The morning mist clung to the grass like a second skin. The trees surrounding the clearing stood silent, as if waiting for the storm to come.
Inigo stood on the wooden platform at the edge of the training field, arms crossed, rifle slung across his back. Lyra stood beside him, checking the last of the paint rounds—red-dyed cartridges packed into waxed paper shells. Non-lethal, but painful. A lesson that left a mark.
"They're ready?" Lyra asked, tying her hair back.
"No," Inigo replied. "But it's time they learn what readiness actually means."
Lyra gave a small nod, already understanding. Today wouldn't be drills or theory. Today was about pressure. Chaos. Pain. And how to survive through it.
She secured the last crate with a dull clunk. "Should I warn them?"
"No," Inigo said simply. "Let them feel it raw."
The bell rang. A single chime through the crisp air.
