There was no acclimating to the jostle of a wagon after the luxury of cars, though they had not been long in his life and the trips were few; it made every trip by horse and wagon less whimsical and a greater hassle. Milo wrapped his arms around himself, sore and tired from the morning training, while Makler held the reins and snapped them from time to time, explaining the factions of abilities employed by the Resistance. Those they deemed less than qualified received assignments in areas of infrastructure, economy, and the necessities for rebuilding society. They were as important as those on the front line, not that Milo would ever be among them working fields, tending stores, or building new bridges and roads. Nor would he be with those who proved exceptional and were set apart for more testing, culling the best for the front lines. Milo, as far as Makler saw it, was already the best. But the point of the culling was to find the boldest, most tenacious, and the placeholders who stood as decoys for someone greater, a half step behind them. A tactic the Razen had yet to overcome and did as they always had, and simply tried to plow through and raze the entirety of the battlefield even if they burned with it.

  The Support and Battle Corps. He made it sound so simple, but the two factions broke down into so many sectors that what seemed a balanced scale soon became cogs in a masterful clockwork and Makler was the horologist tinkering with the moving pieces until it ticked in steady rhythm. And there, under his watchful eye and tentative hand, each piece moved according to the others, turning and grinding and ensuring the machine worked exactly as designed. And it did. Milo had seen it for himself the week before when Makler had taken him on a tour of the wall and the north side barracks. Everyone moved together, tasks done by assembly, and not a single toe shoed out of line. There was power in the perfection, and Milo held his breath to quell the excitement blooming up from his blazing core. It was only enough to keep the burning and itching of his ability at bay, and he picked at his palms when they walked from station to station, the tingle of something greater awakening, distracting him from Makler’s latest lecture.

  “Times are changing,” the Commander in Chief said, giving a sidelong look at the boy at his side, “and fighting war the old-fashioned way isn’t enough. Dark blades and tipped arrows work wonders, but we can’t rely on blacksmithing alone. We have to use what we have, to the fullest potential. We have to push them, bring out what’s suppressed even if we have to drag whisperers out to open them up to what they’re really capable of and draw from the reservoirs of their untapped wells. Especially the telekinetics. They get a numbness in their extremities. A bunch of them try to quit early because of it, but they’re invaluable on the front. They have the benefit of superior range when they harness their ability, and they can throw ladders out from under those Razen bastards without getting too close. Fewer casualties.

  “Shielders provide the element of surprise. All you need is one with exceptional skill to hide a whole unit. There’s no way for them to see it coming…” his voice trailed off as memories flashed across his face and sank his cheeks in a pained frown. He cleared his throat and adjusted his posture. “A leader has to be prepared for anything. Everything. Any surprise we can offer then, they’ll have two more waiting for us.” His eyes slid toward Milo. “We need someone who can outsmart them.”

  Milo stared ahead at the road as they approached the camp a few miles out from the walls of Bethany. It wasn’t much, an assortment of rundown houses and canvas tents, and soldiers milling about with nothing better to do than play cards and chat with each other. Silence filled the space between the two on the last stretch of their journey, the clop of the horse keeping a metronome for their thoughts. When he saw soldiers from afar, they hardly ever looked like battle-hardened warriors fighting for the survival of humanity. They looked like ordinary people. Nobodies with nothing to do. They were far from ready to face the gods. If anything, they were the sort to prove the power of the gods rather than challenge it. Milo’s shoulders sank. The last hope for survival hanged on lost hope.

  “Why didn’t the gods kill us all from the start?” Milo asked. “If they’re really gods, couldn’t they have wiped us out and been done with it?”

  Makler hummed, bobbing his head. “I’ve wondered that for a long time. Maybe that’s a question you’ll have to ask them for yourself one day.”

  “The Razen don’t take prisoners.”

  “No, they don’t,” he agreed with a heavy sigh, “but they do seem to have a lot of new soldiers to replace the ones they’ve lost.”

  “How?”

  “Stories are cheap, Milo,” Makler said as the horse pulled into the main circle of the camp. The noise of voices clouded the air, and Makler turned away to holler orders at the soldiers clambering around the wagon. He climbed down and gestured this way and that, barking at anyone who came within five feet.

  Winnie stood in the back, a folder in her arms and a scowl on her face as she silently watched the swarm thin and report to duty. Makler huffed, adjusting his belt, and made his way through those who remained. She almost smiled as she handed him the folder and spoke too softly for Milo to hear. There were clips and phrases about recruits, assignments, and promising prospects. Milo gulped down a mouthful of worry. While Makler had taken him on as a personal project, Winnie had yet to care one iota about him—especially after he collapsed on a fifteen-mile run, vomited, and cried from the cramps in his sides; she’d made no effort to lower her voice as she insisted Makler find someone else. Someone more suitable. Those words stung worse than his ribs. Winnie looked up from her reporting, her cold eyes flickering over Milo and her mouth twitched. It was the closest thing he’d ever seen to pride, forget joy.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Milo straightened up a little more, rolling his shoulders back and sticking out his chest in good form. It was the first time he’d worn fatigues, the first time she’d seen him dressed up as a proper soldier, and the first time he’d felt he belonged. Before a grin could spread across his face, in the bustle of the camp, a man knocked against him. He scrambled to hold on to his stack of linens.

