The scent of crushed grass and damp earth rose sharply into the air, mingling with the faint tang of distant smoke. The clearing had been trampled flat by the time the lines formed. Harold's force stood first.

  Two standard centuries made the front. Their shields aligned, and a deliberate gap was left. It was almost too narrow for a formation. Behind the opening, Raul’s training century waited. The ranks stood tight, shoulders tense. New leather creaked where veterans' gear stayed silent.

  Harold walked the line once, helmet tucked under one arm, then stepped back into position.

  Across from them, the Prime Century formed without hurry. Confidence oozed off them. They had won every engagement so far, their greater perks lending them greater strength and endurance in a shield wall. Raul’s training platoon couldn't stand long, but Harold had an idea to cut them down.

  Hale stepped into place inside the Prime, shield rising as his voice carried cleanly.

  “No spears,” he called. “Shield work only. Let’s break ’em!”

  A few helmets tilted in acknowledgment as their Optios ensured the lines were clean.

  Hale raised his shield. "Advance!" he barked. The Prime Century marched. They locked steps, their movements crisp and rehearsed. Each step thudded with purpose; it hammered forward, relentless and unstoppable.

  Harold raised his shield.

  “Centuries one and two! Forward!”

  His two lines advanced in step toward the Prime, forming a near-perfect front with firm shields. A narrow gap, intentionally left by Harold, maintained its shape between the lines, poised and alert.

  Silence hung briefly in the air, a single heartbeat stretching beyond its time. Everyone held their breath, the anticipation palpable.

  Then the Prime hit.

  Wood crashed into wood. The sound blasted out in a concussive wave. Harold’s standard centuries buckled but held. Boots braced as pressure hammered the line. Harold tracked the centuries forced steadily back. The outside edges of his lines waited.

  Hale’s smile was audible in his voice. “Push!” The Prime leaned in, the wall surging as one.

  Harold didn't answer immediately. He knew he had to trust the men to hold long enough to form the trap. He watched the pressure build, felt the line strain, then spoke.

  “One and Two! Wagon Wheel. March!”

  Both centuries obeyed at once. Like spokes on a wagon, they kept the engagement and wheeled their formation onto the Prime’s flanks. Harold saw them move. He wasn't sure if it would be quick enough to stop the Prime from bulldozing the training century.

  The left century moved left, and the right shifted right. The shields stayed linked just long enough to absorb force, then the center opened.

  “Training century,” Harold called. “Through the gap. Forward!”

  Raul’s voice came sharp and loud behind them. “Move! Eyes up, shields high!”

  The training century surged into the opening as it formed. The Prime saw the resistance melting and surged forward without meaning to.

  Hale’s head tilted slightly, and a smirk tugged at his mouth. “So that’s how you want it,” he said. He raised his shield.

  “Prime,” Hale called. “Turn it up. Smash 'em!”

  The Prime answered as Optios maintained order. They surged forward with brutal intent, shields driving in, the front rank slamming into the training century before it could fully set.

  The impact was violent. Men slammed off their feet. Shields whipped sideways as the first training century rank crashed into the second. A few from the second slammed down hard, breath knocked out as bodies tangled with the fallen. Among them, young Mitch, not yet twenty, felt as if he'd collided with a thunderbolt. His vision blurred momentarily as the ground slammed into him, air driven from his lungs in a rasping gasp. The Prime drove forward.

  Raul was already there.

  “Up!” he shouted. “On your feet! Lock those shields!”

  He yanked one man upright by the shoulder, shoved another back into line, boots skidding as the Prime slammed forward.

  “Second rank, step in!” Raul roared. “Fill the gaps!”

  The training century buckled violently but did not collapse. Harold moved at once.

  “Standards,” he called, voice calm and cutting through the noise. They had almost completed their wagon wheels and were eager to fall onto the flanks of the prime.

  Both standard centuries pivoted outward, forming lines that advanced in unison. Shields rotated in practiced arcs, curving protectively around the Prime’s flanks.

  The Prime continued its push, now committed, momentum carrying it deep into the training line.

  “Close it,” Harold ordered.

  The standard centuries struck the Prime’s sides simultaneously, their formations converging like doors swinging shut and trapping the Prime within.

  Shields crashed into exposed flanks. The Prime’s balance broke. Their forward pressure faltered as force struck from angles they couldn't fully answer while frontally engaged.

  Hale laughed once, sharp and approving, even as he braced against the impact.

  “Well played,” he called through the press.

