The secret military camp was carved into the jagged throat of the mountain range far north of the capital, a place where the air was thin and tasted of iron and frost. Dust swirled in violent eddies across the training grounds, kicked up by the frantic movements of men who had been pushed beyond the limits of human exhaustion. The sun was a pale, uncaring eye hanging above the granite peaks, offering no warmth to the two hundred recruits struggling through the mire of the central pit. The scent of acrid sweat, wet clay, and the copper tang of blood hung heavy in the atmosphere. These men were the remnants of the royal guard and the commoner recruits who had survived the first three weeks of isolation. Constantine stood on a raised wooden observation deck, his black cloak shielding him from
