"I see only two kinds of people. Potential allies, and enemies."
Commander Altan of the Stormguard
The morning air was cold and sharp when the Moonfire Unit made their way toward the recruitment grounds. The fortress behind them stood quiet, its gates repaired but bearing the scars of war. The clans walked in loose formation, the dust of the moor still clinging to their boots.
At the gate, they were met by Stormtide marines. Their armor was different, lighter, patterned with blue-gray scales and trimmed with silver. They bore no black, no spiral marks. Professional soldiers, their faces stern beneath polished helms.
"New recruits?" one guard asked, voice clipped and wary.
"Yes," Connach replied. "We come for the recruitment."
The guard nodded. "Where are the Blacktide Legion? The ones in black armor?"
"They are the elites," the guard said, eyes scanning the clans. "Part of the Stormguard. You'll train with us soon enough. Follow me."
They were led through the gates and into a large stone building where other clans waited in line. The air smelled of smoke, leather, and the faint tang of oil. Inside, a steward sat behind a heavy desk, piles of parchment stacked before him.
"Names. Clans. Families," the steward barked as he handed out papers.
Many in the line exchanged uncertain glances. Reading and writing were skills not common among the clans.
The steward stood and raised a hand.
"This is the Stormguard Auxiliary Legion Recruitment Codex. Listen well."
He spoke clearly, voice level.
Recruits would be trained by Stormguard officers. Physical discipline, weapons handling, battlefield survival, and unit cohesion were expected. They would also be taught tactics, strategy, and the command structure of the Legion. Service demanded intelligence and honor.
Shelter, food, weapons, and armor would be issued for the duration of training and deployment. The Legion provided what was needed.
A monthly stipend would be sent to the family of every recruit. That payment could also be exchanged for goods in Stormguard trade zones.
Merits were earned by combat, completed missions, or acts of valor. They could be traded for income, sent as extended family stipend, or used for scrolls, better weapons, or stronger armor.
Those who survived the war would be granted land and protected status within Stormguard territory. The families of fallen warriors would be honored and supported as kin of the Legion.
Clan traditions and rites would be respected. Local customs, burial laws, and ancestral practices would remain. Commander Altan's words were quoted: "We offer shield, not shackle. Your gods will remain untouched. Your songs will echo. Your law shall hold. We fight to keep the sky wide and the ground free."
All recruits would swear a blood oath of loyalty to the Stormguard above all former allegiances. In return, the Legion would shield their kin and clan so long as the oath was held. Loyalty was absolute, but lineage would not be erased.
There were no promises of safety. Not all would return. But names would be remembered. Sacrifices honored.
To those who could read and write, the steward handed out quills and ink. For those who could not, he wrote their names, clans, and families by hand, then asked for a thumbprint.
Connach stepped forward.
"We have our path," he said. "I want to join."
The steward nodded and recorded his name.
Those who signed were led to another hall, stone and cold, where a Stormguard warmage waited. His armor was rune-bound, his eyes unreadable. He touched each warrior's chest and held that hand over a basin of metal.
Connach felt nothing, and neither did the basin. But the warmage narrowed his eyes and handed him a Stormguard coin.
"Potential. You'll be watched."
Eorlas stirred the wind faintly, enough to rustle dust. A whisper of earth followed. Minimal. But present.
Aoan triggered sparks in the basin and cracked the surface faintly. Earth and fire answered him.
Firaen lifted the wind in a small gust. It bent but did not scatter. He smiled, proud.
Tuarin's test brought a deepening of the light. Shadows lengthened. The warmage nodded and made no comment.
Five more recruits from other clans joined them. Bradan of Clann Uire, a lanky spearman with a hard face and quick tongue. Gelnor of Clann Rhel, broader than most, his axe still blood-rustied. Maelin of Clann Cauren, quiet and thin-limbed, but her grip was tight. Urekh of Clann Finnan, a bowman with the habit of chewing leather. And Sira of Clann Mardech, youngest of the new five, her eyes sharp.
The ten were formed into one unit. Doctrine favored keeping those who already fought together. Their familiarity mattered. The Stormguard would break and reforge them by element and discipline.
The scouts, wind and shadow, were marked for elite training. The rest would be tested through grind, cohesion, and survival.
Outside the training yard, two officers observed them.
One wore the black of the Stormguard, runes etched in dull gray across his cuirass. A falcata hung at his hip, helm tucked beneath his arm. His face was calm, unreadable, and the years in his bearing were plain. Twelve years in the Legion. Five campaigns. His eyes scanned the unit like a smith checking the heat of the forge.
Beside him stood a younger man, armor darkened by wear, scarred across the chin. He carried the same stillness, though his stance held more edge.
The older officer stepped forward.
"No clan feuds in this legion. You are under one banner now. You break that code, and punishment comes from both the Stormguard and your own clans. The oath you swore binds more than your body."
He turned and walked away.
Inside the barracks, the stone walls were bare. Ten bunks. No banners. No songs. Just the steady sound of breathing, packs hitting the ground, and the crackle of a nearby brazier.
Tuarin set down his pack and looked around.
"It seems it is not bad here in the Legion."
No one answered. But no one disagreed.