Tarrin stood motionless in the crisp morning air.
His right arm had finally stopped bleeding, wrapped tightly in its sling, while his left still gripped the training sword—the same one that had carved through thousands of strikes in the hours before dawn.
It was nearing seven.
A few soldiers had already begun filtering out onto the grounds, their movements sluggish.
Most, however, were still asleep—granted the rare privilege of rest after last night's chaos, and wisely choosing to take it.
Tarrin hadn't slept a single minute.
That much was obvious from the strange looks he received. Half-curious, half-wary.
He stood among the early risers like a statue, streaked with sweat and resolve, his eyes dull with fatigue but sharp with something colder.
Maybe it was the repetition—hundreds of the same motion drilled into muscle and mind—or maybe he was just too far gone, too exhausted to think at all.
Either way, something in him had settled.
When the clock finally ticked over to seven, he swung one last time. A final arc. Then he returned the sword to where he'd found it and headed back inside.
The shower was quick. Cold, efficient, and enough to scrub away the worst of the grime.
Within minutes, he was seated in the mess hall, tray in hand, poking at his breakfast in silence at an empty table.
A few bites in, familiar footsteps echoed across the hall. His usual group had finally emerged from their bunks, eyes puffy and movements heavy with sleep.
They spotted him quickly and trudged over, collapsing into chairs with groggy sighs.
"Good morning," they mumbled in unison.
Tarrin offered a tired smile. "Morning."
He scanned each of their faces in turn, then smirked. "Y'all look like hell."
Lena stretched with a wince, scowling at him through barely-open eyes. "Not my fault the bed tried to kill me in my sleep. How do people even rest on those slabs?"
Lucas, rubbing the bridge of his nose—still missing his signature glasses—grunted. "You'd better get used to it. Sleeping out in the wild makes these beds feel like luxury."
They all chuckled weakly, the sound more fatigue than amusement. The tension of yesterday still hung in the air, but for now, they were together—and alive.
Then, without warning, a voice echoed from the front of the hall.
"In an hour, please gather at the main courtyard. Don't be late."
Tarrin's head snapped toward the source. A short man stood near the entrance, dressed in regulation attire, his raven-black hair immaculately combed, his features so flawless he resembled a painted doll. Tarrin didn't recognize him—no name came to mind—but if he had to guess, the guy was probably some logistics officer. High-ranking, maybe, judging by the polished boots and the way no one questioned him.
"What's that about?" Riko asked, voice dipping low with suspicion.
Jayden, still half-asleep and hunched over his tray, mumbled without lifting his head, "Probably the official statement about yesterday. You know—'boost morale,' damage control, all that garbage."
Tarrin didn't respond. His eyes remained on the retreating figure, his thoughts turning.What are they gonna say? Who are they gonna blame? Really hope it's not me.
He turned his gaze back to the table—only to meet a pair of golden eyes.
Celith was staring at him. Her gaze flicked to his hand—his bloodied, calloused left palm, torn raw from hours of sword swings—and then returned to his eyes. There was something there, unsaid. She looked like she wanted to speak, but held herself back. Instead, she gave the faintest nod before returning to her food.
The rest of the hour slipped by in idle conversation and scattered bites of breakfast, gone like smoke in the wind.
Eventually, the group filed out into the courtyard.
Calling it "crowded" would've been generous. The place was packed shoulder to shoulder. Every available body on base seemed to be there—at least four hundred soldiers, all standing beneath the dull gray sky, murmuring restlessly. The air buzzed with unease. No one knew what was coming.
Thud. Thud.
The sound cut through the chatter. Boots on stone.
Heads turned. Silence fell.
From a balcony above, the Colonel stepped into view. Her uniform was pristine. Her posture, perfect. Cold authority radiated off her in waves.
Three others followed behind her.
Two Tarrin recognized immediately by the sheer weight they carried. The Sergeant Majors.
He remembered hearing about them just the night before during poker—legends around base.
