The bedrolls in the soldiers’ tents were far from the comforts he had once known in Accamania, but they were a luxurious upgrade from his recent nomadic existence. Still, he didn’t waste any time getting out of bed. He’d woken up in the middle of the night to a particularly jarring nightmare—and awoken nearly every soldier in his tent along with him. The only one who hadn’t stirred was Olof, who, for someone so taciturn during the day, snored louder than any man Gabriel had ever encountered.

Outside the tent, Gabriel stretched in the dappled morning light, a yawn escaping him as he welcomed the new day. Just then, Atlas emerged. “You ready, lad?”

Unable to find his voice, Gabriel nodded.

“Follow me,” Atlas commanded.

As Gabriel fell into step behind him, Atlas spoke up. “We need to talk about last night.”

“I'm sorry, Atlas. It won't happen again,” Gabriel stammered, trying to get the conversation over with as quickly as possible.

“You can't always control what haunts you in your dreams, lad,” Atlas replied, his eyes narrowing with concern.

“I'll make sure of it,” Gabriel insisted. “If I can't, I'll sleep outside the tents. Just don't make me leave.”

Atlas halted abruptly, pivoting to face Gabriel. “You misunderstand me. The army can be your home for as long as you want. My concern is for you, Orion. Those nightmares seemed particularly troubling.”

Gabriel lowered his gaze, a tide of shame washing over him. The last thing he wanted was to project weakness. “They'll pass with time,” he mumbled.

“Perhaps they will, perhaps they won't,” Atlas responded, unconvinced. After a pause, he asked, “Do you remember what you dreamed of?”

“It's a blur, mostly. But I remember my ma's face and the face of the man who took her life. I… It's like I'm reliving that moment, and it feels like it's all my fault.”

“How could it be your fault?”

Shaking his head, Gabriel pulled back. He couldn't afford to let down his guard entirely, not even with Atlas. “It doesn't matter.”

“Sometimes it’s good to talk about these things,” Atlas said, his tone softening. “If you bottle it all up, it will eat away at you from the inside.”

A heavy silence hung in the air, which seemed to thicken with each passing moment. Gabriel nodded outwardly, but inwardly, he felt the weight of Atlas’s words. I can’t afford to reveal too much of myself. I must do this alone.

“Right now, I'd rather focus on learning to swing a sword,” Gabriel deflected.

Atlas chuckled. “Alright, you prickly young bastard. Grab a sword,” he said, gesturing toward a rack lined with wooden practice swords.

The two sparred in a flurry of swings and counterattacks for the next hour. The veteran soldier offered Gabriel tips and corrections as they moved, pushing him to sharpen his skills. Gabriel, in turn, forced himself to the edge of his limits.

Eventually, Gabriel was sprawled on his back, disoriented, staring at the azure sky. There was a time when he would have marveled at the beauty of the uncomplicated blue expanse above him, but those days felt distant now. The vivid colors of life seemed to have dulled, the simple joys muted.

Atlas’s face appeared above him. “What goes through your mind when you hold that sword?” Atlas inquired, his eyes narrowing.

“What do you mean?”

“Son, the moment you grasp that sword, your face transforms. It hardens, the innocence vanishes.”

“I envision the man who killed my mother—the one who haunts my nightmares. In those dreams, he always defeats me. I use that fear and anger to fuel me, believing that once I grow strong enough, he won't be able to beat me, even in my dreams.”

Atlas shook his head. “That kind of motivation can only sustain you temporarily. Anger might give you energy, but it's a double-edged sword; it can make you reckless and imprecise. Don't rely solely on your rage to propel you. You need to find a deeper purpose when you wield that sword.”

Gabriel wanted to say his purpose was vengeance, but instead nodded. He knew the man’s words were wise, but he couldn’t trust himself. He feared what he would be without the hate that seemed to stick him together like glue. I’m fractured. Broken. I will make do with what I have.

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Gabriel emerged from the tent into the soft embrace of twilight, a shroud of bluish gray that settled over the army encampment each evening. His daily routine had settled into a tiring yet predictable pattern over the past moon cycle.

Each dawn found him squaring off against Atlas in a practice ring churned to mud by countless footfalls. Avis—and even Olof—would sometimes join them, adding critiques and pointers. Olof mostly communicated through knowing nods or disapproving shakes of his head.

After mornings that left him drenched in sweat and mud, Gabriel became a camp errand boy. He hurried around, distributing messages, assisting the smithy with minor repairs, and occasionally peeling potatoes for the cook. Yet the heart of his day was with the soldiers: grooming horses with care, hoisting the heavy canvas to erect tents, and digging latrine holes that were sometimes, he suspected, unnecessary.

