Reg woke early, and headed down to the dining hall well before first horn. He grabbed a bowl of gruel, and topped it with a sweet almond paste and some berries, before grabbing a seat near one of the huge windows. The crystal-grown patterns in the window pane turned the strong morning light into coruscating patterns that shimmered over the almost-empty dining hall.

Reg ate his breakfast slowly. A few full guards passed by to a nearby table, and one of the guards, flower-faced masked covering their face, gave Reg a nod as they passed. After they sat down at the nearby table, Reg caught small snippets of their conversation as they raised their voices: “the outer lighthouses,” “Pompy trusts the wall,” “muddy scavs gone mad,” and “false as stone.” Reg was unsure what the words meant, but the tone sounded frustrated. Houses made of light? A wall? Scavs were the Scavengers’ Guild. What was stone? And why would it be false? He felt guilty eavesdropping, but he still listened as closely as he could.

As the morning wore on, more of the cohort of recruits trickled into the hall to grab breakfast. Dugan thumped down at Reg’s table with two bowls of gruel saying, “Say this for the guard, they know how to feed a man.”

Reg mumbled assent through a mouth full of gruel. The food was better here than it had ever been back at the ranch, and his father was a fine cook. The thought felt like a small betrayal, but Reg still went back for seconds.

Reg and Dugan finished their meals and headed to the room that Captain Merrin had indicated yesterday. Reg could sense nervousness from almost everyone, even most of the elves.

As the horn sounded, Captain Merrin stalked into the room, followed by a cheery Commander Pompadon. She waited a few minutes for the last arrivals to trickle in, castigating each sharply. Reg could see how she’d earned the name “Swift-tongue.”

Captain Merrin raised a finger, and the room quieted immediately. “I’m going to read out the names of the failures. Please, pack your things and leave. You may apply again next year.”

The blunt words seemed to physically hurt Command Pompadon. He interjected smoothly, “Dearest Merrin, may I say a few words.” Without waiting for her assent, he continued, “Seeing all of your desire to serve the Eternal Tree gladdens my heart. Without brave citizens such as yourselves, where would we be?

“Sadly, not all of you are ready to join our noble Achivian Guard. Captain Merrin has consulted with me to come up with a list of recruits whom we feel sure shall thrive and grow under her tender gardener’s touch. Those who aren’t on this list, do not view this as failure: instead, think of this as a small detour on your path to finding a way to serve the Tree.

“I know it may not feel this way at the time, but being rejected from an opportunity that you’re not currently suited for is a blessing. Embrace that blessing. I shall be delighted to pray for guidance with any of you that question what you should do next.”

Commander Pompadon paused and beamed at them.

“Thank you, Commander.” Captain Merrin continued, “Now the list.” The names came quickly; Anderral Hart cursed softly when his name was called and headed out. Dugan’s name was called soon after, and he shrugged and headed out after Anderral. Gulla, a human woman with broad shoulders, followed Dugan soon after. Captain Merrin read through the list quickly, like she was trying to lance a goat’s boil before the goat realized what was happening.

Captain Merrin’s voice stopped and Reg stood there, stunned. He hadn’t heard his name. He looked around the room: nine elves’ names had been on the list leaving roughly thirty remaining, as had almost all of the non-elves. Dugan had been called, but Reg was relieved to see Annise, Trish, Val, and Yeva. Oakal, Dugan’s reticent lumberjack friend and Jashal, the short lad who’d failed the magic test with Reg, were there too. The rest were gone.

Captain Merrin waited for the last of the departing recruits to leave, before quieting the murmuring from the remaining recruits, “Look around. For the next year, these will be your classmates as you train to become an Achivian Guard. Not all of you will make it.

“Some of you seemed surprised by those we’ve chosen. We recruit for strengths, not lack of weakness. If someone stands in this room, it’s because they demonstrated something during the trials that impressed us.

“Many of your educations were woefully deficient. We took your backgrounds into account while assessing you, but if you don’t get up to speed quickly, you’ll be gone. Average performers will be pruned.” She glared at the non-elves while saying this.

“Now, this is your last to depart before saying your oath. I warn you, life as a guard is dangerous, and even those who survive are often marked.” She tapped the crystals in her eye-patch while saying this, and Reg found himself staring there and at her short horns. “The best healing can only do so much.”

She looked around the room seriously, “Now, does anyone want to leave before you take your oaths? Think about it carefully. Terms of service with the guard are for five years.”

Trish stepped out of the room almost immediately. Oakal followed not long after, as did a distractingly pretty elf who had often hung around Dun.

Captain Merrin nodded to herself, “Good. Now, the oath of the guard. Repeat after me.

“My life for the Tree.”

“My life for the Tree,” the recruits repeated in a rough chorus. Reg focused on the words, trying to commit them to heart.

“My spear and bow, a shield for boughs high and low.

“The Conclave’s word to guide and bind,

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Come thorn or canker, fire or wraith, our purpose rooted,

“that we might one day escape.” This line was repeated with a bit of hesitancy. Escape? From where?

“May I thus be bound.”

Commander Pompadon started clapping after the last word. “Excellent, excellent! May the Tree shelter you all in her blessed boughs. Now, I need to head to a meeting up the Trunk. I leave you in Captain Merrin’s excellent care.” With that, he headed out of the room, smiling and patting recruits on the shoulder as he went.

After he was gone, Captain Merrin started speaking again, “Commander Pompadon shall conduct a class on the history of guard that will go into more detail on what that oath means. At your graduation, you shall say that same oath again in front of the Conclave.

“Now, classes. We’ve come up with an individualized class schedule for each of you designed to ameliorate the worst of your glaring deficiencies while giving you opportunities to develop your strengths.

