Location: Eastern Garrison Grounds, Armathane
Time: Day 213 After Alec's Arrival
The air reeked of sweat, oil, and blood that hadn't been spilled — yet.
The Ducal Guard were no longer dressed in mismatched leather and dusty chainmail. They wore fitted grey overcoats reinforced with quilted plating and trimmed with black-stamped markings denoting rank. Their boots were uniform. Their blades identical. Their posture?
Still catching up.
Alec stood with arms folded beneath the central training archway, flanked by Captain Harst and two watch-scribes. His eyes moved not over the weapons, but the gaps — in timing, in footing, in cohesion.
"Cohort Two," Harst barked, "reform line — phase sweep, double rhythm. Go!"
Thirty-six men and women shifted into motion across the open field. Their boots struck the soil in semi-synchronicity. Spears dipped, turned, locked. Crossbows lifted behind the second row — cocked, aimed, held.
"Too slow," Alec murmured.
Harst nodded. "Still dragging. Cohort One shaved two seconds off their reset time this morning."
"They'll need four," Alec replied. "In live combat, two seconds is a field littered with bodies."
🛡 The Regime
The Guard was now broken into five structured tiers:
Command Core – Alec, Vaelora's martial advisors, Harst
Cohorts (6) – 40-60 soldiers each, structured by mobility and function
Special Units – Logistics, siege specialists, intelligence observers
Squires and Recruits – Newbloods, rotated through live drills every fourth day
Support Branch – Medical (under Mira), Supply (Company managed), Instruction Corps
Every dawn began with full-body conditioning: running, log lifting, cross-body drills. Followed by formation practice, weapon transition, and combat simulations.
By noon, most were too tired to speak — and just alert enough to listen.
They were learning.
Not just how to move.
But how to listen to one voice.
⚔ Live Combat Demonstration
Sergeant Corlan, a broad-shouldered Delsagade native, squared off against three younger recruits under Alec's instruction.
"Scenario," Alec said. "You're outnumbered. Isolate the most aggressive. Disable, not kill."
Corlan didn't nod. He just moved.
He shifted his footing to draw the first attacker wide, let the second over-extend with a thrust, then pivoted with a reverse-step cut that took the first to his knees. No real blood — dulled blades. But the boy crumpled with a grunt.
The other two hesitated.
Corlan didn't.
He disarmed the next with a hooked twist, slammed his heel into the final opponent's shin, and pinned him in four seconds flat.
Alec said nothing at first.
Then: "Now do it without wasting breath."
Corlan blinked. "What?"
"You exhaled on the third movement. Too sharp. In fog or fire, that sound carries."
Corlan looked stunned. Harst grinned.
The others began murmuring, impressed.
Alec moved on.
🧠 Strategic Training
Later, in the tactics pit — a sand-drawn grid of towns, hills, and rivers — the Guard captains argued simulated border deployments.
"We can't leave Bulcrest exposed," one said.
"Then we feint west," another replied. "Draw them out."
Serina stood beside Alec now, arms folded.
"They think in threats," she said quietly.
"They're supposed to," Alec said. "Now I'll teach them to think in pressure."
He stepped into the pit and said nothing.
Only rearranged the pieces.
A bridge destroyed.
A bluff reinforced.
A civilian line rerouted.
No one understood the shape until it was finished.
Then Harst looked down and said, "They're surrounded."
"No," Alec said. "They're repositioned. Without losing a sword. That's strategy."
🔒 Loyalty Reinforced
Before sunset, Alec walked the barracks halls — quiet now, after drills.
He passed racks of identical gear. Watered blades drying. Armor plates hung in rows.
In one corner, a squire was sketching his footwork notes.
Alec stopped beside him.
"Which command phrase triggers regroup?"
The boy scrambled upright. "Uh—'Grey Wind, Collapse.'"
"Good. And retreat with rear-line priority?"
"'Ash Flow Break,' sir."
Alec nodded.
"Keep learning."
He left the boy standing straighter than when he arrived.
🌒 Private Moment – Alec and Harst
Harst poured water into a basin, wiped his brow.
"They'll be ready soon."
