The Ironford UF Base was already awake.

  The courtyard stretched wide and uneven, a massive open field of churned dirt and concrete plates where Wardens and a single Bulwark moved like beasts through fog and dust. Hydraulic legs hissed. Armor plates were lifted and locked back into place. Weapon pods were dragged across the ground by crews shouting measurements and curses.

  Crates were everywhere—stacked, scattered, overturned. Some held ammunition. Others were missing lids entirely and had been claimed as seats.

  UF soldiers passed through the chaos laughing, eating, arguing, white uniforms stained with oil and dust. Someone jogged by with a wrench in one hand and half a ration bar in the other.

  And sitting atop a crate near the center of it all was Guren.

  One leg rested casually on another crate, elbows on his knees, a cup of something steaming in his hand. Kael stood beside him, arms crossed, already talking about something serious that Guren clearly wasn’t listening to.

  That was when the three of them stepped into the yard.

  Rhys, Amélia, and Elias—each wearing fresh white UF uniforms, stiff and unfamiliar, the fabric still too clean for this place.

  Guren looked up.

  Then grinned.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” he said loudly. “They really put you in white already.”

  Rhys stiffened. “Don’t start.”

  Guren tilted his head. “You’re adorable like this.”

  “I will remove that smirk from your face.”

  Guren laughed, loud and unrestrained, and hopped off the crate. He clapped his hands once—sharp and commanding.

  The sound carried.

  People turned.

  Then gathered.

  Soldiers drifted closer, some hopping onto crates, others leaning against armored legs. Mara watched from a distance, arms crossed. Vera approached with interest. Irik sat down heavily with a crunch, already chewing something.

  No one saluted.

  No one cared about rank.

  Guren sighed theatrically.

  “Can I get just a little respect in front of the newcomers?”

  A few chuckles.

  Someone shouted, “You’re still short, Captain!”

  Another: “Fight him!”

  Guren rubbed his face. “Fine. How do you think we should welcome them?”

  The answer came instantly.

  “DUEL.”

  “DUEL.”

  “MAKE HIM FIGHT.”

  The word echoed, overlapping, laughing, unanimous.

  Rhys froze.

  “What—”

  Too late.

  The crowd was already forming a loose circle, crates scraping as people dragged them into better viewing spots. Someone whistled. Someone else placed bets.

  Guren’s grin widened.

  “Well,” he said cheerfully, “democracy has spoken.”

  He reached behind him and drew his sword.

  The blade caught the light—long, narrow, slightly curved, its surface etched with faint hexagonal grooves that pulsed softly. The metal wasn’t polished steel; it was darker, almost matte, designed to disrupt and shear through liquid micromachines, preventing them from reforming.

  He tossed it.

  Rhys caught it on instinct, the weight surprising him.

  Before he could protest, Vera stepped forward, unsheathing her own sword and offering it to Guren hilt-first.

  “Don’t break him,” she said calmly.

  “No promises,” Guren replied.

  He rolled his shoulders, stretching like this was a warm-up.

  “Congratulations, Rhys,” Guren said. “Your first training session.”

  The crowd erupted.

  Cheers. Laughter. Shouts.

  Elias swallowed hard.

  Amélia stared, heart racing.

  And Rhys tightened his grip on the blade.

  This wasn’t a welcome.

  This was a test.

  The noise of the courtyard dulled as Rhys and Guren stepped toward the center of the circle.

  Dust crunched beneath their boots.

  For a moment, everything stilled—Wardens hissed in the distance, someone dropped a crate lid, a spoon clinked against metal. Then nothing but the space between them.

  Guren stopped first.

  Relaxed. Upright. Sword hanging loosely in his right hand, point angled toward the dirt. His left hand slipped behind his back, casual, almost mocking. A faint smile tugged at his lips, the kind that said he’d done this a thousand times and survived every one.

  Rhys stopped across from him.

  He held the sword with both hands, too tight. Knuckles white. His stance was wrong—feet uneven, shoulders tense, weight forward like he was bracing for impact rather than giving it. His heart pounded so loudly it drowned out the crowd.

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  Guren looked him up and down.

  “So,” he said lightly, “this is the part where you show me how wrong the UF is.”

  Rhys swallowed. “I’ll show you that my mother was right.”

  Guren’s smile widened. “Good. Prove it.”

  The crowd leaned in.

  “ROOKIE!”

  “ROOKIE!”

  “ROOKIE!”

  Rhys flinched at the chant, anger blooming hot in his chest.

  Guren glanced sideways. “You know,” he said loudly, “you could chant my name too.”

  The answer came instantly.

