The road narrowed as they climbed.
What once had been soil and roots turned into hardened stone paths, uneven and scarred by time. The air grew thinner, colder. Reeve could feel it in his lungs—each breath slightly heavier than the last.
Ironridge Fortress finally revealed its true scale.
Up close, it wasn't just a fortress.
It was a mountain carved into obedience.
Massive stone walls rose directly from the cliffs, layered with iron reinforcements and watchtowers that pierced the sky like spears. The gates were enormous—too large for aesthetics alone—built to repel things far larger than men.
Reeve stopped walking without realizing it.
"…This isn't just for bandits," he muttered.
Lunareth glanced at him. "No. Ironridge was built for wars people don't talk about anymore."
That didn't comfort him.
As they approached the main road leading to the gates, Reeve noticed something unsettling. Soldiers weren't relaxed. Their movements were precise, eyes sharp, hands always close to weapons.
They weren't guarding a city.
They were holding a line.
"Do people live here?" Reeve asked.
"Yes," Lunareth replied. "But everyone here understands one thing."
She slowed her steps.
"If Ironridge falls, everything behind it follows."
Reeve nodded quietly.
For the first time since waking in this world, he felt it clearly.
This place was real.
And it was hostile to weakness.
At the outer checkpoint, a guard raised his hand.
"Halt. State your purpose."
Lunareth stepped forward. "Passing through. Supplies and rest."
The guard's gaze slid to Reeve.
Too long.
"You," the guard said. "You're not from here."
Reeve opened his mouth—then stopped.
Lunareth answered instead. "He's under my responsibility."
The guard studied her face, then her weapon, then the way she stood—balanced, ready, dangerous.
"…Very well. But understand this," he said, eyes returning to Reeve.
"Ironridge doesn't protect secrets."
Something about the way he said it made Reeve uneasy.
They were allowed inside.
The interior of Ironridge was darker than expected. Stone buildings pressed close together, leaving narrow paths where sound echoed too easily. Forges burned constantly, the air heavy with metal and smoke.
Reeve felt watched.
Not openly—but subtly. Like attention sliding off him and returning again.
"Is it always like this?" he whispered.
"Yes," Lunareth replied. "Ironridge doesn't trust strangers."
"…Do you?"
She didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she walked ahead.
That silence told him more than words could.
They rented a small room above a supply hall. It was simple—two beds, a table, a shuttered window.
Reeve dropped onto the bed with a quiet groan.
"I think my legs are rebelling."
"They should," Lunareth said calmly. "You're pushing a body that isn't ready."
He turned his head. "You mean untrained?"
She shook her head. "No. I mean incomplete."
That word lingered.
"Incomplete how?"
Lunareth looked at him for a long moment. Her expression was neutral, but her eyes were… searching.
"Sleep," she said finally. "Training starts tomorrow."
That answer didn't satisfy him.
But exhaustion won.
Training was brutal.
Not flashy. Not heroic.
Just repetition.
Footwork until his legs burned. Balance until he collapsed. Strikes that never landed the way he intended.
Each time he failed, Lunareth corrected him without ridicule—only precision.
Again.
And again.
And again.
By noon, Reeve could barely lift his arms.
"Enough," she said.
He collapsed onto the stone floor, staring at the sky above the courtyard.
"…You're not trying to make me strong," he said between breaths. "You're testing something."
She didn't deny it.
"What happens if I fail?" he asked.
Lunareth sheathed her blade. "Then you don't survive long enough to matter."
Straightforward. Cruel. Honest.
Reeve laughed weakly. "You're terrible at encouragement."
"You don't need encouragement," she replied. "You need awareness."
She turned to leave—then paused.
"Someone noticed you today."
His smile faded. "Who?"
"I don't know yet."
That was worse.
That night, Ironridge felt different.
Reeve sat by the window, watching torchlight flicker along the walls. Below, guards changed shifts. Somewhere, metal rang against metal.
This place was awake even when people slept.
"You don't act like someone afraid," Lunareth said from behind him.
"I am," Reeve replied quietly. "I just don't see the point in showing it."
She studied him. "Most people lie when they say that."
"I'm not most people."
She gave a faint nod. "No. You aren't."
A pause.
Then she added, "That's why this place is dangerous for you."
Reeve turned. "Because Ironridge crushes outsiders?"
"No," she said. "Because Ironridge attracts predators."
A chill ran through him.
Somewhere beyond the walls, something shifted.
Watching.
Waiting.
And deep inside Reeve—far below fear, below logic—something stirred, then went still again.
Unnoticed.
For now.