Chapter 22: Cohort Seven
The gate to the eastern compound looked older than anything else on palace grounds. Its iron hinges were rusted deep in the corners, the stone walls darkened by moss and age. It sat behind the main barracks, tucked between a thin grove of trees and a bone-dry creekbed that hadn't seen water in years. No banners. No colors. Just stone, quiet, and time.
Leon stepped through it alone.
His silver crest stayed buried in his belt pouch. Roselyn had told him—Cohort Seven didn't care for pageantry. Officially, they weren't ranked above the others. Unofficially, everyone knew what they were: misfits, hardened dropouts, the ones too rough for court dances or polished duels.
They were the ones who fought.
The air here felt heavier. Closer.
No instructors. No welcome.
Just a cracked fountain and a chalkboard nailed to the wall beside it.
Leon approached.
The names were scratched in rough hand:
Vailan
Oskar