Lorn Kael's Arc

Chapter 4 of 6

The eleven veterans trained inside the old fort's stone hall, but they fought as strangers. Lorn watched from the gallery. Cassandra Vex drilled alone in one corner, back to the room. Aldric Voss barked orders no one obeyed. When a spar ended, no one shook hands. Men wiped blades and drifted apart. They shared no name, no salute, nothing to hold them as one. A school full of rivals could not overthrow anything. Lorn came down to the mats. "Line up," he said. They did, slow and sullen. He walked the row. "You drill like eleven armies of one. The Empire counts on that. Alone, you're pensions and scars. Together, you're the thing they fear." No one moved. A tall veteran spat. "He trained us," he said, jerking his chin at Aldric. "And she won't stand near him." Cassandra's hand went to her belt. The room tightened. Aldric spoke first. "He's right to hate me." The hall went quiet. The old torturer set down his cup. "I broke men for the Empire. Now I teach you so it never breaks you again. That's the only trade I have." He looked at Cassandra. "You want my methods to bury them. Take them." She held his stare, then gave one hard nod. It was not forgiveness. It was a truce the rest could see. Lorn seized the moment. He crossed to a covered bench and pulled back the cloth. Beneath lay a single forged helm, dark iron with a tall crest, colored lines running down its plates. "I made this," he said. "One mark. You each earn one. Not rank. Not blood. You earn it by landing a clean strike on the man beside you, then pulling him back up." He called the tall veteran and Cassandra to the mats. "Strike, then lift," Lorn said. They circled. Cassandra feinted and drove her palm into the man's chest. He hit the mat. Then she reached down. He gripped her hand and rose. The hall watched. Lorn stepped forward and pressed the helm into the veteran's hands. "First," he said. "You struck true. You pulled him up. Now you pass it on." The veteran turned and offered the helm to the next man. One by one they sparred. Strike, then lift. Each earned the helm, then handed it to another. By dusk the eleven stood in one ragged line, sweat-soaked, breathing hard, passing the iron between them like a shared oath. Even Cassandra clasped a man's forearm. Aldric watched from the wall, silent. A grin broke across Lorn's scarred face before he could stop it. He had eleven rivals no longer. He had a unit. Then the hall's far door opened. Silvain Crescendo stood there in his rich coat, face pale. "Lorn," the bard said. "An auditor came to my door today. He asked why a charity buys forged war-helms."