Sir Edric sat on a sun-ward stone, elbows on his knees, helt resting by his side, watching the chaos unfold with a look that hovered between boredom and contempt. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, churned earth, and the occasional bloodied nose, but none of it seed to stir much excitent in him anymore. He’d seen hundreds of people killing each other clearly in front of his eyes, so what were for him so tryouts shedding so blood?
His eyes, lazy and half-lidded, didn’t bother following every punch or kick. Instead, he let the tail of his gaze track the movents of his subordinates—each one dutifully watching the sparring pairs, nodding or shaking their heads like gods deciding fates. He trusted them enough. Mostly.
What drew more of his attention, though, wasn’t the fights themselves but the faces behind the fists.
It was becoming obvious now.
More passed from the villages than from the city, and it wasn’t even close. Despite the numbers between rural and urban recruits being nearly even—or perhaps the city having the edge—the countryside lads ca out on top almost every ti. Not because they hit harder or kicked better. But because they stayed standing. Took the beating and got up. Bit their tongues and fought like their next al depended on it—which, Edric supposed, wasn’t too far from the truth.
Now he understood.
The prince hadn’t spent all that coin and ti spreading the news of the White Army’s recruitnt in the countryside for no reason.
He wanted the ones who wrestled with oxen, who dug trenches through frostbitten earth, who could go a day with a half-loaf of bread and still split wood by evening.
"n forged by dirt and sun," Edric muttered to himself, crossing his arms, "and not by pillows and shade."
He leaned back slightly on his stone, one leg swinging lazily over the other.
The prince was right, of course.
Living a life that ant waking up before dawn to work land that gave only what you fought out of it... that built sothing in a man that no city wall ever could.
And that sothing was exactly what the White Army needed.
Edric’s brief spell of amusent—watching boys bleed for a dream—was cut short the mont he noticed soone staring at him. Not just a glance, but a persistent, uncomfortable kind of gaze. He turned his head slowly, eyes locking onto the man standing a few paces away.
"You got sothing to say, or do you just enjoy staring at other n while they work?" Edric growled, his voice low and gravelly.
The man jumped, clearly startled to be called out so directly. He was one of the clerks assigned to the camp—mid-thirties, thin as a reed, with ink-stained fingers and a nervous twitch that practically scread not fit for the field.
"I—I didn’t an to offend, ser," the man stamred. "It’s just... I was watching and, well, I noticed sothing I didn’t quite understand."
Edric narrowed his eyes. "Then spit it out before I lose interest."
The clerk swallowed, gathering just enough courage to speak while avoiding eye contact. "I’ve seen that sotis both fighters pass. Other tis only the winner. And in a few cases... even the loser. I was just curious, ser, about the reasoning behind that. I hope I haven’t overstepped by asking."
Edric held his stare for a mont, then arched a brow. "You finished your work?"
The man blinked. "Y-yes, ser. Finished it before midday. Thought I’d take a look at the recruits, just to see what sort of n we’re getting."
Edric snorted. "And what use is that to a paperworm like you?"
"I—I was just curious..." the man offered weakly, already regretting every life choice that brought him within earshot of the knight.
Edric let out a long sigh, rubbing his jaw. "If you’re going to bother a man like with questions, at least summon the balls to do it properly. Don’t sniff around like a dog begging for scraps. Make a damn point."
The clerk flushed red, nodding furiously. "Yes, ser., Sorry, ser."
Edric stood up, dusting his hands on his trousers as he walked a step closer.
"If you were a soldier with that ek little mouse voice of yours, you’d be dead before the first week was out. Out here, hesitation gets you a broken jaw... or worse."
Seeing the only man actually doing the job he himself despised look down at his boots like a scolded child, Edric let out a long, rough sigh that sounded more like gravel being ground between his teeth.
"Well," he said, scratching at his beard with the back of his glove, "since you did ask—and since you’re handling the bloody paperwork I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot spear—I suppose I can spare you a truth or two. So tell , smart man, what did you think we’re lookin’ for out there?"
The clerk hesitated, then offered cautiously, "I... assud you were testing for strength? To see who the strongest is?"
Edric let out a harsh bark of a laugh, more scorn than amusent.
"Strength? Strength don’t an piss when you’re a recruit."
He jabbed a finger out toward the circle of fights—where bloodied boys wrestled like dogs in the dust, so roaring with rage, others silent and focused.