  “No one likes you, Guren!”

  Laughter erupted.

  Guren sighed, irritation flashing across his eyes just for a second.

  That was when Rhys moved.

  Not with skill—with instinct.

  He rushed forward, sword raised overhead, a raw, desperate swing meant to end things in one strike. The blade screamed through the air.

  Guren stepped aside effortlessly.

  Steel rang as Guren’s sword snapped up, deflecting Rhys’s strike sideways, the force twisting Rhys’s wrists painfully. Before Rhys could recover, Guren’s blade tapped his shoulder—light, precise.

  “That would’ve been your arm,” Guren said calmly.

  Rhys snarled and spun, slashing again, low this time. Guren hopped back, boots skimming the dirt, still smiling.

  “Too wide.”

  Rhys attacked again.

  And again.

  Each swing was fueled by anger—by memories of his mother, by the black fluid, by the words run away echoing in his head. His strikes were clumsy but fierce, unpredictable. One came high, the next low, another aimed straight for Guren’s chest.

  Guren blocked them all.

  Steel clashed again and again, sparks flashing as Guren redirected every blow with minimal movement, his left hand still tucked behind his back like an insult carved into flesh.

  “You fight like you think courage replaces technique,” Guren said, parrying a thrust and stepping inside Rhys’s guard.

  The pommel of Guren’s sword slammed into Rhys’s ribs.

  Rhys gasped, staggering back, pain exploding through his side.

  The crowd roared.

  Amélia clenched her fists. “Rhys—!”

  Elias took a step forward, then stopped, helpless.

  Rhys straightened, breathing hard. Blood trickled from a shallow cut along his forearm where Guren’s blade had kissed skin.

  “Is that all?” Guren asked. “All that belief?”

  Something in Rhys snapped.

  He charged again—but this time he didn’t swing wildly.

  He lowered his stance, let the sword follow his body instead of fighting it. When Guren went to parry, Rhys twisted, letting the blade slide, then slammed his shoulder forward.

  They collided.

  The impact surprised Guren—just enough.

  Rhys’s sword scraped along Guren’s side, tearing fabric, not flesh. The crowd gasped.

  Guren stepped back, eyes sharp now.

  “Oh,” he said quietly. “There it is.”

  They clashed again.

  This time Guren attacked.

  His movements were precise and cruel—short, efficient strikes aimed at joints, wrists, legs. Rhys barely blocked them, the vibration rattling up his arms with every impact. His muscles screamed. His hands slipped on the hilt.

  A strike slipped through.

  Guren’s blade cut across Rhys’s shoulder.

  Rhys cried out but didn’t fall.

  Instead, he gritted his teeth and swung back, forcing Guren to block again.

  “I won’t—” Rhys panted, “—run away!”

  Guren’s expression hardened.

  “And die for nothing?” Guren snapped, knocking Rhys’s blade aside and driving him back with a flurry of strikes.

  Rhys stumbled, nearly dropping the sword.

  Then he heard it.

  “ROOKIE! ROOKIE!”

  He roared and surged forward one last time, swinging with everything he had—fear, rage, belief, grief—pouring it all into a single desperate arc.

  Guren caught the blade.

  Steel locked against steel.

  They stood inches apart, swords pressed together, Rhys shaking with effort, Guren steady as stone.

  Guren finally leaned in, voice low.

  “You have heart,” he said. “But heart alone doesn’t win wars.”

  Rhys glared up at him, tears mixing with sweat.

  “Maybe,” he said through clenched teeth. “But it’s the only thing worth fighting for.”

  For the first time—

  Guren stopped smiling.

  And the crowd went quiet.

  Steel stayed locked.

  Rhys’s arms burned, muscles screaming as he pushed against Guren’s blade. His breath came in ragged bursts, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. The crowd faded again—there was only the weight of the sword, the nearness of Guren’s eyes, the thundering insistence in his chest that he could not yield.

  “Still standing?” Guren murmured. “Impressive.”

  Rhys answered with a roar.

  It tore out of him—raw, unrefined, full of grief and defiance—and with it came movement. He slid his blade along Guren’s, letting the friction guide it instead of fighting it, then twisted his wrists and dragged the edge forward.

  The blade bit into fabric.

  White cloth split open across Guren’s side, a clean line torn through the uniform.

  For half a heartbeat, the courtyard froze.

  Then—

  “OOOOH—!”

  “He CUT him!”

  “ROOKIE! ROOKIE!”

  The circle exploded with noise.

  Guren’s eyes widened—not in fear, but surprise. Then he laughed, sharp and loud.

