Despite the early afternoon, the sky was dark and overcast, creating a cold, windy gloom over the city. The air was thick with the briny smell of the ocean, mixed with the fish market’s morning catch. Gulls flitted and cawed, circling hungrily above the fisher ponies at the sea wall, squabbling over scraps of fish guts.

Bistrena had left the recruitment office with an appointment for later that afternoon. With a few hours to spare, she’d decided to make the trek on hoof—running the twenty-five kilometres from the city centre to Fort Highmane on the far side of Old Rode Bay.

The route was a gruelling slog through steep, uneven neighbourhoods, down cobblestone paths that twisted around the historic districts, clearly built with little thought for runners. Whenever possible, Bistrena cut through grassy paths that branched off the city’s brick-paved boulevards. In the quieter park areas, the winding roads offered a brief respite from the city’s bustling corridors, growing wider and more open the farther east she went.

Then, as if mocking her, the skies split open with thunder and flashes of lightning. The wind turned brutal, nearly knocking her back, as rain came down in torrents. She was soaked and battered within minutes, mud-splattered along her legs and belly, and she could feel the grit of sand in her teeth as she panted.

Eventually, the weather eased to a biting chill. Fog rolled in thick over the roadway, and about two hundred meters from the gates to Fort Highmane Park, Bistrena took a sharp turn toward the shoreline at Shallow Creek, slowing to catch her breath. The water was a murky, churning brown, lapping angrily at the rocky shore. Without a second thought, she waded in up to her neck, letting the icy water wash away the mud and sweat. Despite steeling herself for the chill, she gasped as it shocked her system, stealing her breath and making her heart race.

After slogging back out of the tide, she set off again at a steady jog, covering the final kilometre to the Fort’s gate. Inside the guard post, a middle-aged pony sat hunched over a small oil lamp, warming his hooves while skimming a well-worn copy of the Baltimare Chronicle. He nearly choked on his buckwheat soup when she emerged out of the fog, soaked and dripping.

“Afternoon,” she said with a tired but cheerful smile, “I’m here for an evaluation. Any idea where I’m supposed to go?”

The stallion blinked in surprise, clearly gathering his wits as he took her in, waterlogged and muddy. After a beat, he leaned out of the window, lifting his cap to get a better look at her.

“Right… well, you’re looking for the building just there on the left,” he said, nodding in its direction. He chuckled slightly, as if to reassure himself he wasn’t seeing things. “Might want to dry off a bit first. They might think you’ve been through basic training already.”

Bistrena grinned, exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "Thanks. And, uh... any chance you could point me to the showers first?" she asked with a half-laugh, giving a mock shake to send a few droplets scattering.

The stallion chuckled, jerking a hoof off to the right. "Straight down the path, look for the brick building with the barred windows. Can't miss it.”

Inside the squat brick structure, Bistrena found a row of metal stalls lined up along the far wall, each with iron-grated windows set high above. The shower stalls had all the charm of a holding cell, but the shelves overflowing with shampoo bottles and soap bars showed they were well-used. Enough supplies here to scrub down a battalion, she thought, raising a brow.

She twisted the handle, and water blasted out in a shockingly cold stream—evidently, the only temperature option. Gritting her teeth, she rinsed off quickly, barely lingering in the freezing downpour. After shutting off the flow, she grabbed a couple of towels from the stack on the rack beside the sinks, drying off as best as she could.

Once somewhat less waterlogged, she took a steadying breath, straightened her mane, and headed out, back onto the path toward the building she’d been directed to.

Fort Highmane wasn’t just a guard depot; it was the heart of a small settlement. The sign on the way in had declared 3,003 ponies called this cluster of brick buildings home. It looked like it was trying to be a rustic, homey village, but it lacked any of the charm. Inside the fenced area, where the reservist guard battalion lived and trained, obstacle courses and squat barracks surrounded the original artillery fort.