"You give a weak boy, and I can feed him right, drill him proper, and turn his body into sothing worth swinging a blade. Strength is easy to make. But grit?" He tapped his temple with a finger. "That you either have or you don’t."
He turned his gaze back toward the clerk, voice low and iron-heavy.
"These fights—they’re not to see who hits the hardest. They’re to see who gets hit and doesn’t break. Who gets the air knocked outta them, blood in their mouth, and still claws their way back up. Doesn’t matter if they win. Hell, most of the ones who pass are the ones who lose, but keep fightin’ anyway."
Edric leaned on the hilt of his sword, eyes distant.
"A man who isn’t scared of a punch won’t flinch when steel whistles for his skull. He won’t backpedal when arrows fall like rain or when the man next to him starts screaming for his mother. He’ll stand, because it’s in his bones to do so."
He sniffed once, then added, "That’s what makes the White Army strong. Not polished swordsmanship. Not fancy cavalry drills. We’re not knights—we weren’t raised in castles. Most of us co from pig farms and pisshole villages. But when the sky falls, we don’t run."
The clerk listened, brow furrowed, absorbing every word. Edric noticed, and despite himself, softened just a little.
"We’re not looking for stones," he said, voice quieter now. "Stones crack under pressure. We want clay—sothing we can mold with pain, shape with discipline, and harden with fire."
He stepped closer, looking the man square in the face.
"The prince doesn’t pamper us because we’re pretty. He gives us silver, land, a na our kin can be proud of—because he knows what he’s buying. He’s not building an army of warriors. He’s forging a weapon."
Edric looked back at the fighting circles as two more boys locked arms, neither willing to fall.
"He wants soldiers who won’t waver, even when the gods themselves seem to curse the field. He wants n who stare into the abyss and don’t blink."
A gust of wind stirred the dust around them, and Edric spoke again, almost to himself now, voice steady as stone.
"To serve in the White Army is to be a blade—shaped in silence, hardened in blood, and sharpened by purpose."
He looked back at the clerk with a small, grim smile.
"Strength may carry a man to the fight. But only courage keeps him there."
Edric gave the man one last look—ek, wide-eyed, and still processing what he’d just heard—before letting out a grunt and shifting where he sat on the stone.
"Well, since you’re done with your scribbling," he muttered, "you can bloody well do sothing useful."
The clerk straightened slightly, hopeful.
"Go to the cooks," Edric said, jerking a thumb toward the far end of the camp. "Tell them Sir Edric wants the soupiest, most miserable slop they can conjure. Make it hot—scalding hot. Not warm, not steaming—boiling. I want every damn bowl to fog up the nose and lt the tongue."
The man blinked, baffled. "Soup?"
Edric raised an eyebrow at him, already irritated again. "What? Never heard of soup, lad?"
"No, I an... why?"
"You’ll find out in the morning," Edric replied, voice lowering into a gravel-dry drawl. "If you’re curious enough, I’ll wake you up myself and let you see why. Might be educational, even for a paperworm like you."
He then waved the man off with the grace of a catapult firing a rock.
"Now get goin’ before I decide you’re wasting air."
The clerk scurried off with nervous little steps, glancing back once—only to et Edric’s glare. That was enough to send him marching faster, vanishing behind the supply tents.
Left in peace once more, Edric turned his gaze back to the dusty training ground, his arms folding over his chest as his eyes swept over the recruits still brawling and bleeding in the circles.
He watched a boy no older than fifteen get knocked flat by a taller brute, and the pitiful way he scrambled back up—lips trembling, fists shaking, cheeks flushed not from exertion but sha.
Edric exhaled through his nose.
Poor bastards. But it has to be done.How sad it is that to make you into n, we’ve got to rip out everything soft and human first.
To make a soldier, he thought, one don’t just need clay—he need wet clay. Malleable. Pliable. Willing to be shaped. And that ant breaking down every wall they’d ever built around themselves—the sha, the pride, the stupid little rules they’d learned from schoolmasters, priests, and mothers.
To be a true soldier ant you didn’t flinch when naked. Didn’t hesitate when ordered. Didn’t sulk or snap or second-guess when soone shoved your face into the dirt. A soldier yielded, until the hands that molded him hardened him into sothing worthy.
He looked at them again—these raw boys and weathered villagers—scratching, spitting, throwing punches too wild to land clean. Not warriors. Not yet.
But so of you will be, he thought, watching one scrawny recruit get knocked flat and rise again, blood on his teeth and murder in his eyes.
The best warriors that the White Army will ever get.
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