The air carries a familiar blend of things: oiled leather, fresh straw from the stables, the faint salt breeze from the harbor beyond the outer walls. And underneath it all, the constant undercurrent of Alpha and Beta pheromones mingling in the crowded space.

Recruitment day.

The courtyard is packed. Dozens of candidates stand in uneven rows before the main dais, their breath misting in the morning chill. Some shift nervously. Others stand rigid with practiced confidence. A few are barely old enough to hold a blade properly.

At the front of the crowd, a figure stands apart from the rest.

Smaller than most. Quieter, too. Their cloak is plain, their posture unremarkable—the kind of person most eyes would slide over without a second thought.

Their hands are callused, though. Their shoulders are set with careful precision beneath the modest fabric. And their eyes—scanning the crowd, the exits, the mounted knights, the shadow of the Crown Prince on the observation balcony above—are anything but unremarkable.

Captain Darrick Draven steps onto the dais. His presence silences the courtyard immediately.