As Gabriel approached the army encampment, the setting sun cast elongated shadows upon the well-trodden earth, transforming the maze of wooden pickets into eerie sentinels. The air was thick with the scent of metal, burning wood, and horse sweat. Patches of dust kicked up as patrol soldiers made their rounds, their armor clanking with each step.

Passing through the first line of sentries, Gabriel felt an electric tension in the air—the kind that kept men alert and weapons at the ready. “Brought a new friend, did you?” quipped one guard, his eyes narrowing with playful scrutiny.

“There weren’t any pretty ones left, so we thought he would do,” Atlas responded with jest and camaraderie.

The guard harrumphed and stepped aside, allowing them to pass. Gabriel stepped through the final pickets into the encampment's heart, amazed by the ingenuity of its construction. Wooden pikes stood tall and menacing, forming the perimeter of the temporary fortress. Dozens of tents—some small and tattered, others grand and robust—filled the middle in an organic sprawl. The far-off clamor of a blacksmith was punctuated by intermittent whinnies from the stables.

Heavily guarded in the center of it all was a grand tent. Gabriel couldn't help but ponder the weighty decisions that were made within those canvas walls. The lives altered, the futures mapped out, all under the tenuous shelter of cloth and rope.

“What are you all doing here?” Gabriel asked.

“We've been ordered to patrol the kingdom,” Atlas said, eyes scanning the perimeter as he spoke.

“You told me that much. Are you expecting anything?” Gabriel pressed, the words escaping him before he could consider their impact.

“You've got a mouth on you; be careful—that will get you in trouble,” Atlas warned, a flicker of earnestness crossing his face. “The Easterners have been attacking more frequently. We're halfway through our tour. After that, we'll head back to King's Crest.”

“What are the Paresh like? I've only heard stories.” Gabriel’s eyes landed on a small group of soldiers sharpening their swords, their faces hardened by the rigors of their duty.

“They're ruthless, every last one of them. No distinction between men and women or children as they slaughter.” Atlas gathered phlegm and spit onto the ground. The surrounding men followed his lead, each contributing his glob of disdain to the soil. Gabriel tried to mimic their vehemence and spit as well.

“Has anyone seen someone spit so… delicately?” Atlas laughed.

“The Paresh will tremble in fear at such a terrifying display,” Avis added, the corners of his mouth twitching. Even the silent Olof started laughing.

“It's not my fault you brutes haven't learned the art of spitting,” Gabriel retorted.

His comment drew even heartier laughter and a robust slap on the back from Atlas. By Ash, that man has arms like oak branches.

“Tell me more of the Paresh,” Gabriel said, still curious.

“They fight with axes and shields. Aye, they’re disorganized, but don't mistake that for weakness. Even with wounds that would fell an ordinary man, they swing their axes until the bitter end. It's as if they're immune to the fear of death, fighting with every fiber of their being,” Atlas elaborated.

It sounded like superstition to Gabriel. “How?”

“No one truly knows. They're devotees of Ash, and who can say what uncanny powers their faith grants them?”

They continued their walk in contemplative silence, their footsteps softly crunching on the well-worn path. Ahead, a sizable cluster of soldiers caught Gabriel's eye—around fifty, by his quick estimation.

As they drew nearer, Gabriel felt his palms grow damp with nervous sweat. He knew his acceptance into the encampment hinged on the decision of the commander, who he had yet to meet.

Atlas took the lead, his presence commanding enough to part the sea of soldiers before him. The men offered nods and respectful glances, recognizing his authority in brief but meaningful exchanges. Gabriel dared to hope that Atlas’s evident standing within the group would bode well for him.

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Surveying the soldiers, Gabriel noted that most appeared to be in their mid-twenties. Atlas stood out, his bald head starkly contrasting the youthful faces around him. It occurred to Gabriel that men of his age were a rarity here, likely having either fallen in battle, suffered incapacitating injuries, or retired from active service.

Upon reaching the central area, Atlas addressed a stern-looking man who mustered a presence that marked him as the commander. “Commander, we have a new potential recruit,” Atlas announced, his tone formal yet familiar.

The commander exuded an air of restrained ferocity. His brown eyes—so dark they were nearly black—assessed everyone and everything with piercing intensity.

He took in Gabriel from head to toe. He said, “Too young,” before turning to confer with his lieutenants.

Atlas interjected, “He's a good lad, Commander; he can make himself useful around the camp.”

The commander pivoted back, locking eyes with Gabriel once more. “Your age?”

