At sunrise, a soft, golden glow spread over Fort Harjil, the wooden palisades catching the morning light like embers. Asil stood at the heart of the training yard, arms crossed, an imposing figure in her simple but sturdy gear. Five newcomers lined up in front of her—some visibly eager, others tense and uncertain. A smattering of seasoned fighters lingered at the edges, curious about the fort’s fresh recruits.

  Asil surveyed them with a keen, appraising stare. Her tone was firm but not unkind when she finally spoke. “Names—and if you have a specialty, speak up.”

  She pointed to the young man at the far left, notable for his round spectacles and a lumpy backpack overflowing with scrolls and books.

  “Eamon Ironwood,” he said, pushing the glasses higher on his nose. “I’m, uh, not a fighter, per se. More of a researcher. Demon lore, ancient battles… that sort of thing.”

  A slight frown crossed Asil’s face. “We’ll find a use for you,” she said curtly, though her gaze held no malice—only curiosity about someone with knowledge that could be invaluable. “Next.”

  Beside him stood a muscular woman with short auburn hair and a confident stance. “Cressa Ironwood,” she said, voice unwavering. “Close-quarters specialist—swords, maces… anything that lets me fight up close.”

  Asil observed Cressa’s strong build and the simmer of aggression in her posture. She inclined her head in approval. “Good. We can use more frontline fighters.” She looked to the next recruit.

  A lean young man with a sprinkling of freckles offered a casual salute. “Rowan Emberlight, scout and ranger. I’m your guy for tracking, stealth—getting out of tight spots.”

  Asil arched an eyebrow at his irreverent grin. “We’ll see if your mouth is as quick as your feet. Next.”

  The broad-shouldered woman with braided black hair stepped forward, calm and resolute. “Bethra Stonewall. Defensive tactics, primarily spear and shield.”

  Asil studied Bethra for a moment, recognizing the self-assured way she held herself. “A shield-bearer, then. We need that on the front lines.” She let the last recruit step forward.

  He was lanky, with calloused fingers and a bow slung across his back. “Gideon Thornfield,” he said quietly. “Archer, sir—ma’am.”

  Asil’s lips twitched in mild amusement but remained stern. “We’ll need every advantage we can get. Very well.” She stepped back, sweeping a hard gaze over them. “You’ve traveled long. Rest, eat. At dawn, training begins in earnest.”

  The newcomers broke formation, some wandering off to find a meal in the mess hall, others lingering to take in the fort’s surroundings. Eamon hovered at the perimeter, fiddling with a scroll half-sticking out of his backpack, while Cressa gave him an exasperated glance—though Asil noted how she never strayed far from his side.

  The established fighters—Frederick, Martin, Stewart, Baum, and Clive—observed the rookies with welcoming nods. Frederick, in particular, walked over to greet them, offering a few pointers on navigating the fort. The sense of camaraderie forming was palpable—even the older boys, once new themselves, knew how important it was to have allies in such a dangerous world.

  Asil watched it all from near the courtyard gate, arms still crossed, mind already planning tomorrow’s regimen. She spotted a flicker of fear in Gideon’s eyes and a flicker of excitement in Rowan’s. “They’re raw,” she muttered to herself. “But there’s promise.”

  True to her word, Asil stood in the training yard before the sun had fully broken the horizon. The five newcomers arrived in varying states of alertness—Bethra and Cressa with steely determination, Gideon stifling yawns, Rowan cracking light jokes about the early hour, and Eamon rubbing bleary eyes but scribbling notes in his battered journal.

  “Fall in,” Asil called, her voice slicing through the quiet yard. One by one, they lined up. “We’ll start with a spar to gauge your skills. Eamon”—she nodded to him—“you observe. We’ll find ways to use your expertise in demon lore soon enough.”

  Eamon bobbed his head, relieved and perhaps a bit embarrassed he wasn’t forced to fight. He settled on a wooden bench, pen poised above a blank page.

  Cressa was first, sword flashing in the early sunlight as she lunged at Asil with unabashed aggression. Asil blocked each blow with fluid precision. Cressa’s raw strength and speed were impressive, but the girl’s technique lacked refinement. Within minutes, Asil disarmed her with a deft twist, though not without earning a grudging nod of respect.

  “You’re strong,” Asil said simply, returning Cressa’s blade. “But you lack polish. We’ll fix that.”

  Cressa inhaled sharply, frustration warring with admiration. “Yes, ma’am,” she muttered, stepping aside.

  Rowan grinned as he faced Asil, adopting a light, springy stance. He darted in and out with impressive speed, feinting repeatedly. Yet Asil’s instincts cornered him before long. With a final surge, she pinned Rowan’s practice sword against the fence, forcing him to yield.

  “You’re fast,” Asil acknowledged, releasing him. “But you rely too heavily on evasion. You must learn to strike decisively.”

  Rowan raised his hands in mock surrender, an easy grin on his lips. “Guilty as charged.”

