Chapter 171

There’s that sharp, electric heaviness in the air, the kind that makes the hairs on your arms stand up, a warning that the storm looming overhead might tear the sky apart at any moment. The entire day has been charged with this restless energy, and you can almost taste the metallic tang of the coming rain in the thick atmosphere. The recruits seem to sense it too; their movements quicken, as if the weather itself is urging them to finish what they’ve started before the heavens open.

Out by the training field, Connor is busy, sleeves rolled up, gripping a hammer as he tightens bolts on the sparring posts with focused determination. Meanwhile, I sit on the cold stone steps of the armoury, methodically sharpening a knife I haven’t touched in years. It’s more ritual than necessity—the familiar weight in my hand feels grounding, a connection to a past I can never quite leave behind. Some skills never fade, no matter how much time passes.

From this vantage point, I have a clear view of the compound: the rustic cabins scattered around, the main hall standing solid and unyielding, and the small vegetable gardens Ma insisted we plant to add a “domestic touch” to this rough place. The recruits move through the yard in pairs, sparring and laughing, their bodies slick with sweat and the first gentle droplets of rain that have begun to fall. This isn’t the army I grew up in. There’s no terror here, no shouting or pain inflicted for its own sake. Instead, there’s a structure built on something far more enduring—belief.

Connor catches me watching and shakes his head with a teasing grin. “You going to help, or just sit there looking dangerous?”

I spin the knife between my fingers, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Why spoil a good thing?”

“Suit yourself,” he calls back, “but when it really starts pouring, don’t expect me to come rescue you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply, though I’m lying.