The fort itself stood as a relic—a tall central keep with six semi-circular bastions. A dry moat stretched beneath a drawbridge, and a stone gatehouse stood proudly on the other side, flanked by two tall flagpoles. Bistrena found the building the gate sentry had pointed her toward, a one-story stone house with "ADMIN" on the door in fading, chipped letters. She stepped inside.

The warmth hit her instantly, almost too much after the chill outside. A crackling fireplace against one wall cast a soft orange glow, joined only by a single dim bulb overhead. Several desks with lamps, typewriters, and neatly stacked folders occupied the room. Behind one desk sat a stallion of about fifty, his eyes ticking back and forth between two files he was comparing. His handlebar moustache gave him an air of quiet, unassuming authority.

Without looking up, he muttered, “You must be lost, mare. You look too young to be with this outfit.” Finally, he raised his gaze, his face blank, his eyes tired. Not exactly a warm welcome, Bistrena thought.

“I’m here for an evaluation for the reserve, sir,” she said, stepping closer to the desk. “Lieutenant Wheatstone sent me.”

The stallion gave a short, dry huff, as if about to launch into a rant, but then he paused and sighed. “Do I look like an officer to you?” He gestured to his sleeve chevrons and looked back at her expectantly.

“Oh—sorry, er… Sergeant?” Bistrena ventured, catching herself a little too late.

The stallion rolled his eyes. “Wrong again, mare. Corporal. Good to see your sight’s sharp, anyway.”

Bistrena winced and gave a small, apologetic smile. “Right. Corporal. Sorry.”

The Corporal marked something on his clipboard, then gave her a quick once-over. “You’re here for an eval, yeah? Well, we’re a bit short on ceremony around here; I won’t get into the why of it, so don’t ask.” He finished marking her in the log. “You’re ‘present and accounted for,’ unlike some I could mention. Staff Sergeant Barnside’s out in the yard with a couple more newbies—if you hurry, she’ll add you to the session. It’s not glamorous work, and it sure isn’t heroic. We’re not the Princess’s personal guard. Most of us aren't far off from retirement, so don’t burn yourself out trying to impress. Got it? Now, any questions?”

Bistrena raised an eyebrow and gave him a wry, half-smile. “Just one, Corporal.” She leaned in, her voice pleasant but pointed. “My name’s Bistrena. Not ‘mare.’ And if you’re ever looking for another chevron… maybe a bit more courtesy couldn’t hurt.”

The Corporal’s smirk vanished as his eyes narrowed, his tone turning frosty. “Listen here, Bistrena. You may be a civilian now, but in this outfit, rank matters. If you want to make it through this evaluation, I’d suggest you learn to mind your mouth.” He clicked his pen, his gaze hardening as he added, “Now, unless you’re planning to keep talking yourself out of an opportunity, get moving. Staff Sergeant Barnside’s patience makes mine look saintly.”

Her ears flattened instinctively, heat rising to her face as she stepped back. She hadn’t meant to push so far, but the words had slipped out before she could stop herself. The way he dismissed her felt personal, and it gnawed at her more than it should have. Only after his glare sharpened did she realize she might’ve crossed a line.

As she left, she thought she caught him muttering, “Kids like you don’t last long here,” but she shoved the thought aside. She had bigger things to worry about than some grumpy old stallion.

“Twenty-one! Twenty-two!” A bellowing voice echoed across the parade ground as Bistrena arrived, cutting through any last remnants of doubt. The Staff Sergeant was everything her name suggested—built like a barn, a towering, heavyset pegasus with a fierce scowl etched into her face. She barked a count at a trembling unicorn struggling to complete her push-ups, who finally collapsed into the dirt.

“Pathetically underwhelming, recruit,” the Staff Sergeant sneered, eyes narrowing as the unicorn lay panting.

“Sorry, Staff,” the recruit managed, still catching her breath.

“Back in line,” Barnside said, barely pausing before she barked, “Next!”

