Foolish Soldier: Reborn With A Broken Limit.

Chapter 05: The Morning Drills

Soren returned to the training yard at dawn.

He had barely slept. Again. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the pulse in his chest—surging, contained, but undeniably there. A halo. His halo. Not something inherited. Not something remembered. Something entirely new. The Stone had shown nothing when he was six. The Stone had been wrong. Or something had changed. He didn't know which. He only knew that the pulse was growing, and he needed to understand it.

The inner city was still waking. Cobblestones wet with dew. Woodsmoke from the bakeries. Servants with bread baskets. Soren walked with purpose, his hands loose at his sides.

He was halfway to the garrison when he saw him.

A company of soldiers was assembled near the inner gate. Their halos pressed outward in disciplined unison—not vast, most of them, but steady. Trained. At their head stood a man with a scarred face and brown eyes. Younger than the face in Doran's memory. Unscarred by years that hadn't happened yet. His halo was faint, but his presence was undeniable.

Commander Varris.

Soren stopped walking. His chest tightened. The man he had died for was twenty yards away, reviewing a patrol rotation, unaware that a dead soldier was watching him from across the street.

Varris was speaking to a captain. Something about supply lines to the outer wall. His voice was calm. It was always calm. That was the thing about him. He spoke to you like you were already brave enough to do what he was asking.

Soren had heard that voice in another life. Now it was just a voice in the morning air.

Varris glanced up. His eyes swept the street. Passed over Soren without stopping.

Soren forced his legs to move. He walked past the company. Past the commander. And he didn’t look back.

The training yard was colder at dawn. a few guards were already moving through stretches, their breaths clouding in the morning air. Kael was already there, stretching near the equipment shed. His bruised jaw had healed up nicely. He straightened when he saw Soren.

"You're back."

"I want to join the drills."

Kael stared at him. "You. Silver buckles. You want to run drills with city guards."

"Yes."

Kael was quiet for a moment. "You move like someone who's trained before. I told you that yesterday. You didn't deny it." He tilted his head. "Now you want to drill with city guards. You see how that looks."

Kael studied him. "Why now?"

He thought about Varris. Twenty yards away. Alive. Unaware. A man he had died for in another life, now just a stranger on a street. In seven years, the wall would fall. The demon would come. And Soren didn't know if he could change any of it. 

"I'm tired of being nothing," Soren said.

Kael's expression shifted. The amusement faded. "Well, nothing doesn't wake up at dawn to run drills. Come on. The sergeant won't like it, but I'll vouch for you."

The sergeant's name was Gerath. Thirty years a soldier. He had no patience for merchant's sons.

"No," he said.

Kael held his ground. "He's not asking for special treatment. He wants to run the same drills."

"He's a Vail. No halo. No training. No reason to be here except boredom."

"I'm not bored," Soren said.

Gerath looked at him. Sharp. Assessing. "What are you, then?"

Soren felt the pulse in his chest. Surging. Steady. His halo, pressing outward against his ribs. He couldn't show it. Couldn't use it. Not yet. But he could feel it. And that was enough.

"Someone who wants to change," he said.

The sergeant held his gaze. A long moment. Then he grunted.

"Fine. You fall behind, you keep running. You vomit, you clean it up. In this yard, you're not a Vail. You're a body." He turned to Kael. "He's yours. If he gets hurt, you explain it to his father."

Kael nodded. "Fair."

"Get him a practice sword. Back line. Let's see how long he lasts."

The drills were brutal.

Footwork first. Short steps. Quick pivots. The guards moved in unison, their halos enhancing every motion. Soren followed at the back. His legs burned. His lungs ached. The body was soft. Untrained. Every step was a fight.

But the pulse in his chest was there. Surging. Contained. His halo responding to the exertion. When his legs wanted to stop, the pulse pushed back. When his breath came short, the halo steadied him. Not enough to be noticed. Just enough to keep him moving.

He fell behind on the third set. His calves screamed. But he didn't stop.

Kael glanced back. Once. Twice. Each time, Soren was still there. Still moving.

Weapon forms came next. Practice swords. Wooden blades, worn smooth from years of use. Soren took his from the rack. The grip was too polished against his uncallused hands. His palms would blister. He didn't care.

The guards moved through basic strikes. Overhead. Diagonal. Thrust. Soren watched them for a moment—not just the forms, but what was behind them. Their halos flowed into the wood. Subtle. But the blades moved faster at the end of each strike. Hit harder. The air tightened around them.

He couldn't do that yet. His halo was still too raw, too untrained. But he could feel the difference. The gap between what they were doing and what he could only attempt.

He moved through the strikes anyway. Overhead. Diagonal. Thrust. His form was wrong at first. The body didn't know the angles. But the pulse in his chest stirred with each movement, and the corrections came faster than they should have. His grip adjusted. His stance widened. The blade cut truer.

Not infusion. Not yet. But close.

Sparring. Gerath paired the guards off. Kael stepped in beside Soren.

"I'll go easy," Kael said.

"Don't."

Kael raised an eyebrow. "Your funeral."

They circled. Kael's halo was steady—controlled, deliberate. Soren pulled his inward. It resisted. Wanted to push back. He forced it down.

Kael struck first. Quick. Soren blocked—too slow, the impact jarring his shoulder. A second strike came. He sidestepped. Clumsy. But his body was learning.

Again.

He swung. Diagonal. Sloppy. Kael knocked it aside.

