Gabriel stretched his arms and legs, savoring the pull of his honed muscles and taut tendons. Each sensation served as a reminder of the transformation he had undergone, and he felt… proud. Once skinny, his body was now a living testament to the ordeals he had faced. Each skirmish leaving an indelible mark on more than just his skin. His rigorous training and harrowing experiences had shaped him into a more formidable warrior—stronger, hardier, and sculpted in both physique and will. It felt like each trial had reforged him, tempering his resilience and resolve just as much as his muscles.

“We’ll arrive at King’s Crest on the morrow,” Commander Galland said. “You’ll need to fight better to get into the academy, though,” he added with a smile.

“Little Wolf will make it,” Atlas said.

“I wonder how much longer we can call Little Wolf, ‘Little,’” Avis quipped. His humor was back, albeit forced, as if feigning normality could make it true.

In the last three moon cycles since the battle, Gabriel had heeded Atlas's advice, eating heartily, to fortify his strength and contribute to his growth. The results were evident; he was stockier than ever, and he'd clearly hit a growth spurt. He had outgrown many of his old clothes. Though he was still the smallest among them, he was catching up.

Gabriel nodded, more to himself than any of his friends. "I'll make it."

“Well stop talking and start practicing,” Galland said.

Gabriel could have mentioned that he was the one that initiated the pause in their training, but he chose not to. After all, Galland was still his superior, even if lately he had been treating Gabriel more like a protégé than a mere soldier. The commander had involved him in various tasks, elevating him to the role of his scurry boy in the camp. Gabriel was now tasked with carrying essential messages, and they frequently engaged in discussions about military tactics and the nuances of command.

Although eager to grasp the many complexities of military leadership, Gabriel often felt overwhelmed. The detailed briefings on supply chain logistics alone made him rub his temple in confusion. The intricate workings of the army were baffling at times, yet invaluable as a learning experience. Each lesson gave Gabriel a more profound understanding of the enormous enterprise he was a part of, teaching him its complications and its necessities.

Gabriel harbored profound respect for Commander Galland, especially for the man’s skill in applying rational, even-handed logic when human lives hung in the balance. In a recent conversation within the canvas walls of the command tent, Gabriel had ventured to ask how the commander bore the emotional toll of constant loss while maintaining such steadfast determination.

Commander Galland had been candid. "If you lead with your heart instead of your head, you'll end up causing more harm than good. The harsh reality is that any decision you make might spell life or death for your soldiers. But that's a burden that comes with command. My solace comes from knowing that if it weren't me in this role, it might be someone less equipped to make the tough decisions. So, I take the responsibility with a heavy but resolute heart. Yet, even if the weight of these choices haunts you, which it always does, it's crucial never to let that doubt seep into the men's perception of you. If their leader falters in confidence, what becomes of their own?"

The commander had given him much to think about. But that was no excuse for Gabriel to be distracted now.

"High Eagle!" Galland's voice boomed.

With both hands gripping the hilt of his sword, Gabriel lifted the blade high above his head, assuming the designated stance. With a swift, powerful swing, he brought the sword crashing down before seamlessly resetting to his initial position.

"Good," Galland acknowledged before bellowing, "Low Stance!"

Gabriel assumed a crouched stance, his weight expertly distributed between the balls of his feet and the open palm of his left hand. His right hand gripped his sword, its blade angled back, poised like a coiled spring ready to release its pent-up energy. In a burst of speed, he propelled himself forward—part leap, part charge—closing the distance to Galland in the blink of an eye.

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“Good,” Galland said.

Though well-acquainted with the monotonous grind of training, Gabriel found that the intensity of recent days had ramped up to a nearly unbearable level. The first moon cycle after the battle had been a protracted interlude of anxiety and recovery, marred by the daily toll of dying soldiers. Each dawn brought fresh sorrow as they counted the newly fallen.