  “What do you think you’re doing, corporal?” he snarled, looking him up and down. His eyes narrowed and his head cocked, jutting closer as if to see something about him he hadn’t at first. His lip curled back as though he’d caught the whiff of skunk rotting in the midsummer sun. “What in the blue heavens….”

  “Need to know, Parks, keep moving.” Makler waved a hand, shooing him like a fly. Milo looked between them. He slapped his hand on his shoulder, tearing him from any thoughts he’d started to form. “He’s a seer. Near-sighted and illiterate about it, but a seer. We keep Parks on laundry service—Support detail for the active Battle Corps.”

  “Mercenaries are practicing in the quad, sir,” Winnie offered.

  “Perfect timing,” Makler clapped his hand on Milo’s shoulder again and towed him through the camp.

  Around the back, there was a long stretching field sectioned off into smaller circles. There were hundreds of soldiers, men and women of all ages, locked in hand-to-hand combat. Each punch came with a hard crack of the air and a painful crunch against their opponent. There were many things Milo thought of when it came to mercenaries. Thieves, assassins for hire, desperate people good at killing and turning a small fortune on it. But this was not it.

  “What are they doing?”

  “A mercenary has a very particular skill.” Makler explained, strolling along the edge of the field, “People have given them a handful of different names, strongholds, powerhouses, tanks, but they’re all mercenaries. They channel their full strength into a single blow. The problem is how much it pulls from their defense. We train them here against each other to maximize the amount of hits they can take and still fight. The ones who improve, we push them to find their limits and send them to the front of the Battle Corps lines. They deal a hell of a lot of damage where it counts. I’ve seen them punch holes clean through a concrete wall.”

  “What about the ones who don’t improve?” Milo kept close by his mentor’s side, making sure his posture stayed perfect and his face as plain as the day.

  “We make use of them,” Winnie said, dismissive as always.

  “They work with the healers,” Makler clarified. “They have tremendous strength and when things get harried in the middle of battle, it’s good to have them on the Support Corps to drag out anyone we can save. Get them back to our lines before they’re turned Razen.” Makler scratched the back of his head. “Something about staring into the face of Death changes people.”

  “You’ve said that about War.” Milo’s pace slowed as his attention turned to the collection of people gathered around a bench. In their hands were small stones no bigger than a tangerine. Some of them raised while others only trembled. He’d heard stories about telekinetic training, and how hard it was, but to see it in person, it didn’t seem half as bad as what he’d been told. Lifting rocks? That was it? His face changed, tugging in disgust.

  Makler stopped and turned to Milo. The boy hadn’t been listening, caught up in his own thoughts again. It was a dangerous habit, and he had to break it before it got him killed…like the others. He cleared his throat and Milo snapped around. “War changes a person. Death does something worse. You can’t go back from it, and nothing can prepare you for it, either. Study everything we give you, know it from back to front, and every other way, and you still won’t be ready. No one ever is, Milo.”

  “If this is a Battle Corps camp, do you think anyone here is ready for what’s coming?” Milo stole a glance around Makler, eyeing the circles of combat and the fatigue-laden faces coated in sweat and dribbling with blood as healers mended them for another round.

  “This isn’t a Battle Corps camp,” Winnie said with an exhausted sigh. “It’s a rotation camp.”

  “There’s a mix of the Battle and Support Corps here, and a lot of people we’ll be sending home soon,” Makler said with a frown. “If you’re going to be ready, boy, you need to know what it does to people to stand on the front lines and face the Horsemen.”

  Without another word said, he led the way back around the camp to the medical tent. He pushed the door open and the smell of stale air and the lull of quiet music greeted them. It was far from what Milo expected from a makeshift hospital. He’d thought he’d see wounded bandaged from head to toe, and admittedly there were some people donning casts and dressings for stitches, but most were carrying on like retirees in a care facility. There was an unsettling calm between breathy chuckles and cards slapping down on tables. But the longer Milo looked around the more the truth revealed itself. The soldiers sat at tables playing cards had bulging, unblinking eyes. Their hands shook and their bodies trembled. They weren’t physically wounded.

  “What is this?” Milo said just under his breath.

  “General assembly hall. Used to be the primary medical hall, but we’ve had too many come in like this.” He walked slowly through the long rows of tables to where cots were laid out and people rolled back and forth as if in agony. Milo’s skin crawled as he watched them writhe in memories they couldn’t escape. Makler hadn’t bothered to look back at him and laughed, “You won’t have to worry about where you fall, Battle or Support Corps. You’re meant for something more, Milo. You’re a leader, you’re not like these sorry sods—especially that one. Ryul Kisim. He was one of the first of the Resistance, had loads of potential, but then we started finding others with abilities and he…he hasn't been the same since. We're stronger, though. What we've gained since those early days has more potential than even the strongest soldiers. So, when I say times are changing, I mean it’s for the better.”

  Milo gulped, stepping around Ryul, huddled on his cot and nail-picking at the crack in the wall. Startled by Milo’s shuffling, he rolled over and stared up at him with wide eyes on the verge of popping from his head. His dried lips smacked together like a fish out of water. His body groaned like a rusted machine and he whimpered and moaned as if he was bound to die soon. Before he turned himself back to the wall, he lifted an unsteady finger at Milo. Flashes sparked to life behind his eyes like curling smoke dissipating in the wind. “I told you, I didn’t want to do this… .”