Gabriel had a dual motive for throwing himself so thoroughly into these tasks. Partly, he wanted to impress—to etch a reputation of reliability and dedication into the minds of these men who held the keys to a different life for him. But there was also a more pressing need—sheer exhaustion. Sleep had become his elusive foe. Hours would pass as he lay in his bedroll, eyes clenched shut, yet it would not come. And when rest finally did grace him, it was only to torment him with the nightmarish reveries of a past he couldn't escape. Nighttime had transformed from a haven of rest to a theater of horrors.

Caught in this torturous limbo, he was granted neither the sleep his body desperately yearned for, nor the clarity to engage in anything meaningful. But there was one thing that could pull him out of this mental quagmire—the sword.

Guided only by the dim light of Victra’s Champions—the constellation of stars that had been his silent companions on so many restless nights—he unsheathed his blade. Gabriel began his solitary practice with his bare feet rooted in the cool, dew-kissed earth. Each maneuver—every thrust, parry, and swing—was a tapestry of the techniques and wisdom imparted to him by Atlas and Ser Rodrick. These movements were not just rote repetition but a synthesis of the countless drills and sparring sessions he had partaken in, both in the military encampment and the training yards of Accamania. Every sweep of his blade wove together the dual legacies of his martial education.

Just as he was about to let the exhaustion claim him right there, he noticed a silhouette approaching, its form made intermittently visible by the flickering flames of the nearby campfires.

Commander Galland emerged from the shadows, starkly contrasting his usual armored presence. He wore a cloak and the casual attire lent him an air of relaxation—so at odds with the stern demeanor he usually exhibited among his troops.

“Commander, sir,” Gabriel said, offering a salute by placing two fingers over his heart. The gesture made him reflect on their two kingdoms' subtle cultural similarities and differences—so much was the same, yet uniquely distinct, like close siblings estranged by circumstance. Fingers over the heart rather than a clenched fist; a minor variation, yet a poignant reminder of their once united heritage before the ceaseless cycle of violence cleaved their peoples apart.

“Why aren't you in your tent?” the commander queried.

“Couldn't sleep, sir,” Gabriel replied.

The commander paused as if weighing his following words carefully. “So, you thought to train instead?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. Let's see what you've got.”

Feeling a sudden rush of nervous energy, Gabriel wiped his sweaty palms on his pants, mentally bracing himself.

He placed the sword before him and then did the same movements. Eager to impress, Gabriel took up his stance, mindful of every detail. He wanted to demonstrate precision, to prove that his countless hours of relentless practice had melded him and the sword into a singular entity. With calculated footwork anchoring him, he unleashed a flurry of swings and thrusts, each action propelled by the total commitment of his body. Sweat cascaded down his face, stinging his eyes and soaking through his tunic, but he pressed on. The sword cleaved the air in a series of whistling arcs. As he moved, he felt a unity of purpose and a clarity of mind he rarely experienced. His movements felt like a prayer for peace and a declaration of war against his inner demons.

Finally, he paused, gasping for air, his muscles trembling from the exertion.

“You're quick,” Commander Galland observed, breaking the silence, “but your swings lack strength and precision.”

“Yes, sir. It's something I'm actively working on,” Gabriel responded.

“And how do you plan to address it?” Commander Galland inquired.

“I've been focusing on bodyweight training, pushing my limits to build strength, and eating more to gain muscle.”

“Your approach is sound, but muscles also need rest to recover and grow. Overtraining will do more harm than good,” the commander advised.

Gabriel looked perplexed; the concept contradicted everything he'd believed. The more you train, the stronger you get. Sensing his confusion, the commander added, “It’s a principle we learned at the academy.”

“What’s the academy like, sir?”

“It’s a crucible that forges the toughest souls you'll ever encounter, a grueling environment where true warriors are sculpted from raw potential. While the journey is harsh, the bonds you form make it feel like a family.”

“What must I do to gain admission?”

“Know that shattered bones will be the least of your worries. The brutality you'll face will make your current regimen seem like child's play.”

“That doesn't deter me. I need the best to train me.”

“Why is that?” the commander probed, locking eyes with Gabriel.

It was a simple question, but one fraught with complexities Gabriel wasn't ready to disclose. “I aim to protect those I love and never again be crippled by my weakness.”

The commander looked thoughtful for a moment before speaking. “Tell Atlas that you have my permission to join the soldiers’ training in the morning.”

Gabriel's stood up straighter. “Thank you, sir.”

With a nod of approval, Commander Galland turned and disappeared into the encampment, leaving Gabriel alone under the night sky again.