The line of conscripts crawls forward one shaking soul at a time. Garrick Tavis stands beside Xaden Riorson at the base of the final stairway to the parapet, stylus in hand, roster braced against the wind. Above them, the narrow stone bridge waits between the towers, half swallowed by mist and cloud, hungry as a blade. The first-years look exactly how first-years always look. Pale. Sweating. Trying not to stare at the drop. Trying not to stare at Xaden’s rebellion relic. Trying very hard not to die before they have even introduced themselves. “Name,” Garrick says, bored enough to sound cruel. The boy in front of him swallows. “H-Harlon Greaves.” Garrick marks the roster. “Next.” Another recruit steps forward. Then another. Some mumble. Some try to stand straighter when they notice Xaden. A few go stiff with fear when they realise who he is. Xaden barely reacts. He stands with his arms folded, shadows curling lazily around his shoulders, gaze flicking from face to face with the kind of cold assessment that makes people regret having bones. Garrick has known him long enough to know the difference between calm and controlled. Today, Xaden is controlled. Too controlled. Which means something is coming. “Name,” Garrick calls again. “Liam Mairi.” Garrick’s stylus pauses. He looks up. Liam stands in front of them, older than the boy Garrick remembers but still unmistakably Liam, all bright eyes and restless loyalty hidden beneath a soldier-straight spine. He gives Xaden the smallest nod, almost too quick for anyone else to notice. Xaden’s expression does not change. But the shadows at his shoulders shift. Garrick marks the name. “Mairi. Go on.” Liam moves up the steps toward the parapet Garrick watches him for half a heartbeat longer than necessary before turning back to the line. “Next.”