The Sanctuary of the Tides did not announce itself.
It stood before them in disciplined silence, its vast gates of reinforced stone and steel rising from water-carved ground like something grown rather than built. Channels ran along the base of the walls, clear water sliding through them with steady purpose, vanishing beneath grates and reemerging farther within. The walls were tall, but not oppressive. Strong, but not threatening. They did not boast.
They observed.
The column slowed without command.
Midarion felt it before he understood it—the subtle tightening in his chest, the instinctive urge to straighten his spine, to still his breath. This was not the unease he had felt in Ignis, beneath marble and judgment. This was different. Colder. More precise.
Beside him, Reikika's pace adjusted almost unconsciously. Her usual loose confidence sharpened into something quieter. Her eyes moved constantly—not in awe, but in calculation—tracking angles, distances, lines of sight. She smiled faintly.
That smile did not reach her eyes.
The guards at the gates stood in perfect formation.
Blue armor, layered and polished, marked with the sigil of the Tides—flowing lines etched like currents caught mid-motion. Helms obscured their faces, but their presence was unmistakable. No shifting. No murmurs. No unnecessary movement. Spears grounded in unison, shields aligned with mathematical precision.
There were fewer of them than at the regional gates.
There did not need to be more.
Captain Aelyss stepped forward.
The effect was immediate.
The guards moved as one, not snapping to attention but flowing into it—posture tightening, heads lowering just enough to signify recognition. Respect, not fear. Discipline, not ritual.
Not a word was spoken.
The gates began to open.
Stone slid against stone with a low, resonant sound that traveled through the ground and into Midarion's bones. The opening revealed not a fortress interior, not a cramped military yard—but space. Clean, ordered, alive.
They crossed the threshold.
The air changed.
Cooler. Fresher. Touched with salt and something faintly floral, carried from gardens he could not yet see. The sound of water was everywhere—not loud, not distracting, but constant. A reminder. A presence.
Midarion inhaled deeply before he realized he had done so.
His lungs filled without resistance.
Reikika let out a quiet breath, something between a hum and a laugh."They live here," she murmured. "Not just work."
The courtyard they entered was vast, paved in pale stone veined with darker lines that guided water through shallow channels. Recruits' footsteps echoed briefly, then softened as the space absorbed them. Towers rose along the perimeter, their balconies open, banners minimal—functional markings rather than symbols of pride.
Everything here had a purpose.
Nothing was excessive.
They halted.
Captain Aelyss turned to face them.
She did not raise her voice.
She did not need to.
"This is the Sanctuary of the Tides," she said. Her tone was even, measured, carrying effortlessly across the courtyard. "It is not a refuge. It is not a monument. It is a bastion that lives by order."
Her gaze moved across the recruits—not lingering, not judging, simply registering.
"You were brought here because Hydros endures constant threat. The sea remembers every wound carved into it. So does this land."
A pause.
"You are not soldiers yet."
The words landed without cruelty. Without apology.
"You are recruits."
That distinction settled heavier.
"Lowest rank," she continued. "Lowest privilege. Lowest tolerance for error."
No one shifted. No one breathed too loudly.
"You will earn everything here—or you will leave with nothing."
She gestured once.
The recruits were guided forward, deeper into the Sanctuary, through wide corridors open to the sky. Midarion's eyes traced the architecture—the way stone curved instead of breaking, how walls gave way to open walkways overlooking water-fed gardens. Soldiers moved through the space with quiet efficiency, armor gleaming, expressions focused.
Some glanced toward Captain Aelyss as she passed.
Every one of them inclined their head.
No exception.
Midarion's broken hand throbbed faintly as his fingers flexed against the binding. He adjusted it subtly, careful not to draw attention. The pain was manageable. The awareness was not.
They were led into a broad assembly court.
Here, the sound of the sea was louder—waves striking far-off walls, carried inward through stone channels. The recruits were arranged into loose formation. The murmurs that had followed them through the city were gone now.
