It had been, without question, the hardest month and a half of Merza's life.
Not the kind of difficulty that tested one's stamina for a day or two. No. This was the kind that carved into the soul—slowly, methodically—stripping layer after layer until nothing remained but bone, muscle, and obedience.
He had been broken, humiliated in full view of his peers, beaten into something harder than flesh, something colder than pride. Whatever childish wonder had once danced in his eyes at the thought of serving in Yarzat's elite—at the thought of gleaming armor, battle chants, and noble glory—had long since withered and blown away like sand in the desert wind. All that remained now was discipline. Routine. The dry, mechanical march of one day into the next.
He liked to think of himself as a soldier now. Or at least... nearly one.