“Sadly, we only have a single year to carve you into shape. Your instructors will be severe; that severity comes from our desire to keep you alive. You have embarked on a dangerous fork, and we want you to see the end of it.

“Now, come grab your schedule and then meet outside in a half-turn for your morning run.”

Seeing his name written on his schedule was a relief. The entire time, Reg had half-expected Captain Merrin to point to him and tell him that he was on the list of failures too, and she’d simply forgotten to read his name. His schedule was full: Evocation; Arms (advanced); Archery (Remedial); Tactics; The World Below; and The Self and the Other. Most classes alternated days: the main constant seemed to be morning calisthenics and running. There were also large blocks on the weekends reserved for Practical Exercises.

On his way up the stairs, he compared classes with Val. She was in everything but Evocation and Arms with him. Her schedule instead had Basic Self Defence, Enchantment, Alchemy, and Advanced Magical Topics. Val was bubbly with excitement, and Reg felt much the same: they’d made it! He was still a bit shocked.

His excitement wasn’t even dampened by Fenjor’s loud comments during the morning run that “some deficients snuck in, but I’m sure they’ll be gone soon.” The run was light compared to the run they did the first day, but the calisthenic movements afterwards had his body aching. With both trepidation and excitement, he checked his schedule and headed down the staircase to Advanced Arms: time to see what the rest of the day would bring.

The vast cavern was dim and almost entirely empty. Fenjor was already there, chatting with Belladonna, a cheerful golden-haired elf who regularly hung around him. Their conversation echoed strangely off of the high ceiling. Dun was off to a side, moving through some slow stretches, his purple eyes reflecting some of the little light there was. The final member of their class, Abatha, jogged into the cavern panting slightly, right before class began.

Reg was excited to see what class would be like: what kind of moves would they learn? Would they get to duel more? Would they get to experiment with different weapons?

The Instructor of Arms limped across the cavern, spear in hand. His memory might have been playing tricks, but it looked like the instructor’s mask, carved in the shape of a weeping woman, seemed to have changed its expression slightly, and looked to be in more pain than it had yesterday.

The instructor’s deep rasping voice was as unsettling today as yesterday. Between each word and syllable, his overlong pauses were filled with echoes bouncing off the quiet cavern. “Weak. Slow. Clumsy. Not ready battle. Come.”

With the last command, he led them to the side of the cavern where strange implements, heavy sacks, and a spider silk line were all carefully organized near rack after rack of weapons. The instructor never turned his back on them, walking backwards the entire time, masked head looking around the room as he went.

Through pantomime, he had them all pick up a sack and rest it across their shoulders. He was particular about which sack each picked; Fenjor was given one that seemed twice as heavy as Reg’s, and Reg still felt his legs buckle under the weight of his. Bearing a sack, the instructor then demonstrated the obstacle course he wanted them to follow: long, lunging strides in front of the implements; jumps from leg to leg over a low bar; a sprint to the other end of the cavern and back; and slow squats with one leg cocked back and resting on a low table.

Reg’s legs burned from the start. The heavy sack on his back made the unfamiliar movements difficult. It felt like every few strides, the Instructor was poking a body part with a butt of his spear: his lower back, his left calf, his hips and then gesturing towards Fenjor, who seemed to be the most familiar with these movements.

When they finished the squats, the instructor gave them seconds to catch their breath, before saying “again.”

Reg lost track of the rounds. There were occasional breaks for water, but all too soon the instructor’s voice was rasping “again,” and he’d heft the heavy sack back over his shoulders and follow Abatha through the circuit. He could feel himself flagging and kept telling himself that this would surely be the last round. On one sprint, he was almost caught by Dun, and it gave him a jolt of energy to keep pushing himself.

When the circuit eventually ended, Fenjor was the only one not doubled over and breathing heavily, but even the muscular elf looked winded. They were given a few minutes to grab ladles full of water before the next torture began.

When rest was over, the instructor tossed each of them a heavy staff made of some dark wood with one end weighted down with thick rings. He then demonstrated the glacially slow movements he wanted them to make: slowly twirling the staff through positions that seemed designed to hurt the arms. Reg’s arms started trembling almost immediately. His shoulders protested as he held the staff forward in a lunge, his stomach burned as he had to bring the staff behind his back while arching backwards, muscles that Reg didn’t even know he had protested as he followed the instructor’s movements as best as he was able.

After this new round of pain, the Instructor of Arms silently adjusted Reg’s staff, removing two of the heavy rings. He did the same for Belladonna's, but left the other staves alone. Reg was too tired to be ashamed, and the lighter staff didn’t make the subsequent rounds any easier; it just meant he was able to do the motions more correctly.

The final exercises were calisthenic movements: arches, pull-ups, hanging leg raises, and other movements that seemed designed to seek out the few remaining muscles that hadn’t yet been completely broken by the workout.

The stairs back up were a trial by themselves. The five recruits went up them slowly. Fenjor was the only one to speak on the way up the stairs, complaining that they hadn’t had a chance to use any weapons. Reg somewhat agreed with him: how much use was sprinting or leg raises to spearwork?

At the top of the stairs, the same healer who’d met them yesterday after the trial met them again to give them recovery potions and informed them that going forward they should come to the infirmary after each lesson in Arms for the recovery potions and a quick check-up.

Reg downed the thick dark potion. The curdled goat’s milk aftertaste lingered in his mouth, but if it’d help at all with recovery, he’d take it and ask for another.

The five recruits limped towards the dining hall for lunch. After that, he’d see what horrors the rest of the classes would have in store: at least none of them could be worse than Advanced Arms.