Silence pressed in.
Captain Aelyss stepped aside.
Four figures waited.
Each stood apart—not together, not unified. Separate pillars.
One was built like a living bulwark, armor layered thickly, a massive shield resting at her side. She did not watch the recruits. She faced outward, toward the walls, as if already guarding something.
Another leaned with casual confidence against the stone, twin heavy weapons secured across his back. His posture was loose, almost relaxed—but his eyes were sharp, measuring, already choosing.
The third stood still, hands folded behind his back, gaze distant and penetrating. He did not scan faces. He observed patterns—movement, breathing, hesitation.
The fourth stood calmly, posture open, eyes steady. There was warmth there—but also certainty. The kind that did not bend when tested.
"These," Captain Aelyss said, "are the Commanders of this Bastion."
No names.
No ceremony.
"They each lead a division. Defense. Strike. Intelligence. Support."
Her gaze sharpened.
"You will not choose them."
A ripple of tension moved through the ranks.
"They will choose you."
The words cut clean.
"You will train. You will be evaluated. You will fail and be corrected. And when a Commander deems you worthy, you may be invited into their division."
She let the silence stretch.
"Until then, you remain recruits. Outside every division. Watching. Waiting."
Reikika's jaw tightened.
Midarion felt the weight of it settle—not exclusion, but uncertainty.
Captain Aelyss continued.
"There is hierarchy here," she said. "Understand it, or be crushed by it."
Her voice was calm. Absolute.
"At the summit stands the Captain." A pause. No need to say more.
"Below me stand the Commanders. Their authority within their divisions is absolute."
She lifted one finger.
"On missions, a Mission Captain will be chosen. Authority lasts only for that mission. Rank does not protect you from failure."
Another finger.
"Below them stand Soldiers. Proven. Assigned. Trusted."
Her gaze dropped.
"And below them—recruits."
The lowest rung.
"You will sleep in shared dormitories. Ten to a hall. No privacy. No comfort beyond necessity."
A few faces stiffened.
"As you rise in rank, conditions improve," she said. "Space. Silence. Resources."
She paused.
"The Sanctuary rewards the deserving."
Somewhere behind Midarion, a voice murmured—too low to be bold, too careless to be wise."Kid from the slums doesn't belong here."
Another muttered, "Ashborn or not."
Midarion felt Reikika's attention shift.
She turned her head.
Her eyes met theirs.
She was halfway smiling.
It was not wide. Not threatening.
It was effortless.
The voices stopped.
Instantly.
No apology followed. No defiance. Just silence—thick, uneasy, absolute.
Reikika faced forward again, smile unchanged.
Captain Aelyss continued as if nothing had occurred.
"You will be assessed continuously," she said. "Not through ceremony. Through conduct."
Her gaze lifted briefly, toward the towers, the walls, the unseen corridors above.
"The quiet you feel is not absence," she said. "It is observation."
Midarion swallowed.
He felt it now—the sense of being watched not by eyes, but by systems. By standards. By something patient enough to wait for failure.
The recruits were dismissed in measured waves, guided toward their assigned quarters.
As they walked, Midarion took in the details—the clean lines of the barracks, the open courtyards where water reflected the sky, the way soldiers trained without shouting, movements precise, controlled. No wasted effort. No wasted motion.
Reikika leaned closer as they passed a training yard. "This place would grind weak people down," she said softly.
Midarion nodded. "Or make them sharper."
She smiled again. "Both."
They reached their assigned hall.
Ten beds. Simple. Clean. Ordered.
Midarion sat carefully, easing the strain on his hand. The exhaustion crept in now—not heavy, not crushing, but deep.
Outside, the water kept moving.
The Sanctuary did not sleep.
And as the quiet settled around them, Midarion understood something with unsettling clarity:
Here, no one would tell him what he was meant to become.
They would simply watch—
And decide whether he deserved to be chosen.