  “Well, I’ll be—”

  He moved.

  Before Rhys could even breathe, Guren twisted his wrist, hooked Rhys’s sword, stepped in close, and drove his hip forward. The world spun. The ground slammed into Rhys’s back as the air was punched out of his lungs.

  Dust burst up around him.

  Guren’s boot planted near Rhys’s shoulder.

  A sword tip hovered inches from Rhys’s throat.

  Silence fell again.

  Guren looked down at him, smirk firmly back in place. “You did good,” he said. “Really. For someone who swings like a tavern brawler.”

  Rhys coughed, chest heaving, but he met Guren’s gaze without flinching. “I’ll… get stronger,” he said hoarsely. “Strong enough to wipe that look off your face.”

  The crowd erupted again.

  “YEAH!”

  “GET HIM NEXT TIME!”

  “Someone save Guren’s ego!”

  Guren sighed theatrically. “You’re all terrible.”

  Then he leaned in slightly, voice low enough only Rhys could hear. “I’ll be waiting,” he said. “Assuming you don’t die first.”

  He stepped back and sheathed his blade.

  Vera immediately pushed into the circle. “Alright, that’s enough,” she said briskly. “Move aside, rookie.”

  Rhys sat up slowly, still dizzy, as she knelt beside him. As they walked him out of the ring, Guren called after him, “Oh—and give the sword to one of your friends.”

  Amélia and Elias exchanged a look.

  Elias looked pale—eyes wide, hands clenched like he’d just watched someone almost die. Amélia noticed instantly, her expression softening as she stepped closer to him.

  Mara appeared beside them, arms crossed, gaze fixed on Amélia. “Give the sword to the girl,” she said calmly. “I’m curious.”

  Amélia blinked. “Me?”

  Rhys hesitated, then extended the sword. “Here.”

  Amélia took it carefully. The weapon felt heavier than it looked—its blade etched with faint channels and grooves designed to split and destabilize liquid micromachines, its edge subtly serrated at a molecular level rather than visibly jagged. It hummed faintly, like restrained energy.

  Vera pressed a cool hand to Rhys’s arm. “Hold still.”

  She squeezed a small vial and spread a translucent green gel over his cuts. The sensation was immediate—cool, then warm, then a strange tingling as the pain began to fade. The torn skin knit together before his eyes, not perfectly, but fast enough to make him stare.

  “What—” Rhys breathed.

  “Effective stuff,” Vera said casually, wiping her gloves. “Best for small wounds. Don’t get stabbed through the chest though.”

  Rhys let out a weak laugh despite himself.

  Around them, the crowd slowly dispersed, still talking, still laughing.

  And Guren, standing atop the crate once more, watched Rhys with a look that was no longer mocking—

  —but measuring.

  Amélia barely had time to steady her grip before the noise came crashing down on her.

  “PRINCESS!”

  “C’MON, PRINCESS!”

  “SHOW HIM!”

  Her eyes went wide. “W–What?!”

  She turned in place, flustered, cheeks instantly burning as she took in the ring of grinning soldiers, some perched on crates, others leaning on rifles like this was their favorite morning show.

  “I— I didn’t agree to—!”

  “PRINCESS!” the chant grew louder, more playful than cruel.

  Amélia squeezed the hilt tighter, overwhelmed—

  “PRINCESS!”

  She froze.

  That voice.

  She turned.

  Rhys was on his feet again, bruised, still half-supported by Vera, grinning like an idiot as he shouted along with them.

  “PRINCESS!”

  Amélia’s shock melted into disbelief… then into a small, helpless smile. “You’re the worst,” she muttered, though her voice was fond.

  Guren didn’t smile.

  He watched her.

  Really watched her.

  The way she held the sword—awkward, yes, but not careless. The way her stance shifted unconsciously, feet adjusting, shoulders lowering. Not trained, but… familiar.

  His mind flickered.

  Train footage.

  Dark tunnel.

  A girl moving like a veteran, cutting through Vorl?ufer with terrifying precision.

  Too precise for a civilian.

  Too calm for a first-timer.

  Good, he thought. This was the right call.

  Better to have her here. Better to see her up close.

  Better to know what she really is.

  Guren stepped forward, boots crunching against gravel, and stopped a few paces from her.

  The crowd quieted, sensing the shift.

  He tilted his head, studying her like a problem he hadn’t solved yet.

  “Alright,” he said, voice light—but eyes sharp.

  “It’s your turn.”

  Amélia swallowed.

  Guren drew his sword again, resting it casually against his shoulder.

  “Show me,” he said,

  “what you’re made of.”