In seven days, the three of them turned a skeleton of timber and stone into a house that breathed.
The roof no longer leaked. Walls stood plumb and true. Windows—real glass, bartered from the valley market—caught the late-afternoon light and spilled soft gold across fresh pine floors. The air carried the clean scent of cut wood, clay mortar, and the faint, comforting smoke of yesterday's hearth test.
Vael stepped back, hands on hips, dark hair plastered to his sweat-slick forehead.
"Finally," he murmured.
The front door swung open before anyone could reply. His mother appeared, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron.
"Vael! Gruk! Aamon!" Her voice held its usual bright authority. "Lunch. Rice is hot, fish crisp. Call again and I'll eat your shares myself."
Gruk bounded forward—three long strides across the yard—his wide, toothy grin splitting the scars on his face like sunlight through storm clouds.
"Food first, feelings later," he called, not slowing.
Aamon followed at his own pace, dark coat dusted with sawdust, red eyes flicking briefly to Vael before he ducked inside. Vael lingered, gaze tracing the house they'd patched into existence in one short week, then turned and followed.
The table was small; they made it work. Four mismatched chairs. A clay pot steaming with rice. Fried fish lined up like golden sentinels. Greens in one bowl, Gruk's beloved spicy fermented bamboo shoots in another.
His mother didn't sit immediately. She hovered, placing an extra piece of fish on Vael's plate unasked.
"You're too quiet again," she said, soft but pointed. "You think I don't see? You built this entire house with your hands and still sit like a shadow. Eat properly, at least. Look at Gruk—he eats like tomorrow might not come."
Gruk, mouth full, gave a muffled thumbs-up. "She's right. This fish is criminal. I'm stealing the recipe when I leave."
Vael said nothing. He picked up his spoon and ate—slow, methodical, listening.
His mother pressed on.
"You're young. Strong. The world won't wait forever. I can manage now—this house proves it. Don't waste your futures rotting here with an old woman who's already lived most of hers."
Aamon's spoon paused mid-air.
He didn't speak, but his shoulders eased, gaze sharpening. The words seemed to settle deeper in him than before. He glanced at Vael's mother, then back to his plate, weighing something only he could see.
Gruk, lost in bliss, chewed reverently. Every time she'd said "be more like Gruk" these past days—Gruk laughed louder, worked harder, told filthier jokes—she'd beamed, and he'd secretly basked in it. Not because he wanted to leave, but because being the golden boy felt absurdly good.
She turned to them both.
"Gruk, Aamon—you're young men too. Tell him. Tell Vael he should go with you. Fill the forms. Take the chance. Opportunity knocks once, boys."
Gruk froze mid-bite. His name meant he had to answer.
He swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and unleashed his biggest, most bullying grin—the one that promised mischief if refused.
"Today," he declared. "Me and Aamon are joining today. Right, Aamon?"
Aamon met his eyes. Blinked once.
Gruk's grin widened. Eyebrows wagged. Say yes, book-boy.
Aamon exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a smirk tugging his lips.
"…Yes."
Vael's mother opened her mouth—scold or encourage, perhaps both—
Vael spoke first.
Quiet. Calm. Final.
"Okay, Mother. I'm filling out my form too."
The room stilled.
Her eyes widened, shimmered. A hand flew to her chest.
"Truly?"
Vael gave the smallest nod, one corner of his mouth lifting—just enough.
"I'm going right after the meal." He set his spoon down. "I wanted to finish the house first. So while I'm gone… you won't have to worry."
In the silence, one thought moved behind his dark eyes: Anything for you, Mother.
Gruk stared, grin vanishing, replaced by something dangerously close to a pout.
"You little—"
Vael met his gaze and smiled—small, sharp, victorious.
Gruk groaned, shoved the last fish into his mouth like it had betrayed him, and stood.
"Fine. Let's register before I change my mind and eat the whole damn village instead."
Aamon rose without a word, coat settling around him like smoke.
His mother remained seated a moment longer, watching the three of them—her son and the two strays who'd become family.
They left together: three silhouettes against the afternoon sun. One dark-haired and quiet. One watchful and shadowed. One broad-shouldered and still grumbling about unfinished fish.
The walk to the valley town took less than an hour. The registration office was a squat stone building beside the barracks, smelling of ink, old leather, and oiled metal.
A bored clerk slid three forms across the counter without looking up.
They filled them in silence.
No speeches. No voiced doubts.