Gabriel's mornings oscillated between sessions with Commander Galland and Atlas. Occasionally, Olof would inject himself into the regimen. Each instructor provided a different facet of martial expertise. Despite his bandaged leg, Avis would limp over to a makeshift chair to offer tips and encouragement. Afternoons were equally hectic, filled with collective drills among the soldiers and assorted tasks around the encampment.

Their caravan resumed its uphill trek back to the capital during the subsequent moon cycle. Mornings remained reserved for disciplined practice with Galland, while evenings were dedicated to refining techniques under Atlas's discerning eye.

As part of what had become an almost ritualistic pre-sleep routine, he tried to touch upon the mysterious force that had awoken within him. But the power hovered tantalizingly at the periphery of his consciousness. Despite his best efforts to harness it, that power remained frustratingly out of reach, safeguarded like a puzzle he had yet to decipher. He didn’t know if the power was out of reach for him, or if the fear of the power kept it at bay.

Every setback only steeled Gabriel's resolve to push his limits. When exhaustion weighed him down, he found the strength to rise again. As pain gnawed at his limbs, he channeled it into fuel for his relentless pace. If sorrow enveloped him, he swung his sword as if each strike could cut through his emotional fog. Whenever anger boiled within, he found solace in the disciplined motions of practice. And in moments of worry, his fingers instinctively found their way to his necklace, drawing a sense of grounding and purpose from it.

He was driven by a singular, relentless ambition—to secure a spot in the academy. Gabriel viewed this arduous journey as the only potential path to achieve his goals.

“Time for some sparring now,” Galland announced.

The clash of steel filled the air as they engaged. Gabriel ducked and weaved, struck and parried. His movements had become swifter, his strikes more precise, and his overall strength noticeably improved.

"Better," Galland commented, nodding his approval.

Despite the progress, Gabriel had yet to score a hit on Galland in all their time of training. His blades had never once found their mark on the seasoned commander. He found comfort in his growing defensive capabilities. His sparring bouts lasted longer; his blocks and parries grew increasingly influential at staving off the inevitable blow. While not yet a triumph, it was at least a tangible mark of progress, a minor victory he clung to as he navigated the chasm between his current abilities and his aspirations.

“I still don’t understand how you crossed blades with two Paresh at once and even killed one of them,” Galland said.

Despite substantially improving his combat skills, Gabriel sensed a lingering disappointment among his mentors. Based on his current abilities, there would be no way he could battle against one Paresh, let alone two. How could he stop them but not be able to land a single blow on Galland? It raised the question that he could never truthfully answer.

“Neither do I,” Gabriel replied.

“They say that Victra can bless brave warriors in their greatest moments of struggle. Maybe that’s what happened,” Avis said.

Gabriel knew it was nothing to do with that, but rather the strange metal hanging around his neck. He heard a chuckle escape from Olof. But looking at Atlas, he seemed to believe what Avis said.

“Don’t get me wrong, lad, you’re improving. I’ve rarely seen such improvement in such a short amount of time. But you’re still behind the boys that will be in the academy,” Galland said.

Gabriel’s lips stretched into a wistful smile. “I used to despise it, you know—the violence when wielding a sword. I hated the emotions it stirred within me. Then, my world turned upside down when my parents were killed. I didn't fight back; I ran away like a coward. Since then, I vowed never to be so weak again. They may be better than me now, but none have been through what I’ve been through, seen what I have seen. I will become better than each one of them."

"There's no way our Little Wolf won't make it in," Avis declared with unwavering confidence. Gabriel couldn't help but smile at his friend's steadfast belief in him.

Galland, lost in contemplation, rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully. "Just how old are you?"

"I turned thirteen just three days ago, sir. Sorry for lying to you," Gabriel confessed sheepishly. So much had happened in the last year, so much pain and loss. He didn’t want to acknowledge his Name Day.

Galland chuckled. "Happy Name Day." Then, with a warm smile spreading across his face, he added, "You’ve done all the training you can. Rest now. We'll have a proper celebration tonight."