The crew didn't ask much of him outside his usual work. Most didn't talk unless they had to. But between loading crates and clearing breach rubble, Zonaar had been listening to others every time and h let the words come to him as knowledge while others complained or bragged.

One mentioned the Coastal Ward's new intake notice.

Another said you didn't even need to be awakened and just have to be sturdy, fast, and able enough to follow the orders.

A job above the waters where no relics were needed to be inserted in your body to make you breathe and no rotted smell of trench or any risk of dying from drowning or hunted by any sea beast.

The rest of the week passed like a blur and Zonaar had made up his mind to visit the coastal ward station to enquire about this guard position because he had made up his mind that wasn't going to die in a trench with a rock slip pinning his ribs and a relic burning in his chest.

So, he cleaned up after his last shift of the week, dropped his loader band at the depot and headed towards the upper ridge. Past the market stalls and far from the tavern smoke, until the dark-blue banners of the Coastal Ward station came into view near the edge of the docks.

If they want bodies that move, he thought, I still have one.

✧𓂃⋆༶⋆𓂃✧

The station didn't look like any grand place.

Cracked tiles lining the entrance path, and the left banner which was hung, was also half-torn its symbol was sun-bleached beyond recognition. It looked like someone had tried to repaint the outer wall, but the effort had clearly died halfway. It wasn't the kind of place anyone would brag about attending, especially not the cultivators aiming for floating lands.

Zonaar stood just outside the main gate, staring up at the old plaque above it.

'Strength is forged, not gifted.'

He snorted under his breath. Easy to say when your gift didn't break you from the inside.

"Are you lost?" someone called from the side hut.

Zonaar turned around. An older man was leaning in the doorway with dusty robes and a chipped badge hanging from his belt that barely said 'Instructor.' He didn't look particularly thrilled to be there.

"You here to register or just judging our decor?"

Zonaar stepped closer. "Guard track. No flame."

The instructor raised a brow and waved him in. "Come on, paperwork's inside."

The entry hall smelled like ink and boiled barley. A few other applicants sat waiting on worn benches but none of them looked any more impressive than him. One had bandaged knuckles. Another wore a miner's tag.

The instructor sat behind a desk, pulled out a crumbled form, and handed it over.

"You'll be classed under Trainee-Guard. One-week physical and discipline check. If you pass, you get assigned to watch posts, shipping patrol, or gate duties. No flame needed for that."

Zonaar nodded slowly listening to all the details.

The man didn't stop. "If you're looking to move up past that… into any real command or actual cultivator tracks… yeah, you'll need fire."

"I know."

"Good. Then let's not waste each other's time."

Zonaar filled the form and once done, the instructor gave him a plain iron badge with a faded crest etched into it.

"Report back tomorrow at six in the morning. Bring water, and whatever you got that won't fall apart after twenty kicks."

Zonaar took the badge.

The man added, "And show up alive. We don't train corpses."

Zonaar stepped out of the station with the cold badge in his hand. The metal had no weight to it, but it still pressed into his palm like it meant something.

Maybe it did or maybe not.

The sun had already started to tilt west, casting sharp shadows across the narrow streets. He didn't head straight home. Instead, he took the longer path near the shoreline, where rusted spears marked the old war route and the sea kept throwing salt wind into your eyes just to remind you where you belonged.

He found a low stone ledge and sat there with the badge still in his hand.

"Trainee-Guard."

It sounded better than a loader or a miner. Or even corpse number seventy-two in a collapsed trench report and for the first time in a long while, the idea of "more" didn't feel like a myth meant for other people. He might never light a flame or rise past the dirt of this realm… but maybe that didn't matter. Maybe just showing up and not drowning was its own kind of resistance.

A shout rang out in the distance of kids running by, chasing a cartwheel made of old shells and bent bone. Zonaar watched them for a moment, then stood up and walked home with a little less weight dragging at his feet.

✧𓂃⋆༶⋆𓂃✧

The Coastal Ward wasn't what Zonaar expected. No gates of marble or guards wearing shiny armour.

Just cracked steps, rusted signs like its enquiry station, and an old officer half-asleep near the entrance, chewing something that smelled like rotted kelp.

Zonaar stepped inside anyway.

The walls stank of sea parchment and rusted steel. A few recruits were dragging practice spears across the back lot, their grunts had lost under the ringing of a cracked training bell. No one looked his way.

A clerk behind the front counter stared at him as he approached.

Zonaar's voice stayed steady. "I'm here to apply. The open dock guard post."

That earned him a scoff. The clerk leaned back in his chair and looked him over — boots still damp, shoulders too thin for anyone who'd spent years lifting halberds. 

"You don't have a flame."

"I don't need one to lift the crates and report disturbances," Zonaar replied. "This post isn't for cultivators, right?"

"…Tch. You trench lot grow thick skin fast." The man reached into a drawer and pulled out a thin form. "Fill this. Name, previous work, injuries. If you collapse mid-trial, we don't do refunds."

Zonaar didn't flinch. He filled it out, handed it back, and followed the directions through the side yard into the drill grounds.

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They didn't go easy on him.

The trial was short but brutal with two full laps around the outer yard, a crate lifting test to check his spine, and a basic spear drill. He'd never trained with a weapon, but he listened to the instructions, copied the stance, and didn't complain when the blunt edge slammed against his wrist.

At least he didn't fall.

One of the senior guards watched from a distance with arms crossed. As Zonaar caught his breath near the end, he heard the man murmur to another officer:

"Trench boy is probably used to worse, he is still calm under this much pressure. He'll hold."

By the time they gave him the plain grey sash, his arms had started trembling.

"You'll start on dock rotation," the clerk said without much ceremony. "Two nights a week. Standard shifts. Report early. Uniform's basic and try not to lose it."

Zonaar took the sash and nodded. "Thank you."

But when he walked out of the station with the sun dipping behind the reef wall, something felt different.

He wasn't walking down into the mines. Not this time.

He was walking forward from now on.

But as Zonaar walked back home, the scale was still in his pocket. 

Inside, Orravia sat alone, with shadows curling around her like smoke.

"Still chasing crumbs of strength? Work harder, boy. Burn yourself dry."

She smiled without warmth on her face. "Let's see how long your little sparkless hope lasts."

✧𓂃⋆༶⋆𓂃✧✧𓂃⋆༶⋆𓂃✧✧𓂃⋆༶⋆𓂃✧