Tarrin's eyes flicked to the rusted sign above the gate:
Stonewake Military Installation
He frowned. The name fit. Cold. Harsh. Heavy.
Still, he kept walking, boots crunching against gravel as they stepped into a wide courtyard that stretched open like a wound.
Training circles dotted the grounds—scarred earth, broken dummies, scorched targets—everything reeked of overuse and desperation.
The moment the new recruits crossed the threshold, the yard fell still.
A silence too sharp to be casual.
Riko leaned closer, voice low. "They don't look thrilled to see us."
Tarrin didn't respond. His gaze swept across the yard, past the weathered structures and the long line of grim-faced soldiers gathered near a fresh trail of blood. No one moved. No one smiled.
The soldiers weren't just angry.
They were afraid.
Then came the whispers—quiet, venomous things that drifted on the wind.
"They sent recruits?"
"Those are the reinforcements?"
"I thought they'd at least send a Scarforged unit..."
Tarrin's gut twisted. A cold thought followed.
'Is this why people winced at the mention of the Thirty-First back at Centauri? They were expecting actual help.'
No one looked pleased—not the veterans, not the privates, not even the damn walls.
Then a voice cut through the silence—sharp, commanding, female.
"Welcome to the Thirty-First Battalion, Privates! I very much hope you'll enjoy your stay."
There was a pause. Cold wind stirred.
Tarrin glanced upwards, and up on the balcony, he saw a dark-haired woman, a slight smirk on her face.
'So this is the Scarforged Lieutenant Colonel from the files?' He could tell from the pressure that was rolling off of her. Vincent's was like puppy's in comparison.
He stepped forward without hesitation.
"Thank you, Colonel!" His voice rang out across the yard, crisp and clear, snapping the rest of the stunned recruits into motion.
They echoed him in a scattered chorus, falling in line.
The woman studied Tarrin for a breath, then gave a tight nod.
"Pick your bunks. If you have questions, ask a senior. You'll be briefed over dinner."
With that, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the structure, leaving the courtyard heavy with silence once more.
Tarrin didn't hesitate. He strode into the barracks like he owned it, shoulders squared, steps steady. The senior soldiers lining the walls blinked in surprise.
They'd expected recruits to slink in—quiet, broken, unsure.
But not this one.
Most of their faces said the same thing: The kid's got balls.
Inside, the barracks was a long, open room lined with rusted bunk beds and threadbare mattresses. It smelled of sweat, dust, and something sour buried in the wood.
Tarrin tossed his pack onto the nearest bed and glanced at his squad. His eyes locked with Riko, who looked more like a prisoner than a soldier—eyes darting, shoulders tight, like he'd just swapped one cage for another.
"This place isn't that bad," Jayden offered from the side.
No sooner had the words left his mouth than one of the bunks groaned and snapped, a loud crack echoing through the hall as a private hit the floor with a yelp.
They all winced.
Tarrin smirked. "Not like we'll be sleeping much anyway. The missions'll keep us busy."
Lena flopped down on her own bunk, bouncing slightly. "That's one way to stay optimistic," she said, stretching out. "At least it's not freezing. Or boiling. I'll take neutral."
A few bunks down, Riko was glaring at his Telcom, stabbing the screen like it had personally insulted him. "Why won't this thing work?"
From the lower bunk beneath Tarrin, Lucas chimed in without looking up. "Do you ever read anything? The closer you get to the center of the Mainland, the worse tech like that works."
Riko squinted at him. "And how far are we, exactly?"
Lucas rubbed his non-existent beard, tone suddenly academic.
"If I remember right, we're about five thousand miles in. Telcoms usually cut out closer to fifteen thousand, though. Strange it's already this bad."
Riko sighed and tossed the device onto his mattress. "Figures. Place already feels cursed."
Tarrin leaned back on his bunk and let out a slow breath, the tension in his shoulders easing—just a little. Not comfort. Not safety.
But a moment to breathe.
A few minutes after settling in, Tarrin suddenly sprang off his bunk like he'd been shocked. His eyes darted around the barracks, brimming with restless energy.
"Enough lounging around. Let's go make some friends," he announced, voice almost cheerful—suspiciously so.
Riko leaned in toward Jayden, whispering behind a hand. "Did he snort something up there?"
"Probably," Jayden muttered, barely lifting his head. His eyes were sunken, voice deadpan. "Man, I haven't slept properly in days."
Tarrin was already halfway to the door. "Suck it up, little bro. We've got contacts to make and info to scavenge."
Riko stood and stretched, grumbling. "Fucking bipolar."
And just like that, they were outside again, stepping back into the courtyard under the weight of a dozen curious stares. Tarrin scanned the area like a hawk, searching for the perfect mark—someone low-risk, approachable, maybe a little bored.