Again.

Faster. The pivot came without thought. His body remembering what his mind couldn't explain. Kael's eyes narrowed.

Again.

The third strike landed before he knew he'd thrown it. His halo flared—just a flicker—and the blade moved faster than it should have. Kael blocked and stepped back.

Silence.

"How’d you do that," Kael said.

Soren's heart slammed. "I'm a fast learner."

"No. Fast learners fumble. They hesitate. You don't." Kael studied him. "Who taught you?"

"No one."

The lie was clean. Kael didn't push. He just raised his blade.

"Stop holding back."

Soren tightened his grip. He attacked first this time. A thrust. Kael sidestepped. Soren pivoted, swung low—too slow. Kael's counter caught him in the ribs. The wooden blade cracked against bone.

Soren gasped. His guard dropped. Kael's follow-up strike took him across the temple.

The world went white. Then black.

Soren opened his eyes to packed dirt. His cheek pressed against the ground. His ears were ringing. Someone was saying his name.

"—Vail. Vail."

Kael. Kneeling beside him. His expression caught between concern and amusement.

"You're out," Kael said. "Stay down."

Soren pushed himself up. His head throbbed. His ribs screamed. The yard tilted. He planted his hands in the dirt and forced the world steady.

"I'm fine."

"You're not. I hit you hard."

Soren got to his feet. His legs held. Barely. He looked at Kael. "Again."

Kael stared at him. Something shifted in his expression. Not amusement anymore.

"Sergeant," Kael called. "He wants another round."

Across the yard, the sergeant turned. Looked at Soren—the merchant's son with the bruise spreading across his temple, swaying on his feet.

Gerath didn't smile. But something in his eyes changed.

"Back line," he said. "Both of you. Now."

The drills ended at mid-morning. The guards dispersed. Soren stood at the edge of the yard, his tunic soaked, his hands raw and blistering. The bruise on his temple was already darkening. His ribs ached with every breath.

He was still standing.

He pressed his palm against his chest. The halo hummed beneath his ribs. Quieter now. But there. Stronger than yesterday. Still growing.

This is mine.

Kael walked over. He handed Soren a rag. "You took two hard hits and asked for more." He shook his head. "Most new recruits stay down after the first one."

"I don't like staying down."

"I noticed." Kael wiped his brow. "Gerath noticed too. He didn't say anything. But he was watching when you got back up."

Soren looked toward the sergeant. Gerath was across the yard, barking at a recruit. His back was turned. But his halo was pressing outward, slow and steady as a tide.

"You're not normal, Vail," Kael said. "You know that?"

Soren said nothing.

Kael shook his head. "Same time tomorrow. Don't be late."

He walked back toward the barracks. Soren stood alone at the edge of the yard, the rag clenched in his blistered hand. The bruise throbbed on his temple. His ribs protested every breath.

Soren found Elaine at the inner market.

She was standing near a cart laden with stone blocks, a ledger in her hand. Her blonde curls were pinned back. A foreman stood beside her, gesturing at a delivery manifest. She looked up when Soren approached, and her expression shifted from business to alarm.

"What happened to your face?"

"Training."

"Training." She stepped closer. Examined the bruise spreading across his temple. "Someone hit you."

"That's usually what happens in training."

"Don't be clever. You're hurt."

"I'll heal."

"You don't have a halo to speed it up."

I do now.

"Then I'll heal slowly," he said.

The foreman cleared his throat. She waved him off.

"You've changed," she said. "The old Soren would never have stepped foot in a training yard."

Soren said nothing.

She studied him for a moment. Just as Kael did.

"Just be careful," she said. "You're not like them. Every guard in that yard has a halo. You don’t.”

“I’ll be fine.”

"Why are you doing it, then? The training."

Soren looked at her. "I need to."

She waited for more. He didn't give it.

“Alright," she said. "I should get back. Deliveries."

Soren nodded. "I'll see you around."

"Try not to get hit in the face again."

"No promises."

She shook her head, almost smiling, and turned back to the cart. Soren walked on.

The walk home was quiet. His legs ached. The bruise on his temple throbbed with every step. His hands were raw and blistered. The adrenaline from the drills had faded, leaving nothing but pain and exhaustion. But beneath it all, the pulse was still there.

He passed the Vail estate gates. The courtyard.

Bran was standing at the end of the hallway. Arms crossed. Watching.

"You've been coming back awfully late," Bran said. "Always looking like you've been dragged through the outer district." He pushed off the wall. His eyes found the bruise on Soren's temple. "And now you're bleeding."

"Bruised."

"What?"

"It's a bruise. Not blood."

Bran stepped closer. His halo was weak—Soren could feel it. A few days ago, he wouldn't have noticed the difference. Now it was obvious. His own halo pressed back, surging quietly beneath his ribs, stronger than his brother's. He pulled it inward before Bran could sense it.

"I don't know what you're doing," Bran said. "But I'll figure it out. And when I do—"

"Soren!"

Maren's voice. From the kitchen. "Is that you? Come eat something. You’re not eating enough."

Bran held Soren's gaze a moment longer. His eyes flicked to the bruise one more time. Then he stepped back. "We'll talk later, little brother."

He walked past Soren. 

Soren stood in the hallway, his blistered hands at his sides, his heart still pounding.

He knows something. Not everything. But enough.

Soren waited until Bran's footsteps faded. Then he moved.