YAN

  THE TRAINING YARD REEKED of sweat and stale aggression. Yanick stepped into his own past.

  Boots slammed against packed dirt, muscles flexed in rhythm, and grunts tore through the air. The unit moved like a single beast. Scarred, callused, breathing as one, and quick to hate anything that didn’t bleed like them.

  He knew them well, even though he was seeing them for the very first time.

  Young. Reckless. Built like war was the only language they ever learned, and arrogance was its grammar. Shoulders back, eyes sharp, mouths twisted into smirks they hadn't earned.

  They gave him the same looks he hadn’t seen since the day Big Mike pulled him from the academy.

  The circle had closed. The time had come back around.

  He walked in, and silence didn’t fall. That would’ve been mercy.

  Instead, sound shifted, subtle and sharp. A ripple of mockery disguised as amusement. Chuckles. Elbows nudging ribs. Sidelong glances, slick and fast as knives.

  Yanick felt every cut of it. But he kept walking. He had no choice. These were the men he was supposed to lead. To battle. To war.

  The tremor had a mind of its own now. Fingers curled stiff. Bandages tight, soaked with healing balm. The excess dripped from his hand in thick, lazy drops, hitting the ground like they had somewhere better to be.

  He tucked it under his officer’s coat. Too big, too heavy. Weighing from his shoulders like it knew the burden of this facade.

  “Is it him?” someone muttered.

  “He was meant to be a hound,” another said. “But look at him. A mutt.”

  “Barely a puppy,” another one chimed in.

  And they all laughed. A hundred of young men. Raw and loud and cruel in that way only boys with too much strength and not enough pain can be.

  Or maybe it wasn’t them. Maybe it was the moon, laughing at him again. Just like it always had.

  Azrael didn’t stop them. He didn’t need to. This was the real test. He just kept walking alongside Yanick.

  He stopped only when Yanick did. Ten feet from the front line, where the spears moved in drills, fast and brutal.

  Yanick nodded once and Azrael gave the command.

  And just like that, a hundred voices fell still. A hundred bodies snapped to attention. The laughter died. The silence sharpened. They were listening now.

  The sun beat down on the yard, flattening every shadow and burning the sand into dust too fine to settle. The recruits stood in two rows, backs straight, hands clasped behind them.

  *

  Just like Yanick and other boys back in the academy, while their Master Commander, Sargos Venn, paced before them like a coiled whip. Lean, dark-eyed, and merciless in the way only men forged by a hundred campaigns could be.

  He stopped in the centre, boots grinding against the grit.

  “Pay attention,” he barked. “You’ve fought each other. Sparred with your brothers. Practised the drills of the interior legions. All fine work. But it will not save you where we’re going.”

  He picked up a long spear, almost twice the length of the cadets’ own, blackened by sun and use. Its tip had been blunted for the demonstration, but its weight and reach were no joke.

  “Those bastards don’t attack like we do,” he continued. “Why? Because their weapons are different. Their spears are longer. Those bastards live on the forgotten wastelands where they breed like vermin. They cross those wastelands, deserts. They don’t march through forests. They do not crouch beneath branches. They come from open skies and shifting sands. That means they can afford these.”

  He raised the spear. Let the shaft glint in the sun.

  “Longer. Heavier. Hungrier.”

  He tossed a glance toward the rows.

  “Erickson. Step out.”

  Yanick stepped forward. Younger. Thinner. That look in his eye like he was always trying not to blink first.

  “And you,” Sargos snapped, pointing at a bulkier boy beside him. “Play the savage.”

  The cadets snorted laughter.

  The other boy, Urlik, grinned as he took the spear. He was taller, already broad through the shoulders. He winked at Yanick, the cruel kind of gesture.

  Sargos stood between them. “Now. Those bastards angle their thrust differently. Not straight for the gut like our own. They go high first, then twist down, tearing you like a dummy. Why?”

  “Because it’s harder to block, sir,” someone muttered from the line.

  “No. Because it’s harder to live through.”

  He stepped back

  “Defend.”

  Urlik lunged

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  Yanick moved too late. Wrong step. Wrong pivot. The tip of the spear slipped under his guard and whump. Smacked into his shoulder, near collar bone. Hard.

  He staggered.

  Urlik didn’t stop. He twisted the shaft and swept it down, knocking Yanick back and down. He hit the ground with a grunt, dust blooming around him.

  The boys in the line laughed again.

  Sargos didn’t. He just stood over Yanick and said

  “You see the problem.

  He turned back to the line.

  “Our spears are shorter because we move through forest, among roots and branches. We travel by the water. We need to store our weapons aboard our ships. But theirs—” he jabbed a finger toward the long spear in Urlik’s hands “—make ours look like toys. Your current block won’t save you. Your guard is too tight. Your pivot, too shallow.”

  He looked down at Yanick.

  “This one forgot his stance the moment he saw something bigger than himself.”

  The laughter came again. Softer now. But sharper.

  “Get up, cadet,” Sargos snapped. “And next time, try not to make it look like you want to die. This is how it supposed to be done.”

  Yanick got to his feet, mouth bloody, pride gutted. He watched Sargos defend Urlik’s attacked as if it was nothing.

  *

  Yan, the Divine Wolf of god Ari, stepped forward.

  “Your practice is useless,” he said.

  Didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t flinch. Just stared past them, eyes fixed on the horizon like it might reveal something they couldn’t see.