  When Gideon stepped forward, he looked uneasy without his bow. Asil tested him with a short wooden sword. He fumbled under pressure despite a few decent parries, and Asil quickly disarmed him. The flush on Gideon’s cheeks spoke volumes.

  “Your archery skills might be solid, but you’ll need a fallback if enemies close in,” Asil said, not unkindly. “We’ll find you specialized training with Loren.”

  Gideon nodded, swallowing hard.

  Bethra strode into the circle with an air of calm. Her spear and shield moved as one cohesive unit. At first, Asil assumed her usual advantage would surface quickly, but each thrust Bethra made was calculated and precise, each shield block near-flawless. Their spar escalated into a flurry of steel and wood; dust kicked up around them in swirling clouds.

  “Not bad,” Asil murmured, her heart pounding with genuine excitement. She ramped up the intensity. Bethra matched her, unwavering. Finally, Asil stepped back, breathing heavily, acknowledging the session was at an impasse.

  A slight nod passed between them, respect forging a quiet bond. She’s good, Asil thought, and might become exceptional if I push her.

  Throughout the matches, Eamon scribbled furiously, occasionally adjusting his slipping glasses. He’d glance at Cressa, a flicker of sibling exasperation crossing his face but also pride. As Asil approached him afterward, sweat glistening on her brow, she found the “nerdy” recruit had jotted notes on each newcomer’s style and potential strategies against demon types.

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  “Interesting,” Asil said, scanning his neat handwriting. “You’ve been busy.”

  Eamon swallowed, cheeks pink. “I—I just thought… knowledge of how demons fight might help us adapt their training.”

  A tiny smile ghosted across Asil’s lips. “Keep at it. We’ll need every advantage.”

  As the day wore on, the recruits found themselves forming a loose clique—united by the shared label of “newcomers.” Rowan’s playful banter balanced Cressa’s hard-nosed bravado, while Gideon tried to mask his nerves by keeping to the edges. Bethra kept mostly quiet, but her calm presence seemed to center them. Eamon flitted among them, notebook in tow, offering occasional lore tidbits that left even the fort’s older fighters listening in.

  Meanwhile, the established defenders—Frederick, Martin, Stewart, Baum, and Clive—stopped by to give advice or swap stories. A sense of welcome permeated the yard, forging an unexpected unity between novices and veterans.

  By sundown, the recruits trudged to the courtyard’s communal fire pit, fatigued but strangely exhilarated. They traded jokes and swapped bits of background—like how Rowan came from a coastal settlement or how Gideon had grown up on a farm, dreaming of archery. Eamon sat cross-legged, discussing demonic legends with any who would listen, while Cressa silently sharpened her blade, occasionally cutting in to correct her brother’s rambling facts.

  From a distance, Asil observed them, arms folded tightly. In the glow of the campfire, she saw potential coalescing. They were green, but they were ambitious—and in a world shadowed by Dark Woods and demonic whispers, that ambition might be the key to the fort’s survival.

  She allowed herself a brief, quiet moment of hope. Potential was everything. And in these new faces, she saw the promise of a future that might hold back the dark a little longer.

  The training yard thrummed with activity—clashing blades, shouted commands, and the steady scuff of boots on dirt. Abby picked her way through the bustling scene, her eyes landing on Frederick at the far edge. He was practicing alone, sword slicing the air in a series of sharp, anxious strikes. Despite his confident stance, there was an undercurrent of restlessness, as if he were battling invisible demons in his head.

  Summoning a mix of courage and hope, Abby made her way over. “Hey, Frederick,” she called, letting the natural brightness in her voice mask her fluttering nerves. “Mind if I join you?”

  Frederick paused mid-swing, lowering his blade. A friendly smile twitched at his lips, but a faint shadow crossed his gaze. “Sure, Abby. Always better to spar with someone than just… shadow-fight.”

  Abby slid her daggers free, adopting a loose, balanced stance. She knew her Shadow Dancer training gave her a speed advantage over almost anyone here, but she held back, timing her strikes carefully so as not to overwhelm him. Part of her wanted to connect—beyond just crossing swords.

  Frederick, oblivious to her deliberate restraint, started strong. Gradually, his jabs became more confident, the edge of self-doubt melting away. “You’re quick,” he said, grunting as he parried a slash. “No wonder Asil’s been investing time training you.”

  A pang stirred in Abby’s chest at the mention of Asil. Careful to keep her face neutral, she deflected another swing. “She’s an incredible teacher,” Abby replied, forcing a casual tone. “I’ve learned so much from her…” She trailed off, playing along with the pretense that her skill came from Asil, not the mysterious journal.

  Frederick halted for a second, gaze flicking across the yard. Asil was visible near the fort’s walls, instructing a group of newcomers. His expression lit with open admiration. “Yeah. The way she commands a fight—heck, the way she leads the entire fort’s training—is just… inspiring.”

