The fifth morning broke quiet.
Not with Inigo’s usual sharp commands or the sound of rifles being racked and loaded—but with the soft hum of birdsong, drifting through the trees above a camp that, for once, was not preparing for war.
The recruits stirred slowly, blinking against the sunlight that filtered through the canopy in scattered gold. There was no bell. No drills. Just the scent of firewood and the faint, unfamiliar aroma of something... sweet.
Hal sat up groggily. "Is that... bread?"
"It smells like honey," Brenna mumbled from her cot, already pulling on her boots out of habit.
But before anyone could fully fall into the rhythm of training, a new sound cut through the camp.
They turned to see her near the supply tent, holding a wooden tray with warm loaves and jars of wildberry jam. She wasn’t in her usual half-armor or jacket, but a light tunic rolled at the sleeves. There was a glint in her eye that none of them had seen before.
Inigo appeared next, carrying two more baskets—one with fruit, another with salted meat and hard cheese. He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t scowling either.
"We’re not fighting today," he said, setting the baskets down beside a rolled blanket. "You’ve earned a reprieve."
For a moment, no one moved. They looked to one another as if uncertain.
Meryl, ever cautious, asked, "This isn’t a test?"
Lyra laughed again. "No ambushes, no dummies, no drills. Just a meal and a little sun."
"You’ve survived the first week," Inigo added. "And more importantly, you didn’t kill each other. That’s worth something."
A stunned silence followed—then a ripple of quiet cheers as the tension finally cracked. Feron clapped Sark on the back, and even Lio managed a grin.
Within the hour, the clearing near the east ridge had been transformed. Bedrolls were dragged out to form makeshift picnic mats. Helmets were set aside. Rifles were stacked neatly in a rack—still within reach, but for once, untouched.
The bread was dense but warm, its crust softened with fresh butter Lyra had bartered from a traveling merchant two days prior. The jam was wild and tart, bursting with flavor. Some of the recruits had never tasted anything like it.
"I thought berries were only for nobles," Feron said, licking his fingers.
"That’s what the nobles want you to think," Lyra replied dryly, tossing him another slice.
Brenna sat beside Meryl and Lio, the three of them sharing a hunk of cheese between them with crude wooden knives.
"Feels strange, doesn’t it?" Lio said.
"What does?" Meryl asked.
"Not being sore. Not hearing Inigo shout. Just... sitting."
Brenna took a bite of salted meat and chewed thoughtfully. "Yeah. It feels like something’s waiting to happen."
"It always is," Hal said, joining them with a jug of boiled cider. "But it won’t happen today."
Not far off, Sark and Feron had taken it upon themselves to build a small fire ring, roasting wild mushrooms they’d foraged the day before. The scent drifted across the clearing, drawing a few more toward their improvised kitchen.
Even Inigo sat, cross-legged beneath a tree, watching the recruits talk, laugh, and eat with a stillness in his eyes.
Lyra joined him, offering a flask.
He shook his head. "Not yet."
"You think we’re making them too soft?"
"No," Inigo said. "But I think they’ve forgotten what it feels like to be human. Today is about remembering."
Lyra leaned back, eyes toward the sky. "I used to dream about days . Before the fall."
Inigo didn’t reply, but she noticed his gaze linger on Brenna and Meryl—how they leaned into each other slightly as they laughed at some joke Lio made. On Hal, pouring cider into shared cups without a word. On Sark, blowing on a too-hot mushroom and nearly dropping it into the fire while Feron howled with laughter.
"You’re thinking about the next step already, aren’t you?" Lyra said, narrowing her eyes.
Inigo looked away. "Always."
She tossed a berry at his chest. "Just eat something before you start plotting another battlefield in your head."
He caught it, reluctantly, and bit down.
By midday, the clearing was alive with motion, but none of it martial. Some had dozed off in the sun, others chased each other around like children—mock-wrestling, climbing trees, even starting a round of some old village card game with rocks and carved tokens.
Hal watched Sark trying to teach Feron how to juggle three apples, only for one to bounce off his forehead and land in the mud.
"Ten points for the mud," Lio laughed.
"You throw like a troll!" Feron complained.
"I am a troll, remember?" Sark replied with a grin, flexing his thick arms.
Nearby, Lyra had set up a small table of parchment and ink. Those who could write were encouraged to jot notes—thoughts about the week, memories, or even messages to loved ones they might never see again. Meryl sat quietly, drawing something—perhaps a sketch of the forest. Inigo didn’t ask.
Instead, he walked to the edge of the clearing, where the two JLTVs sat under a shade net.
He placed a hand on the hood of one, listening to the slight tick of the cooling engine.
They still had far to go. But he had seen what he needed. When the next drill came—when real bullets flew, and real screams echoed through the trees—these recruits might just hold.
"Instructor," Brenna’s voice came from behind.
She handed him a wooden cup. "Apple cider. Not bad, actually."
"Thanks," he said, taking it.
Brenna hesitated, then asked, "Why now? The break, I mean."
"You’ve gone three days without losing discipline," Inigo said. "You followed orders. Adapted under fire. Learned from failure. If you didn’t rest today... tomorrow you’d start making mistakes."
Brenna nodded slowly. "I thought rest was weakness."
"Rest is preparation," Inigo replied. "If you’re dead tired, you’ll die for real."
She took that in, then gave a small smile. "Glad we earned it."
As she turned to leave, Inigo looked at the cider in his hand. It was cold now—but he drank anyway.
Behind him, the sound of laughter rolled across the clearing again.
He allowed himself a breath.
That would have to be enough.