As fate would have it, Willard and Apollyon found themselves grouped together amidst the array of recruits. As they stood side by side, surrounded by the anticipation of the upcoming trials, a camaraderie began to take root between them. The familiarity of a fellow face amidst the sea of unknowns sparked a conversation that carried a mixture of curiosity and shared purpose.

“Apollyon, it’s you and me against the world!” laughed Willard with a friendly grin, breaking the ice.

Apollo nodded, returning the grin. "Yeah, it's definitely a bit of a twist in fate”.

He found this oddly predetermined since the 2000 youths were actually split twice, first into Centurias which contained 200 individuals and once again into Contuberniums which further funneled the 200 into groups of 20 according to their assigned living spaces. All of which had both Willard and Apollyon in the same group each time. Group C4C10 was their designated squad code (10th Contubernium of the 4th Centuria).

‘Perhaps, its because we were standing beside each other at the time of organising?’ Apollo tried to rationalise, but he didn’t put too much thought into it, ‘Better a friend than a foe’.

Apollo and Willard stood side by side in their standardized uniforms, a visual representation of their shared path amidst the unforgiving world they found themselves in.

Their attire bore a sense of unity, simplicity and purpose, designed to equip them for the challenges ahead. Both wore grey tunics of a sturdy fabric, a neutral earthy hue that blended seamlessly with their surroundings. The tunics also had red shoulder straps which had a roman numeral of ‘I’ denoting their Tiro rank. The tunics were simple in design, emphasizing functionality over extravagance. Loose-fitting yet tailored enough to allow movement, the tunics hung just above their knees, offering a balance between mobility and protection.

A sturdy leather belt cinched each tunic at their waists, a practical addition that allowed for the attachment of pouches and tools. The leather bore the patina of use, suggesting that these belts had seen their fair share of adventures already. Beneath the tunics, both sported pants of similar material and colour, designed to endure the rigors of training and exploration.

Around their feet, black leather boots provided reliable support, each step a testament to their readiness for whatever lay ahead. The boots were well-worn, showing signs of previous wear and tear, hinting at the journeys these recruits would embark upon.

Insignias denoting the same Dragonspire emblem adorned their tunics on their upper left arms – a unifying mark that bound them to their shared purpose. These standardized uniforms, though simple in design, carried a weight of significance. They symbolized a fresh chapter in their lives, a journey towards growth, camaraderie, and self-discovery.

In the heart of the orderly Eretrian military youth camp, a sea of eager faces adorned with the mixture of trepidation and anticipation fill a large auditorium containing countless seats and a sizeable stage. The walls of the space, had several magical torches hanging high, casting a warm golden glow upon the surroundings, illuminating the young Tiros clad in their newly acquired uniforms. The atmosphere is palpably charged with a blend of anxiety and excitement, as these fresh-faced youths gather to absorb the wisdom of their seasoned decurion.

At the center of this stage stands a wizened decurion with greying hair, a formidable figure exuding an aura of experience. His weathered face tells the story of countless campaigns, while the scar that traces its way across his cheek serves as a testament to the battles he's fought and the lessons he's learned. Dressed in the same uniform that reflects the youth in front of him, he holds a gleaming gladius—symbolizing both the might of the Dracir and the instructor's intimate connection with its martial traditions.

Upon closer inspection, Apollyon could make out the roman numerical of ‘IV’ plastered on the decurions shoulder straps corresponding to the rank of ‘Principe’.

As he begins to speak, his deep voice commands the attention of every recruit present. He weaves his words with a mix of historical reverence and practical insight, transporting the listeners back in time to the heyday of the Dracir legions. His speech is rich with vivid descriptions, as he paints mental images of massive formations of soldiers moving in unison, shields interlocking like an impenetrable wall, and spears glinting menacingly in the sun.

He explains the intricacies of formations like the "Testudo" (tortoise) formation, where soldiers lock their shields together above their heads and at the sides, creating a protective shell against enemy ranged attacks. With animated gestures, he mimics the careful coordination required to advance as one impenetrable unit, impervious to the dangers of the battlefield with the help of nearby guards.

Next, he delves into the power of the "Triplex Acies," the three-line formation that maximizes the strengths of both offense and defense. He emphasizes the importance of maintaining discipline and cohesion, illustrating how a well-ordered unit can withstand even the most ferocious enemy charges.

The instructor's words are interspersed with tales of ancient battles with the Byzantines and the valor of the legionnaires who came before them. He shares stories of soldiers who stood resolute in the face of overwhelming odds, holding the line against wave after wave of adversaries. Each story serves as a testament to the enduring spirit of Dracir and the indomitable courage of its legions.

As he concludes his lecture, the instructor's tone shifts to one of camaraderie and inspiration. He reminds the recruits that they are now a part of a legacy that stretches back generations, entrusted with the duty to defend the honour of Dracir and its people. His closing words resonate in the hearts of the young Tiros, filling them with a newfound sense of purpose and determination.