Feigning maturity, Gabriel replied, “Fourteen, sir.” He figured the small deception might bolster his odds.

“You're small for fourteen,” the commander remarked skeptically before jerking his head to Atlas. “Why'd you bring him?”

“He's got grit, sir. Given time and training, he'll make a formidable soldier. He wants this.”

“What about your family, boy? Do they know you're here?” The commander's inquiry carried an undercurrent of paternal concern. For a moment, Gabriel thought he detected a glimmer of emotion flicker across the commander's stony visage. Perhaps the man wasn't entirely made of granite.

“I have none, sir,” Gabriel responded, his voice tinged with hard-earned resilience.

“And you truly want this?”

“Yes, sir, more than anything,” Gabriel asserted.

The commander nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Don't expect any pay, lad. Make yourself useful around the camp.” With a dismissive wave, the commander ended the conversation, signaling that Gabriel's provisional acceptance was the best he would get for now.

Atlas gripped Gabriel's arm and steered him away from the commander. “That's Commander Galland for you. A good man, an exceptional fighter, and an even better leader.”

“He seems young?” Gabriel observed, his eyes still trailing after the imposing figure.

“He's a product of the academy you're unlikely to enter,” Atlas said, giving Gabriel a firm squeeze on the shoulder.

A thought flashed in Gabriel's mind: If I make a good impression on Commander Galland, maybe he’ll help me enter the academy.

“I want you to train me,” Gabriel blurted out, his eyes locking onto Atlas'. “I suspect that beneath those wrinkles lies a man who knows more than a little about swordsmanship.”

Atlas responded with a hearty slap on Gabriel's back, strong enough to make him stagger. “You'll be too worn out from all the chores even to lift a blade.”

“I'll find the time. When can you train me?”

“Meet me before dawn,” Atlas said, his eyes narrowing as if gauging Gabriel's resolve.

“I'll be there,” Gabriel said, a newfound determination solidifying.

----------------------------------------

Having spent the rest of the day excavating pits for the latrines, Gabriel was practically running on fumes. All the while, Atlas, Avis, and Olof watched him work, visibly amused and sipping from what appeared to be wineskins.

“If you're going to watch, at least offer me some wine,” Gabriel huffed, pausing to wipe the sweat from his brow.

“You're too young,” Avis replied. Given that Avis was likely one of the youngest members of the patrol, the irony didn't escape Gabriel.

“I’m not too young to dig a place for you to shit, though.”

Avis lifted his wineskin in a mock toast. “Exactly right.”

Atlas called out, signaling a transition in their day's activities. “Come on, time to show you around.”

Gabriel set down his shovel and shuffled over, his body sagging with exhaustion. “What's the point of digging this hole when there's another one just a hundred yards away?”

“Did we forget to mention we didn't need another latrine pit?” Avis quipped, suppressing a grin.

Atlas chuckled ruefully, “Well, lad, at least you worked those skinny arms of yours. And you learned a lesson in following orders.”

“So, it was utterly pointless, then?”

Atlas placed a heavy hand on Gabriel's shoulder, looking him squarely in the eyes. “Leaders will give you tasks, and you gotta do them. Simple as that. Rule one of being a soldier—always follow orders.”

Though exhausted and not particularly eager to internalize this advice, Gabriel didn't want to dismiss the message. He nodded in acknowledgment.

He was shown around the camp and introduced to more soldiers than he could remember. "You'll start by helping in the supply tents, carrying equipment—and yes, digging the latrines," Atlas said gruffly, gesturing to a less-than-glamorous part of the camp.

Finally, Atlas paused in front of a larger, more elaborate tent adorned with the symbol of the Balatian army. "This is the command tent," he explained. "You are not, under any circumstance, to enter without explicit permission. Got it?"

"Understood," Gabriel responded.

Atlas nodded approvingly. "Good. Rule number two of being a soldier—know your place. Knowing when to speak and when to keep that smart mouth of yours is just as important as knowing how to wield a sword if you want to be a soldier.

Gabriel absorbed Atlas’s words, feeling the weight of his life-altering decision. He watched Atlas enter the command tent, disappearing into its dim interior.

Alone but not quite isolated, surrounded by the reality of his choice, Gabriel felt a strange sense of peace settle over him. It was as if, despite the hurdles and trials that he knew lay ahead, he had taken the first step in fulfilling his promise—not just to himself but to the memories of those he had lost. For the first time in a long time, he felt he was exactly where he needed to be.