  Raul’s century found its footing in the chaos, men locking shields again, learning the weight of a real push, the only way it could be learned.

  The clearing rang with iron on wood, boots grinding dirt, commands overlapping as the drill reached its breaking point.

  Harold lifted his shield.

  “Hold,” he called.

  The pressure eased reluctantly, formations separating by inches, then feet, then yards as men sucked in air and reset.

  Across the clearing, Hale lowered his shield and nodded once.

  The lines broke cleanly. Shields dropped to rest as men bent at the waist, hands on knees. Breath rasped in chests that still remembered the push. Sweat cut pale lines through dust and mist.

  From the sidelines, cheers broke out as the onlookers found their voices, enjoying a kind of discipline they weren’t used to seeing up close.

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  Raul moved immediately.

  He didn’t wait for quiet or for anyone to catch their breath.

  “You,” he snapped, pointing with the edge of his shield. “Your feet were crossed. You get shoved like that again, you go down and take two with you.” The man nodded quickly, chest still heaving. Raul's expression softened briefly, allowing a hint of humor to cut through the tension. “I bet you thought your feet were just getting cozy. Keep them grounded, and we'll avoid a dance next time.” The newly corrected soldier managed a faint smile.

  “Again,” Raul continued, already turning. “Second rank, you waited half a heartbeat too long. When the front folds, you step in immediately. It’s easier to kill momentum early than when they’re three ranks deep.”

  He reached out, grabbed a shield rim, and shoved it inward an inch.

  “Here. This is your wall, not that man’s back.”

  A few paces away, Hale was doing the same among the Prime.

  He tapped a legionary’s shield twice with his knuckles. “You overreached. Felt good, didn’t it?”

  The man grimaced. “Yes, sir. Won’t happen again.”

  “I know it won’t,” Hale replied. “Not if you want to stay in the Prime. You push with the wall, not ahead of it.”

  He moved down the line, correcting by touch more than words, a tug here, a nudge there, letting the formation settle back into itself.

  “You let yourselves get slowed down by half-trained nitwits,” Hale barked suddenly.

  A couple of Prime legionaries chuckled until their optio’s stare shut them up faster than Hale could have.

  No one wanted negative attention from Captain Hale.

  Centurion Ayen had already started on the far end of her century, sharp corrections snapping out as she addressed the optios who had lost control of their men.

  She turned abruptly and stepped into the line.

  “You lost contact here.”

  She forced two shields closer together with her shoulder.

  “Fix it. If I can fit, so can a spear.”

  The men adjusted without argument.

  Raul crouched beside one of the younger soldiers who had taken the worst of the hit, checking his grip and stance.

  “You got rocked and didn’t eat dirt,” Raul said. “Next time, lower your center and let the hit roll through you.”

  The soldier nodded, eyes wide but steady.

  Harold watched without interfering. This was the work that made them better, and after dinner the night before, he welcomed the physical grind. The air still carried the dust of the day's drill, settling in thin layers over skin and armor. As Harold observed the camaraderie beginning to form, the slight throb of a bruised shoulder reminded him of the physical activity.

  Hale straightened and walked over, catching Harold’s eye. He clasped his forearm.

  “Your timing was good,” Hale said begrudgingly.

  “Your push was better,” Harold replied with a laugh. “I wasn’t sure the fish would hold.”

  Hale snorted. “Next time we go through them. Still, pressing the flanks was good thinking. We can’t throw the same weight sideways.”

  Around them, shields lifted again, straps cinched, lines closing as corrections imprinted into muscle memory.

  Raul clapped his shield once.

  “Back in line,” he called. “We’ll run it again.”

  Harold raised an eyebrow at Hale.

  Hale just smiled. “Told you. The man’s a Clydesdale. Doesn’t stop.”

  They split back toward their lines, still smiling, and got back to work.

  ?

  They left Haven in the early afternoon, when the sun had climbed high enough to burn the river mist away.

  The men cleaned themselves as best they could. Armor was rinsed and scrubbed in the shallows, blood and sweat carried off by the current. Shields dried in the sunlight along the bank. Tunics hung damp, but no one complained. It was better than marching with the last day's sweat still clinging.

  Behind them, the village was already settling into its shape.

  Centurion Ayen stood near the stele, helm under one arm, overseeing the garrison that would remain. Her orders were simple and firm. Hold the river. Train the citizens. Keep Haven breathing even if the road goes quiet for a time. She was instructed to build a small fort to protect the village until help arrived. From what Harold could tell, she was looking forward to an independent assignment.