"No," Alec said. "They'll be ready when they stop asking who gives the order — and start following it before the wind shifts."
Harst grunted. "You want instinct."
"I want instinct that's standardized."
A Soldiers's Reflection.
The sun had begun to dip past the far treetops by the time Cohort Four was called for live-pressure testing.
They stood in a double crescent on the eastern range, dirt underfoot and breath steaming in the late spring chill. At the center stood a fresh-faced recruit — no older than twenty, all lean limbs and sweat-slicked anxiety.
His name was Lennik. Farmer's son from Delsagade.
A week ago, he was barefoot in a barley field.
Now he stood under the weight of Company armor, facing a wall of more experienced blades.
Across from him, Alec waited — still as stone.
"Situation," Alec said without raising his voice. "Your commanding line is down. No one left but you and one supply cart. A cavalry pair breaches the rear. You have five seconds to live."
Lennik hesitated. Just a blink.
Then Alec threw a blunt knife straight at him.
Lennik dropped. The blade skipped past his ear.
"Three seconds," Alec said.
The boy moved — instinct, not plan. He rolled toward the cart, grabbed a training spear, and ducked into cover.
"Clever," Alec said. "Now get out. Move as if the world means to kill you."
Lennik burst from behind the cart, low and fast. One boot slipped. He fell hard. Recovered.
Alec was already on him.
One twist, one pivot.
The tip of Alec's dulled blade stopped an inch from Lennik's throat.
The entire cohort held their breath.
Lennik panted. Sweat clung to his lashes. He didn't dare move.
Alec lowered the blade.
"Not bad," he said. "Now do it again. But this time… win."
🧠 Serina Watches
From the overlook, Serina watched it unfold beside Captain Harst. Her arms were crossed. She said nothing.
"You see it?" Harst asked after a moment.
She nodded. "He doesn't want them to be soldiers."
"No?"
"He wants them to be systems. Like gears in a machine. Not just knowing what to do—but doing it before they think."
Harst nodded. "It's working. They learn faster under him than in any noble's army I've seen."
Serina didn't answer right away.
Then: "It frightens them."
"Good," Harst said, smiling faintly. "Fear's a better teacher than tradition."
"But Alec doesn't rule by fear," she said.
Harst chuckled. "No. He rules by inevitability."
💬 Inter-squad Tensions
Later in the barracks mess, Lennik sat among his peers, face still red from the scuffle, his porridge untouched.
One of the older guards — a scarred woman named Rilla — nudged him.
"You did well."
"I lost."
"You didn't die. That's better than most on their first run."
Lennik didn't smile.
"He doesn't flinch," he muttered. "He doesn't blink. He moves like he knows what you'll do before you do it."
Rilla nodded. "That's because he does."
Another guard leaned in. "You heard he used to fight in a different world?"
"That's just rumors," Rilla replied.
"No. Not rumors. I saw him spar one of the our scouts during a training test. Took the man down without lifting a weapon."
Lennik frowned. "How?"
Rilla gave a half-smile. "He's not like us. He's what we're meant to become."
🧱 Alec's Internal Reflection (Midnight Entry)
Day 213 — Guard Progression
Tactical cohesion improving. Obedience levels rising.
Field reaction times down 2.4 seconds. Command repetition dropped from three calls to one in 78% of test groups.
Most notable gains in Cohort Four — youngest, most adaptable. Corlan remains most promising among senior command.
Morale is rising. Not due to comfort. But due to clarity. They now see themselves not as defenders — but as parts of a structure with purpose.
They are not afraid of death.
They are afraid of failing to meet the mark.
Good.
🌘 A Warriors Reflection
That night, long after most had turned in, Corlan sat on the edge of the weapons rack, cleaning his gear by hand.
He'd fought for two duchesses, seen nobles flounder and peacocks play at command.
But this? This was different.
He thought back to Alec's eyes — not cruel, not cold. Just… unwavering.
It made him remember being twenty.
It made him remember when discipline had been a curse.
Now?
It was a promise.
He touched the Company insignia stitched on the inside of his collar.
Not nobility.
Not knighthood.
Order.
And for the first time, he prayed not to the Sun-Father.
But to function.