Word was, they were the strongest Scarbound stationed here, both close to breaking through to Scarforged.
Apparently, six months back, they'd taken down a Shaped-stage Scarbane. Together. No backup, no artillery. Just the two of them and their blades.
And it hadn't been just any monster—it had been the Queen of the Hollow Peak. A spider the size of a house, notorious for slipping through traps like water and vanishing without a trace.
One soldier claimed it took a full month of pursuit just to corner her.
Tarrin wasn't sure if that part was true, but he knew one thing: these two were no joke. Especially when they were together.
But the third man between them?
The man between the two Sergeant Majors was bound in nothing but standard cuffs. No essence seals. Just plain restraints—something you'd use on a pickpocket, not a killer.
He swayed slightly, his legs trembling, his face bloodless. But he didn't speak. Didn't beg.
He was silent.
Utterly, unnervingly silent.
His lips were pressed into a thin line, his eyes hollow, as if he'd already accepted his fate—or simply didn't care.
'So that's who they're blaming?' Tarrin narrowed his eyes. 'He doesn't look like the type. Definitely not the mastermind. But that silence… that's not fear.'
The Colonel's voice rang out, crisp and unwavering.
"Last night, we lost forty-three soldiers."
She paused. Let the number hang in the cold morning air like a hammer over their heads.
Tarrin's stomach twisted. It didn't feel real.
"Forty-three men and women who stood where you stand now. Who ate at these tables. Who trained on these grounds. Who swore oaths to protect Luna—and died honoring them."
Her words struck hard. No theatrics. No sugarcoating. Just facts. Truth wrapped in steel.
And suddenly, the weight of it all settled on their shoulders like a second uniform.
"But don't be fooled," the Colonel continued, voice like a blade across ice. "This was no accident. The barrier should have held. It was designed to hold. But this man—"
She raised her hand and gestured to the supposed traitor beside her.
"—chose to conspire against his fellow soldiers. He committed the highest form of treason. But worse than betraying Luna—he betrayed the people beside him. He let them die."
The crowd below remained frozen. Every eye was fixed on the balcony. Every breath, held.
She turned to the man—Anthony Mattews, if Tarrin had heard correctly—and even from below, it was clear she towered over him, both in stature and presence. Her voice dropped to a colder, deadlier register. Not a shout. Not a scream. Just cold finality.
"Anthony Mattews, for the crime of treason, you are hereby sentenced to death. By my authority as Lieutenant Colonel of the Thirty-first Battalion, your execution will be carried out at dusk—by my hand. Beheading."
She paused for a moment. Let the words burn into the air.
Then she looked at him, eyes like frozen brass.
"Anything to say for yourself?"
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then—
A smirk.
Slow. Deliberate. As if he knew something they didn't.
The Colonel didn't hesitate.
Slap.
The sound cracked through the courtyard like a whip.
The man's head snapped to the side, but the smirk didn't fade. If anything, it deepened—just for a fraction of a second—before his expression smoothed back into blank submission.
The Colonel turned on her heel and walked back into her chambers without another word.
Silence followed. The man, still silent, was dragged back into the fortress by the two Sergeant Majors, his feet barely cooperating beneath him.
No one in the courtyard moved. A stillness settled over them, thick as fog.
Some looked stunned. A few remained unreadable—stone-faced as if nothing had happened at all. The rest looked angry.
Whether that anger was directed at the accused… or at something deeper… no one could say.
Tarrin's eyes lingered on the spot where the Colonel had stood, his thoughts racing, his expression unreadable.
Then he heard a whisper beside him. Riko.
"What a load of crap," he muttered, still staring at the balcony. "Like that guy could ever pull something like this off. The real one behind it all… they'll walk."
Tarrin didn't respond.
He just kept staring at the empty balcony.
'No time to hesitate, it's time to move, fast.' Was his only thought as he moved through the crowd, straight towards his new-found brothers from the night.
His eyes looked set. He had to became a player in this game, because being a pawn would sooner or later prove...deadly.