  Haven, the name had stuck quickly amongst the refugees that were no longer refugees.

  Every person in the village had taken the oath before the stele. One by one, they placed their hands on the stone. Voices stayed steady, despite what they'd lost. When it was done, the system answered them. Harold could feel the oath binding him, too. They had all become Citizens.

  The day’s summons had come from the Epic-ranked portal, and the added manpower stood out immediately. They had better posture and fewer questions. It was a welcome sight in a place that had learned too quickly how thin safety could be, and the admin sections scooped them up quickly to assign them.

  Harold had stayed up late the night before.

  Dinner had stretched longer than planned, plates scraped clean while stories circled the table. That was when he learned the older woman’s name. It was a shame they didnt have better food, but simple fare made well was a luxury in the current world. They were all thankful for the food.

  Bethel was her name.

  She had been a nun on Earth. She said it plainly and without ceremony. Her starting perk was one Harold had used on him once, and he was immediately thankful for it. They were supremely rare and a treasure of the human race. Even the other races went out of their way to kidnap members who had it for their own use.

  It wasn’t rare in the way most perks were rare. It was widespread, scattered across humanity under different names and different expressions, but always the same at its core. The ability to take pain, fear, and trauma from others and bear it oneself. In a violent world, it was one of the most sought-after things there was.

  Peace.

  Harold knew the stories. People with that perk were kidnapped. Confined and passed from hand to hand by Lords who wanted peace without earning it. Traded like objects, Bethel spoke of her perk without bitterness. As far as Harold knew, the perk only went to those who had lived that way already. Selfless and willing to carry the weight that wasn’t theirs. He had a long discussion with her about their flight from Henri’s village and Henri himself. Harold just became more and more convinced that he wouldn't be able to find a peaceful resolution with Henri, but it wasnt a confrontation he was that stressed about now that they had upgraded to a town.

  By the end of the night, he picked Jeron to lead the river village site.

  The carpenter had argued once, briefly, then accepted when it became clear the work mattered more than the title. Harold granted him access to the stele and authority over the daily summons. Margaret had given her approval without hesitation, calling him an honest man who wanted to build something that would last.

  It was rare praise, coming from her.

  Jeron had been introduced to the section leaders sent up from the Landing, walked through the administrative structure piece by piece, and, to Harold’s quiet amusement, approved of it almost immediately.

  A carpenter who liked clean organization. That alone felt like a small miracle.

  Margaret had spent most of the evening with Bethel after that, tea between them, voices low. Anselm stayed close, always just far enough away to avoid intruding. They spoke long into the night. About what, Harold didn’t ask.

  That morning, as the column formed, he still wasn’t sure how he felt about all of them being Citizens.

  The oath mattered. He believed in that. Still, he wondered whether they would all contribute as he believed Citizens should. The oath would motivate them in some way, but he was undecided whether belief alone would carry them through the harder choices ahead. He had promised them protection, though, and he had meant it.

  Now the road waited. The Prime Century stood ready at the head of the column, Hale for once allowing the prime to relax some. Centurion Varo and his century formed up with them. They would travel together for a time before Varo’s century would break off toward the farming village. When they split off, Harold would continue on to Dalen’s Hold with the Prime and his guard. Harold could hear Hale warning Varo about the den’s en route, suggesting they bypass some of them until they could do a more thorough sweep with more centuries. They weren't traveling with any adventurers as most of them decided to come with Harold to Dalen’s Hold.

  Bethel stood near the edge of the road, near a wagon, wrapped in a plain cloak. She leaned on her cane more than she probably needed to, and Anselm was beside her, close enough that it looked casual, far enough that it wasn’t. His eyes never stopped moving, tracking soldiers, counting wagons, noting spacing.

  Hale had spotted it immediately and pointed it out to Harold. The man had a history that Hale couldn't wait to find out. Margaret had convinced him to let her figure it out her way, though. In the morning, Hale was still pouting about it, but the man was visibly happier now that Margaret was around. Even if he would never admit it.

  Apparently, he had been a Franciscan monk. Atonement, Bethel had explained simply, but for what she didnt say. Harold didn’t ask for details. The way Anselm watched the world told him all he needed to know.

  Harold mounted and looked back once more at Haven.

  The river caught the light. The stele stood steady. Ayen raised a fist in acknowledgment, already turning back to her work.

  “Move out,” Harold said.

  The column started forward, boots finding rhythm as Haven slipped behind them, alive and guarded, its heart beating steadily at the river’s edge.

  ?