  Abby tried to smile, though her heart sank a bit. “She’s something, all right,” she agreed softly.

  They continued a few minutes more until Frederick lowered his sword with a sigh, declaring the session a “draw.” Abby recognized it was more a concession than truth, but she let it pass. She only wanted to share a moment with him, even if his mind was clearly on someone else.

  “Thanks for sparring,” she said, sheathing her daggers. “It was fun.”

  “Yeah,” Frederick murmured. “We’ll do it again.” But his gaze was already drifting across the yard, seeking Asil.

  Later that day, Abby found herself in the mess hall, seated at a long wooden table with a steaming bowl of stew in front of her. She poked at it half-heartedly, mind lost in the earlier exchange with Frederick. She’d hoped to forge a more personal bond but ended up feeling overshadowed by Asil’s brilliance once again.

  Gideon approached tray in hand, shoulders hunched in typical shyness. “Mind if I join?” he asked, voice subdued.

  Abby managed a genuine smile. “Of course. Have a seat.”

  They ate in companionable silence until Eamon and Cressa arrived, carrying their own trays. Eamon, clutching a stack of books under one arm, offered an apologetic smile as he nearly bumped into the table.

  “Here—sit,” Abby said, gesturing. “More seats for more appetites, right?”

  Cressa let out a weary chuckle, dropping onto the bench with a thump. Her auburn hair was damp at the edges from the day’s training. “Long day, but a good one,” she declared, lifting her spoon to her mouth. “Feels like I’m finally not flailing around.”

  Eamon nodded, still balancing a tome in one hand. “Fort Harjil is fascinating,” he said, excitement coloring his voice. “The fort’s old demon-sighting records alone would fill up half my library. I can’t wait to dig further.”

  Gideon glanced at Eamon with quiet amusement. “You’re always reading, aren’t you? Even at mealtime.”

  Eamon shrugged, cheeks flushing. “Knowledge is power, right?” Then he flinched as Cressa ruffled his hair, smirking at her twin.

  “You’d better not forget how to actually survive a fight, bookworm,” she teased, though the fondness in her tone was evident.

  Abby laughed, the sound more genuine this time. She enjoyed watching the Ironwood siblings banter—Cressa’s straightforwardness balanced by Eamon’s scholarly enthusiasm. “You two are fun,” she said, setting her spoon down. “It’s nice to have different perspectives. Not everyone here is blade-obsessed.”

  Gideon nodded, his shoulders relaxing. “We need fighters, thinkers… everyone in between. That’s what makes a team strong, right?”

  The conversation meandered from training anecdotes to glimpses of life before Fort Harjil. Rowan’s jokes occasionally drifted from a nearby table; every so often, Bethra passed by and added a wry comment, fueling the friendly chatter.

  Abby found herself slowly forgetting her earlier disappointment with Frederick. She was surrounded by new faces that, in their own ways, were just as warm and intriguing. By the time she scraped the last of her stew from the bowl, a gentle buoyancy replaced her gloom.

  “You know,” Abby said, leaning back, “I think we make a solid group, even if half of us just arrived.”

  Cressa raised an eyebrow, retorting with a playful smirk, “We’ve known each other for like, a day, Abby.”

  “That’s how it works sometimes,” Abby countered, the corners of her mouth curving upward. “You meet the right people, and it just clicks.”

  Eamon smiled, nudging his glasses up his nose. “A band of misfit recruits—united by a bigger purpose,” he mused. “Has a nice ring to it.”

  Gideon chuckled, lifting his mug of water in a mock toast. “I’ll drink to that.”

  They clinked cups—water, ale, or tea—sealing a budding camaraderie. As the chatter resumed, Abby felt an unexpected warmth in her chest. While she might not have gained Frederick’s attention, she’d gained something else: new allies, genuine friends, and a place where she truly felt welcome.

  When dinner wrapped up, the group dispersed, some to bunk down, others to share a final drink by the hearth. Abby lingered at the table, staring into her empty bowl, thoughts drifting. She recalled Asil’s unwavering leadership, Jack’s playful cunning, Frederick’s subtle admiration for Asil, and now this new circle of recruits forging bonds around her. She thought we’re all just scrabbling for a place in this dangerous world.

  Rising, she gave Gideon a warm goodnight and patted Eamon’s stacked books in passing—earning a laugh from Cressa, who teased her brother about reading himself to sleep. The foursome parted ways, each retreating to their quarters or late-night watch duties.

  Outside, the fort’s torchlights flickered against the dark silhouette of the distant woods. In that gloom lurked demons, ancient evils, and the unknown. Yet for the first time since arriving, Abby felt a measure of confidence. With Cressa’s formidable prowess, Eamon’s wealth of knowledge, Gideon’s quiet aim, and her own talents, she sensed they could stand against the shadows creeping at the edges of Aerothane.

  And in that hopeful note, she silently vowed to keep pushing forward—no matter what heartbreaks or challenges might lie ahead.