The Sovereign Codex.

Men Without Marks

Cassian never broke any rules. He just made sure that Edrin experienced the weight of each one. Extra drills after all the other recruits had been sent away became a standard practice. It was not only about obedience; it was some sort of unwritten code that Cassian followed with great dedication. Every drill included longer runs with a heavier pack on Edrin's back, intended to drain his stamina and his will. Pairings against the biggest recruits were not by accident, men who were strong enough to push Edrin down repeatedly. Fighting against these larger recruits was a test of endurance, a harsh challenge marked by humiliation and tiredness. If Edrin's footwork faltered even slightly, Cassian made him do the entire sequence over until Edrin's legs were quaking with fatigue. Other instructors observed quietly, their silence indicating agreement with Cassian's approach. Everything remained within strict training rules, yet the atmosphere buzzed with unspoken tension.

Edrin did not give Cassian any reactions. No complaints, no requests for easier work. He reset time after time, demonstrating determination even when every part of him begged for a break. It seemed as though he had struck a deal with endurance itself. Cassian’s irritation grew more from Edrin’s lack of complaint than from any kind of rebellion, maybe because it deprived Cassian of the satisfaction that usually came with dominating someone. Instead, he was confronted with a stubborn perseverance that only heightened his annoyance.

On the fourth day of Cassian's training, a combat exercise took place under a relentless sun and heavy expectations. Edrin was matched with a recruit named Reth, who came from a noble family. Reth had wielded real weapons since he was twelve years old. He had a solid stance and his movements appeared effortless, smooth and exact. The first encounter ended with Edrin on the ground, a wooden sword poised at his throat in a way that felt like a dark threat. The second round mirrored the first, leaving Edrin gasping under Reth’s dominance. By the third round, he had a split lip and the taste of blood in his mouth, a harsh reminder of his own limits.

Edrin stopped trying to keep up with Reth’s speed. He adjusted his approach and started to observe. Watching Reth became crucial. He picked up on Reth’s tendency to strike from the right side; nearly all heavy blows originated from there, and they came down with fierce strength. In the last round, Edrin anticipated the move just a moment earlier, applying the lessons from countless drills. He caught Reth’s incoming strike, stepped inside the attack, and shoved his shoulder into Reth’s chest with every bit of strength he possessed. Reth fell hard in surprise before hiding it behind a mask of pride. Edrin still lost shortly afterward when Reth regained his balance and took him down, but the brief knockdown was a small win in the sea of defeats.

Cassian noticed it. His face remained unchanged but his eyes lingered on Edrin longer than necessary, revealing a hint of something that might have been curiosity tangled with annoyance.

A voice suddenly broke through the yard. “Again.” Commander Vaeron Sile stood on the edge of the training area, a figure of stern authority. He was older than most instructors, his face marked by the lines of experience, each one a testament to wars fought and lessons absorbed. He held himself with an unbending posture that commanded the attention of both recruits and soldiers. After observing the group in silence, he approached and stopped directly in front of Edrin.

He adjusted Edrin's stance with two fingers tapping on his shoulder. “You anticipated that first strike. Good. But that will mean little if you fail to survive the second."

The tone of his words was flat and practical, suggesting to Edrin that he was too slow to see what was clear. A wave of dislike washed over Edrin right away; the command revealed the constant expectation weighing down on everyone. Vaeron spoke to each recruit as if they had never thought something useful before he spoke, a feeling that slithered through the ranks as several recruits exchanged glances filled with understanding.

The day ended as it usually did, with weariness blanketing the recruits like a thick covering. Near the cooking fires, Edrin saw Taren on the ground, struggling through push-ups under the watchful stare of a junior officer. Crumbs clung to Taren’s sleeve from stealing some bread, an act of desperation that had not gone unnoticed.

Edrin did not ask him why. He simply joined in and mirrored the count, pushing past his own burning fatigue. When Taren’s strength finally failed, Edrin instinctively pulled him back into position, gritting his teeth as he continued until the officer, sensing the futility of punishing them both, finally lost interest and walked away. Taren sat in the dirt afterward, breathing heavily, looking at Edrin in silence for what felt like a long time. A connection settled between them that had not been there before. It was not conversation. It was not laughter. It was just a wordless understanding that one stayed to support when leaving would have been much easier.

That night, the announcement came. Tomorrow would be the Awakening Ceremony. All recruits would touch the Authority Stone and discover what Mark they carried, a revelation that felt almost like a promise of fate in the chilly air.

The camp changed as if enchanted. Men who had hardly spoken began to debate, each voice becoming louder with excitement over which Marks were the strongest. Some claimed their bloodlines hinted at power, citing family histories of heroes or sorcerers. Others just wished for something, anything, to keep them from the lowest ranks, where names faded away into nothing.

Taren lay on his back in the tent, staring at the rough tent material above, his mind wandering. “Maybe I will get a War Mark. Or something rare. Something that makes the officers take notice,” he said, excitement sparkling in his eyes.

Edrin did not reply. He knew very little about Authority, a subject generally reserved for tales in taverns or idle gossip among farmers in Rhel, where Marks often did not carry much significance. Most lived and died wielding the strength of their hands, building their legacies through hard work rather than magic or fighting ability.

An instructor walked among the tents that evening, moving with an air of authority before ending the night’s activities. His voice carried easily and cut through the growing murmurs of anticipation. “And pray you awaken something useful. The army has little use for men without Marks.”