  His heart hammered in his chest, but his feet stayed planted. Steady. Even. Like he wasn’t afraid. Like he wasn’t reliving every beat of failure they expected of him.

  “Hey, kid,” someone called from the back. “You sure you’re in the right place?”

  Yan the Hound didn’t answer. He turned to Azrael.

  “You got one of those uncut rods?” he asked. “The long ones?”

  Azrael blinked, caught off guard.

  “We do…” he said slowly. “But why?”

  “Bring one. Now,” Yan said.

  Not loud. But sharp enough to slice through hesitation.

  Azrael didn’t wait. He didn’t delegate. He ran himself toward the armoury, where the spears were stored, measured, and cut to regulation length.

  When he returned, he was breathless, carrying a long rod of raw wood, still rough, not yet sanded or polished.

  Yan nodded toward the ground.

  “Drop it here,” the Divine Wolf said and paced to one end of the rod.

  Then, with calm, even steps, he began to count aloud.

  “One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.”

  He stopped short of the rod’s end and gestured to Azrael.

  “Cut here.”

  Azrael didn’t ask why. Simply picked up an axe from the rack and swung. The leftover length dropped to the ground with a dull thud.

  “Shall I get it blunted?” he asked, brushing off a splinter. “For safety?”

  “No need,” the Hound said and turned to the soldiers. “This is the length of the spear our enemy uses.”

  Something shifted in the way they looked at him. Just a flicker. But he saw it clearly as their eyes met his now.

  “You.” The Divine Wolf pointed at blue eyed, tall youngster with broad shoulders.

  Perhaps it was the hardness in the boy’s stare. The contempt. Or perhaps because the soldier looked very much like Urlik. It didn’t matter.

  The boy hesitated, then picked up the spear with visible reluctance and stepped into the space indicated.

  The Divine Hound turned and held out his hand. Another spear was offered to him.

  He took it with both hands, intending to snap it clean in two, but the right hand failed. The grip wouldn’t hold. The tremor pulsed again, traitorous and raw.

  Said nothing. Showed nothing. Prayed in his head instead. For strength. Not to shine. Not to humiliate. Just enough strength to not fall apart.

  He prayed to Ari, not Luc. To the real god Ari. The one that did not exist.

  Yan prayed for help to not become Yanick again. Because Yanick desperately needed to be the Divine Wolf a little longer.

  He rested the spear against the ground and broke it cleanly with a single kick.

  Then, gripping the broken shaft, he raised the blunt end and pointed it at the young soldier.

  “Attack,” he ordered. “Aim for my throat.”

  The blue-eyed boy lunged. The long spear surged forward like a lightning, fast and true. Aimed for Yan’s throat.

  He stepped sideways. And the broken spear in his hands met the shaft in a perfect, ringing clash.

  The impact jolted through his arm like a bolt of fire. The right wrist screamed.

  He heard something. No. He felt something shift. Pop and tear. But he didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. The Divine Wolf stood the ground.

  The long spear slid past his face, grazing the air. Yan dropped low, twisted under it, and with the blunt end of his broken shaft, he hooked the long spear’s underside.

  He’d failed at it a dozen times in the academy. But not today.

  The right arm shook violently, the tendons stretched too far. The vision swam. Taste of copper in his mouth.

  Not now, he begged the pain. Just let me finish this.

  He pivoted hard, shoulder driving into the boy’s chest. Just like the Divine Hound would. The spear twisted between them, caught in the friction. Yan spun, the torque ripping through his wrist like broken glass. But he didn’t stop. He used the turn’s momentum to wrench the long spear sideways.

  A crack echoed across the yard.

  The long shaft splintered in two.

  The boy stumbled back, blinking in stunned silence, holding nothing but a jagged half.

  The Wolf stood still, broken spear in hand. Chest heaving. Arm burning.

  The moon, somewhere far above, laughed behind the clouds.

  But no one here laughed now.

  They stared. One hundred young soldiers who had called him a mutt. A puppy.

  They stared at the man who broke a long spear with a ruined arm. They stared with awe at the truly divine leader of their army.

  And Yanick didn’t let them see how close he was to passing out.

  ***

  HE PEELED OFF HIS TUNIC one slow layer at a time, teeth clenched against the friction. Every movement sent a wave of white-hot agony crawling up his arm and burrowing into his shoulder like a living thing. The tent flap swayed behind him, letting in cool night air and the stink of sweat, oil, and bad stew.

  He collapsed onto the cot.

  No ceremony. No dignity. Just a body trying to pretend it still worked.

  The inside of the tent was dim. Only a single lantern casting soft gold against canvas walls. His pack lay half-open in the corner. He fumbled through it with his good hand, pulled out a strip of cloth, a tin of ointment, a wrapped bundle of herbs that smelled like rot and winter.

  He unscrewed the tin, smeared the cold, bitter salve across the aching seam of his shoulder. The skin was tight, the joint swollen and hot. Purple shadows bloomed beneath the surface.

  Then came the pop. Not a loud one. Subtle. Sickening. Something shifted inside, just under the bone.

  He froze. Breathing shallow. Waiting for the pain to either fade or spike. It did both.

  He bit down on the leather strap tied to the cot post. Hard.

  "No," he whispered into the darkness, voice thin.

  The cot creaked beneath him as he leaned back, staring up at the tent ceiling. There was a hole in the canvas near the top. Through it, the night sky winked.

  And the moon was there. Laughing.

  And Yanick’s arm was broken. Again.