With a final nod, the instructor steps back, allowing the Tiros to absorb the weight of his words. The auditorium buzzes with whispered conversations and excited energy as the recruits discuss the lessons they've just learned. Afterwards, the decurion gathered everyone in the eastern courtyard for practical lessons. The first thing he did was to organise the entire army of youths into 2 separate cohorts; each containing 5 centurias. An even split of 1000 Tiros on both sides.

With the sun now sinking closer to the horizon, casting long shadows that stretched across the training grounds, the decurion's voice rose once more, cutting through the buzz of conversations that had filled the air after the lecture. His commanding presence drew the attention of every recruit, who instinctively fell into formation, their faces a mixture of anticipation and readiness.

"Attention, Tiros!" the decurion's voice boomed, its resonance carrying authority that demanded obedience. "What you've heard in the lecture is just the beginning. The true essence of formational warfare is best learned through practice, through sweat and muscle memory. Today, you will experience the weight of a shield in your hand and the rhythm of marching in sync."

Apollo and Willard exchanged determined glances as they adjusted their equipment, standing side by side among their fellow recruits; each holding an iron gladius on one hand and a long wooden rectangular shield on the other.

{Iron gladius (Common): Attack 30-40 (Phys) ~ A straight shortsword composed of pure iron. Has a red oak hilt with a spiral design.}

{Rectangular wooden (Common): Defence 15-25 (Phys) ~ A red standard oak shield with an enlarged Dragonspire emblem on the front. Has a yellow yew outer frame.}

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The decurion's gaze swept over the assembled group, his eyes narrowing to ensure every detail was scrutinized. He stepped forward, now donned in his polished armour glinting in the diminishing light which covered his uniform underneath; his presence exuding a tangible aura of expectation.

"Tiros, you are about to learn the basics of the 'Testudo' formation," he announced, his voice firm and unwavering. "This formation requires unwavering discipline and synchronization. It's not just about protecting yourself, but about protecting your comrades as well."

With the gravity of his words setting the tone, the decurion demonstrated the initial movements with his attendants, his actions deliberate and precise. The Tiros watched attentively, their anticipation growing. Apollo and Willard mirrored each other's excitement, feeling the weight of the moment.

"Shields up!" the decurion commanded, and in unison, the Tiros hoisted their shields high, locking them together overhead.

Apollyon looked around and was astounded to see the majority of the Tiros capable of lifting up their shields with ease, true there were some that struggled to do so however, it seemed like the act of interlocking shields had inadvertently lessened the weight of individual shields as all the weight was shouldered by everyone in the formation.

He clicked his tongue in wonder, ‘These peasant kids sure are strong’ he remarked thinking about Willard’s stories of working the field and doing other physical activities. Of course, Apollo himself was comparable to the stronger Tiros due to his strict regime that he had been ruthlessly following. ‘Thanks to my recovery stat, I can recover much faster than your average Joe!’ he said narcissistically.

The decurion and his attendants moved among them, offering corrections and guidance. "Now, tighten the formation, overlap those shields. You should feel the unity, the impenetrable defence."

As the Tiros adjusted, the decurion's voice remained a constant presence, guiding and shaping the formation. "Remember, this is not just about tactics. It's about cohesion, trust in your fellow comrades, and your commitment to the legion."

The Tiros began to move, stepping in unison, shields held aloft, as they formed a tight, shielded wall. Apollo and Willard felt a surge of camaraderie with their comrades as they realized the significance of the formation – it was a symbol of the unbreakable bond that they were forging.

"March!" the decurion ordered, and the Tiros moved forward, shields held steady, forming a moving fortress. The ground rumbled with the synchronized rhythm of their footsteps, and a sense of purpose pulsed through their veins.

Despite the initial clumsiness, the Tiros gradually settled into the formation, their movements becoming more fluid and synchronized. The decurion's watchful eye never wavered, his guidance a steady presence. "Hold steady, Tiros! This is the essence of formation unity. Together, you are a force to be reckoned with!"

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the training grounds into a twilight glow, the Tiros continued their practiced march. Apollo and Willard exchanged a brief glance, their faces flushed with exertion and exhilaration. The weight of their shields felt like a shared burden, a tangible connection to the bond they were embracing.

In that moment, as the decurion's lessons came to life through sweat and effort, the Tiros embodied the ideals of Dracir – discipline, unity, and a commitment to the greater good. With the decurion's guidance, they were not just learning about formations; they were learning to be a part of a unit, a legion.

As the last rays of sunlight faded beyond the horizon, Apollo and Willard, along with their fellow contubernium, made their way wearily back to the barracks. The training grounds, once alive with the sounds of marching feet and clashing shields, were now shrouded in a serene stillness. The air was cooler now, carrying the promise of night's embrace.

Apollo's limbs felt heavier than before, the weight a constant reminder of the day's exertions. His steps were slower, his muscles protesting the strain they had endured during the practice of the Testudo formation. His uniform was dusted with a fine layer of dirt, a badge of honour earned through sweat and hard work.