Vael wrote his name in neat, precise strokes. Gruk scratched his in blocky, knife-carved letters. Aamon's was elegant, almost calligraphic—as though even bureaucracy deserved care.
They weren't signed in as adventurers.
The clerk glanced at their builds, their scars, the quiet menace that clung to them like smoke, and checked "Low-Rank Soldier" for each. Adventurers needed licenses, guilds, reputations. Soldiers needed only bodies that could hold a spear and not flee when the line broke.
Forms handed back. Stamps thudded. Coins exchanged for minimal kit allowance.
And just like that, they were in.
A high-ranking officer—broad shoulders under polished epaulets, mustache waxed to points—surveyed them with the weary disdain of a man who'd seen too many farm boys play hero.
"You three," he barked. "Before one foot hits the training ground, get a haircut. You look like cavemen who forgot how to speak."
Gruk opened his mouth—likely for a joke or argument—but the officer's glare silenced it.
"New recruit!" the officer snapped over his shoulder. "Escort these three to the barber. Now."
A young soldier—barely eighteen, uniform still creased from the crate—stepped forward, saluted sharply, then turned.
His eyes widened.
Terror flashed across his face. He took an involuntary step back. These weren't men—not really. Not with those blank, unreadable stares. Vael gave nothing away. Aamon's red eyes felt like they could strip skin. Gruk's scarred grin had vanished, leaving only a hard mask.
The boy swallowed.
"Th-this way, sirs," he stammered.
They followed without a word. Boots crunched gravel. Distant camp clangs rose around them.
At the low wooden shack labeled "Camp Saloon" in faded paint, the recruit flung the door open.
"This is it," he rushed. "When you're done, wash up. Evening combat practice on the common ground. Don't be late."
He fled—half-walk, half-run—toward safer tents.
Inside, the barber was an older man with steady hands and zero tolerance for nonsense. He glanced at the trio, sighed, and pointed to three stools.
"Sit. One at a time. No talking unless it's 'shorter' or 'stop'."
Gruk first. Clippers buzzed. Long black strands fell like dark leaves. When finished, his hair was cropped close—practical, soldierly. He ran a hand over it. "Feels like I lost half my personality."
Vael next. The severe cut sharpened his features, made him look more dangerous. He didn't flinch.
Aamon last. Trimmed short but left enough to fall forward slightly. The barber stepped back, nodded once. "Done. Get out."
They emerged cleaner, shorter, somehow more imposing.
Evening arrived swiftly.
The common ground was packed. Rows of low-rank soldiers stood at awkward attention. Behind them, adventurers lounged—leather armor gleaming, weapons casual. Guild banners snapped in the wind. Top-ranks chatted low and confident. Low-ranks barely registered; in the capital's machine, raw recruits were fodder until proven.
An officer with a gravel voice mounted a low platform.
"New joins—front and center when called!"
Names rolled out. Boys and girls shuffled forward—nervous, proud, terrified.
Then—
"Vael!"
Vael stepped out. Straight-backed. Expressionless.
"Gruk!"
Gruk rolled his shoulders, loosening for a brawl.
"Aamon!"
Aamon moved like shadow given form—silent, deliberate.
"Raymond!"
A man near the back of the officers' row froze.
Raymond—the author—blinked hard. His quill hovered over the ledger he'd been pretending to check.
He knew those names.
Vael. Gruk. Aamon.
They echoed deep in his mind, like half-remembered chapters from novels he'd written years ago… or was it this one? The lines blurred. Had he penned them before? Borrowed them? Or had they simply walked out of the ink into flesh?
He rubbed his temple. The headache struck sudden and sharp.
Around him, the crowd barely noticed. Officers droned. Adventurers bantered. Low-ranks remained invisible—until they weren't.
But Raymond kept staring at the three dark silhouettes on the field.
Shoulder to shoulder now, hair cropped, uniforms stiff and new.
The officer's voice cracked like a whip. "Low-ranks! Form teams of three! First round—bare hands, no weapons, no killing blows. Winners advance. Losers scrub latrines for a month. Begin!"
Laughter rolled through the benches. Low-rank spars were the evening's comedy: three nobodies against three others, tripping, swinging like drunks, eating dirt for sport. Higher ranks leaned forward, already betting on who'd cry first.
Vael knew this exactly.
He had sat in those same seats once—back when he was still Raymond—watching with a detached smirk, scribbling notes about "low-rank fodder" for dramatic effect. It had seemed funny then.
Now he was the fodder.