The morning air at the Ironhold Military Camp was thick with the scent of crushed juniper, dry earth, and the pungent sweat of men pushed to the absolute limits of their endurance. Located in the rugged scrubland bordering the highlands, the camp was not a place of neat rows or polished marble. Instead, it was a chaotic landscape of jagged rocks, thorny thickets, and patches of shifting silt that made every step a gamble. The sun hung low and pale in the sky, casting long, sharp shadows over the soldiers of Astraia who were currently being remade into something far more dangerous than simple border guards. Constantine stood upon a natural limestone shelf, his black cloak catching the wind, looking down at the brutality unfolding in the brush below.
"Pick up your feet, you pathetic excuses