Then he saw her.
A girl, probably around their age, sitting alone near the training grounds with a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and zero fucks in the other.
"Bingo," he whispered, nodding subtly toward her.
The crew moved like wolves closing in on a stray doe, with Tarrin in the lead, already dissecting the girl's body language—posture closed off, gaze unfocused, expression unreadable.
That's when the air shifted.
The low murmur of the courtyard faded. Conversations died mid-sentence. Heads turned.
Tarrin noticed, but shrugged it off. Probably just nerves from the older soldiers. He had more important things to worry about.
He slowed as he neared her, just close enough to engage, and let a sliver of his practiced charm slip into his tone.
"Hey, mind if I sit?" he asked casually, eyes warm and friendly.
She didn't answer.
So he sat.
"I don't know if you noticed, but we're new in the Thirty-First," he added smoothly, flashing a humble smile. "Figured someone might be nice enough to show us around."
That finally earned him a reaction.
She turned her head slowly. Dark hair caught the wind, brushing across her face. But her eyes—those stayed cold. Not blank. Not bored. Cold.
Colder than Celith.
Her voice hit like frostbite. "Piss off, retard."
Tarrin blinked.
'What'd this bitch just call me?'
But his smile didn't break—at least not on the surface. It shifted, just barely, the strain crawling into the edges. Anyone trained would spot it in an instant.
"No offense meant," he replied, still calm. "We just wanted to get to know people. Build some rapport, y'know?"
Her expression didn't shift an inch.
"Are you deaf?" she snapped. "I said piss off."
Tarrin kept quiet, jaw tight, words coiled behind his teeth. He was just about to fire back—something snide, something sharp—when the girl stood.
Without a word, she tossed the half-eaten protein bar straight into his hands.
"Take it. You look hungry."
And then she walked off—smooth, unbothered, as if the entire exchange meant nothing to her.
But she paused briefly, her gaze brushing past Jayden and landing on the blonde standing behind him.
"Oh. Hello, Celith. Good to see you here."
Then she continued on, steps calm, precise, unhurried.
Tarrin stared down at the bar in his hand like it had just betrayed him. "Was that… an insult? That doesn't even make sense."
Reality caught up a second later. He rose to his feet, stalking over to Celith with narrowed eyes.
"Celith," he said, holding up the bar like evidence at a trial, "you knew her? Why didn't you tell me?"
She blinked at him, like he was the one who'd lost the plot. "Yeah, that's Irene Dio. You didn't recognize her?"
Her tone was innocent enough, but there was a glint behind her words—amusement, sharp and deliberate.
Tarrin's eye twitched. 'This bloody lass. She let me walk right into that one.'
Riko, meanwhile, looked like he'd just seen a celebrity. "You mean that Irene Dio? From the Dio Clan?"
Tarrin scratched the back of his head, wondering if he was the idiot in the room for not knowing who the hell that was.
A sharp burst of laughter cracked through the training yard.
Tarrin's head snapped toward the sound, catching a group of older soldiers doubled over, clutching their sides like it was the funniest thing they'd seen all month.
His jaw tensed.
He'd had enough of this condescending bullshit.
"What the hell you geezers laughing at?" he snapped, voice cutting through the courtyard like a whip.
Before doing anything stupid, he gave their shoulders a quick scan—insignias gleaming in the light. 'Highest rank… First Class Private. A notch above me. Close enough.'
The laughter died instantly. Even the surrounding soldiers quieted, eyes flicking toward the brewing fire.
That group wasn't just any group—they had a reputation. Quick to anger, loud to brawl. Dwarfs out of myth, minus the beards.
One of them stepped forward, cocking his head. "What'd you say, boy? Didn't quite hear ya. Put some bass in that squeak."
It was the out he was offering, the lifeline Tarrin was supposed to take.
Of course, he didn't.
Tarrin took a breath and threw it back at them, louder. "I said, what the fuck you laughing at? Your knees barely work."
A collective oof rolled across the yard. The squad of veterans surged forward, boots slapping the stone, jaws tight.
The tallest one—built like a broken pillar—stopped right in front of him. A full head taller, arms like steel pipes, eyes locked onto Tarrin's with open challenge.
"You got a problem with us, Private?"
Tarrin didn't flinch. Not today. Not here.
"Not in particular, Private." He put just enough emphasis on the rank to remind them: they weren't that much above him.
The tall one grinned, all teeth. "Well damn, look at that. Mister Steel Balls himself."
Tarrin knew exactly where this was heading. He couldn't win—not if things got physical. But this wasn't about winning. This was about making sure they knew he could bark and bite.
Then came the question everyone saw coming.
"You wanna settle this like men, little punk?"