Beside him, Willard's posture mirrored his weariness. His sandy hair was dishevelled, and his arm sleeves bore marks from the shield contact during the formation practice. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, a mixture of dirt and sweat smudging his skin.

‘Tenacious little bastard’ he mused shaking his head. Truthfully, he didn’t have many hopes for the kid beside him, he thought he would have to bear the weight of two shields earlier but much to his surprise; Willard managed to push his own weight about. ‘Peasant kids sure are a different breed of youth’.

The camaraderie among the Tiros remained strong, evident in the quiet exchanges and nods of acknowledgment that passed between them. Conversations were hushed, voices softened by fatigue. The barracks loomed ahead, offering the promise of rest and respite.

As they entered the barracks, the air was thick with the mingling scents of metal, leather, and the faint traces of dinner being prepared in the mess hall. The wooden bunks were a welcoming sight, and the soft glow of magical oil lamps cast a warm ambiance, contrasting with the cool exterior night.

Apollo and Willard selected their bunks side by side, their movements slow and deliberate. With a mixture of relief and exhaustion, the others began to peel off their equipment, piece by piece. The clatter of metal on wood seemed to echo through the space, punctuating the overall quietness.

Flopping down onto their bunks, they let out synchronized sighs of exhaustion. The thin mattresses were a welcome relief to their aching bodies, and they exchanged appreciative glances. Apollo's lips curled into a half-smile as he looked at Willard. "I thought you’d pass out” he said, his voice a mix of ridicule and half-heartedness.

Willard managed a tired grin. "No way! As long as I can make it to the feasting hall; I will continue to pry my eyes open!” he declared in anticipation.

Both of them chuckled softly, their laughter a release of tension accumulated over the day's training. Apollo stretched out his legs, the aches in his muscles slowly ebbing away. He glanced around the barracks, where fellow contubernium members were settling in for the night, their silhouettes hinting at various stages of relaxation and rest.

With a sigh of contentment, Apollo lay back on his bunk still, closing his eyes briefly. His eyelids grew heavy as weariness tugged at him, the day's training and exertion finally catching up.

But the tranquillity was soon shattered by a sudden eruption of voices, sharp and agitated. Apollo's eyes snapped open, his senses jolted from their peaceful reprieve. He blinked, disoriented for a moment, as he registered the tense atmosphere that had quickly descended upon the barracks.

A flurry of movement caught his attention, and he sat up abruptly, his heart rate quickening. At the other end of the barracks, members of his contubernium had gathered, their faces flushed with anger and frustration. Their voices overlapped in a cacophony of raised tones; their words indistinct but their emotions clear.

Apollo's gaze darted around, quickly picking out the main participants of the altercation. Two Tiros of similar ages stood at the center of the commotion, their faces contorted with a mix of resentment and ire. A tangle of arms and raised hands suggested a physical confrontation had been narrowly avoided, at least for the moment.

Amid the chaos, the barracks' dim lighting cast shadows that seemed to dance with the tension in the air. Apollo's heart pounded in his chest as he processed the scene before him. He could feel the undercurrent of conflict, a stark contrast to the camaraderie that had prevailed earlier.

Willard, too, had been roused by the disturbance, and he sat up on his bunk beside Apollo, his expression a mix of concern and curiosity. "What's going on?" he whispered, his voice tense.

Apollo shook his head slightly, his eyes still fixed on the escalating argument. "I'm not sure. Looks like some kind of disagreement." His brow furrowed as he observed the group, a sinking feeling settling in his gut.

The barracks' senior guard, a stern and seasoned soldier responsible for maintaining discipline, had also been alerted by the commotion, however he remained still observing the situation.

As seconds stretched into an uncomfortable silence, Apollo could feel the uncertainty in the air. The guards decision to remain silent was a strategic one, allowing the recruits to resolve the issue among themselves, a test of their ability to manage the conflict.

But Apollo sensed that things were about to escalate further. The recruit on the left clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white, and took a threatening step forward. The other recruit's jaw tensed, and he squared his shoulders in response. The standoff was reaching a dangerous point, teetering on the edge of physical confrontation.

Whispers rippled through the barracks as onlookers exchanged concerned glances, whilst others casted hushed enticements. The guard’s expression remained stern and composed, his stance a clear signal that he would only intervene if absolutely necessary. It was a pivotal moment, a trial by fire for the recruits, a test of their ability to quell the mounting hostility before it boiled over.

Amidst the tension, Willard leaned slightly toward Apollyon, his voice barely audible above the murmurs. "This could get bad, Apollyon. We have to do something."

Just as Willard was about to step forwards with the heart of a valiant lion; he felt Apollyon’s arm block his chest. “Wait for a few moments, lets observe first”.

Willard furrowed his brows, looking visibly confused before calming down upon seeing Apollo’s reassuring glance.

“Alright” he sighed disapprovingly.