WAR GOD'S CRIMSON AWAKENING

Iron And Blood

The outer-ring dormitory was exactly what Liora had warned: a long stone hall packed with narrow bunks, the air thick with sweat, cheap ale, and the metallic tang of old blood. New cadets those who’d passed the trials were thrown in with the established outer-ringers: failed second-years, disciplinary cases, and kids from nowhere with nowhere else to go. Fights broke out nightly. Knives came out weekly. Instructors didn’t interfere unless someone died.

Elias claimed a bottom bunk near the door, dropped his wrapped bundle, and sat. No one approached him yet. They were sizing him up the quiet one who’d walked through the trials like they were practice.

Thorne materialized in the corner, invisible to everyone else, arms folded.

“Smells like a barracks before a losing battle,” he said. “You’ll either make friends here or a lot of enemies. Probably both.”

Elias grunted. He was unwrapping Crimson Reaper, checking the edge, when the door slammed open.

A mountain walked in.

The cadet was huge at least six-foot-eight, shoulders broad enough to block the doorway, russet fur tufts at his ears and neck marking beastkin blood. Wolf lineage, by the look. Scars crisscrossed his bare chest; he wore only loose trousers and wraps on his fists. Golden eyes swept the room and landed on Elias.

“New meat,” he rumbled, voice deep enough to vibrate the bunks. “Heard one of you carved raiders like roast boar. That you?”

Elias met his gaze calmly. “Maybe.”

The beastkin grinned, showing fangs. “Name’s Ragnor Ironfang. Friends call me Rag. I like fighting. I like eating. I like people who fight good.” He jerked a thumb at the empty bunk above Elias’s. “This one free?”

“It is now.”

Rag laughed a booming sound that made half the hall flinch and tossed a massive pack onto the top bunk. It landed with a thud that shook the frame.

“Good. You feed me, I watch your back. Deal?”

Elias almost smiled. “We’ll see.”

Rag dropped down beside him, the bunk creaking. “Heard you saved Veyne’s squad. Liora don’t like owing people. Means you’re interesting.”

Before Elias could answer, a group of older outer-ringers sauntered over five of them, led by a lean third-year with a serpent tattoo coiling up his neck.

“Freshies think they own the place already,” the leader sneered. “Beastkin and waste rat sharing a bunk. Cute.”

Rag’s ears flattened. He started to rise.

Elias put a hand on his arm gentle, but firm. “Mine,” he said quietly.

Rag paused, golden eyes curious, then sat back with a grin. “Okay, boss.”

The tattooed cadet laughed. “Look at that. Waste rat thinks he’s in charge.”

Elias stood slowly. He didn’t flare the aura, didn’t draw Reaper. Just looked at the leader.

“You want the bunks?” he asked. “Take them.”

The cadet blinked, thrown by the lack of fear. Then his face hardened. “Yeah. I do.”

He swung.

Elias caught the fist mid-air, twisted, and slammed the cadet face-first into the stone floor. One precise knee to the back of the neck, and the boy went limp.

The other four hesitated.

Elias looked up. “Anyone else?”

They backed away, muttering.

Rag let out a low whistle. “Fast. Clean. I like.”

Thorne snorted. “You just made enemies on day one. Efficient.”

The hall settled after that. Word spread fast: the new quiet one doesn’t talk much, but don’t touch his stuff.

Dawn training began with a horn blast that rattled windows.

First-years were herded to the lower yards for basics: formation drills, endurance runs, sparring under instructor watch. Elias moved through it all without standing out too much strong, fast, but not impossibly so. He kept the aura tightly leashed.

Mid-morning brought paired sparring.

The flame-scarred instructor from the trials Instructor Valeria walked the lines, pairing cadets.

When she reached Elias, her mechanical arm whirred as she pointed across the yard.

“Voss. You’re with Veyne.”

Liora was already waiting in the circle, sword drawn, violet eyes unreadable.

Valeria smirked. “No mana suppression. No holding back. First to yield or disarm. Begin.”

The yard quieted. Cadets formed a ring.

Liora saluted crisply. Elias drew Crimson Reaper still wrapped in cloth to dull its presence and returned the salute.

They circled.

Liora struck first storm mana crackling along her blade, a thrust fast as lightning. Elias parried, felt the shock travel up his arms. She was strong. Precise.

He countered with a low sweep. She leaped, came down with an overhead slash that cratered the ground where he’d stood.

They flowed into a flurry steel ringing, sparks flying where storm mana met crimson edge. Liora’s style was elegant, lethal efficiency; Elias’s was raw instinct honed by bloodline.

She pressed, forcing him back step by step. Spectators murmured.

Then Elias let the aura slip just a flicker.

He blurred forward, inside her guard, Reaper’s flat pressing against her throat.

Liora froze.

A heartbeat passed.

She stepped back, lowered her sword. “Yield.”

The yard erupted in cheers and groans bets settled.

Valeria’s scarred mouth curved. “Voss wins. Next pair.”

Liora sheathed her blade, breathing hard. A thin line of blood traced her collarbone where Reaper’s edge had kissed skin.

“You held back,” she said quietly as they left the circle.

“So did you.”

“Not as much.”

Elias met her eyes. “Didn’t want to hurt you.”

Something softened in her expression, gone as fast as it appeared. “Don’t get used to winning, waste rat.”

Rag was waiting at the edge, grinning wide. “Good fight! She pretty when angry.”

Liora shot him a glare that could freeze fire. Rag just laughed.

Afternoon brought free training. Elias found a quiet corner yard, practicing forms Thorne drilled into him ancient patterns from the Primordial age.

He was mid-swing when a small figure darted from the shadows.

“Eli?”

His heart stopped.

Mira stood there older than memory, auburn hair longer, freckles darker, but those green eyes unmistakable. She wore a servant’s smock two sizes too big, face streaked with dirt and tears.

Elias dropped Reaper, crossed the yard in three strides, and pulled her into a crushing hug.

She sobbed into his chest. “They said you were dead. I knew you weren’t. I knew.”

He held her until the shaking stopped, rage and relief warring in his chest.

“How are you here?”

“Ran,” she whispered. “After they took you, things got worse. Harlan… he started looking at me different. I stole a uniform, hid on a supply wagon. Been working kitchens three months, looking for you.”

Elias’s arms tightened. The bloodline roared, visions of Harlan’s throat under his blade flashing bright.

Thorne’s voice was soft. “Easy, boy. She’s safe now.”

Mira pulled back, wiping her face. “You’re different. Stronger.”

He managed a smile. “Got lucky.”

She didn’t believe him he saw it but she didn’t push.

Rag lumbered over, Liora trailing curiously.

“This little one yours?” Rag asked.

“Sister,” Elias said. “Not by blood.”

Mira looked at the massive beastkin warily. Rag crouched to her level, gentle despite his size.

“I’m Rag. I protect boss Elias. Now I protect you too. Want honey cake?”

Mira’s eyes widened. She nodded shyly.

Liora watched the exchange, something complicated in her gaze.

“You have people who need you,” she said later, when Mira was safely with Rag devouring stolen pastries.

“I do.”

“Then don’t die here, Elias Voss.” Her voice was low. “I still owe you. And I hate owing.”

She walked away before he could answer.

That night, in the dormitory, Elias sat on his bunk cleaning Reaper while Mira slept curled on Rag’s massive spare blanket.

Thorne hovered nearby.

“You’re building something dangerous, boy. Allies. Debts. Family.”

Elias looked at Mira’s sleeping face, then at Rag snoring like a bear.

“Good,” he said.

The bloodline thrummed in agreement.

Greyhaven was forging him.

And he was just getting started.