The weary unicorn stumbled up to join a pair of greying stallions: one a pegasus with a stoic look, the other an earth pony with the rugged face of someone used to hard work. Bistrena slid into the line beside them, feeling the weight of Barnside’s gaze land on her.

The pegasus recruit took his place and braced himself for the push-ups. “I expect double from a pegasus!” Barnside snapped, her tone merciless.

“Yes, Ma'am!” he panted, struggling through another rep as his wings twitched with strain.

“Did I hear ‘ma’am’ slip out of your mouth?” Barnside thundered, eyebrows arched. “I’m a Staff Sergeant, not your tea party hostess. It’s Staff, understand?”

“Yes, Staff,” the group replied in unison, shaken.

Barnside’s gaze settled on Bistrena, circling her like a hawk sizing up a mouse. Bistrena stared straight ahead, careful not to meet the Staff Sergeant’s eyes, remembering the horror stories her brother had written about what happened when recruits got caught staring. Her eyes fixed on a spot just over Barnside’s shoulder.

Barnside finally stopped in front of her, giving an exaggerated once-over. “You lost? You look far too fresh and alive to be one of my washouts.”

“No, Staff,” Bistrena replied. “I’m here for the reserve evaluation, Staff.”

Barnside narrowed her eyes, unimpressed. “You look a bit run-down, though. What’s wrong with you? Heart problem? Or just a few hay bales short of a barn?”

“I’m fit and well, Staff,” Bistrena said firmly. “Just tired from running here.”

Barnside cocked an eyebrow. “Ran here, did you? From where, three streets over?”

“No, Staff. From Shetland Hills in the city centre.”

Barnside’s eyebrow rose higher. “That’s at least twenty klicks, give or take.”

“Yes, Staff. And then some.”

Barnside studied her with a grudging look of approval before her face hardened again. “If you’re lying to me, mare, I’ll shove my hoof so far up your rear, you’ll taste the sweat off my brow. Now down on your face!”

Bistrena immediately dropped and started her push-ups, grinding through the burn in her forelegs as Barnside’s voice counted aloud. She pushed through thirty-six reps, falling short only to the earth pony, who managed thirty-eight.

With the warm-up over, Barnside lined them up for the next test.

“Five laps around the parade ground, timed!” she commanded. “Move!”

The recruits began the run, two kilometres around the grounds, while Barnside shouted, “Faster! Pick up those hooves!” By the end, Bistrena’s breathing was laboured, but she finished with the group, aching but undaunted.

Barnside next led them to a line of stuffed dummies shaped like ponies. “This is your casualty evacuation drill. You’ll drag these through mud trenches and over the wall—no magic, no wings, just brute strength!”

Grabbing a dummy’s collar between her teeth, Bistrena pulled through the mud, trudging up the trench and hauling the dummy over a chest-high wall. Her legs ached with every step, but she made it through, gritting her teeth past a stitch in her side.

They tackled an obstacle course next, navigating walls, ropes, and a marsh pit under a tightrope. The unicorn recruit slipped into the muddy water below, groaning as she climbed back up. Bistrena finished with a soaked coat but a sense of determination.

After the obstacle course, they moved to a strength test: throwing heavy sandbags while seated. Bistrena managed a solid toss, with the earth pony landing his across the line as well. Finally, Barnside led them through warm-down stretches before bringing them to a small hangar for written tests.

The recruits sat quietly at desks, taking timed math and reading exams to test their skills. By the end, their brains felt nearly as drained as their muscles.

Barnside returned, glancing over their scores with an approving nod. “You’ve all passed. Don’t let it go to your heads. You’ll receive your training schedule by mail next week.”

With that, she marched off, leaving them in the hangar, a sense of relief settling over the small group. They exchanged glances, exhausted but relieved.

They walked in a loose circle, aiming for the gate, glad to have passed the relentless eval. Finally, Bistrena glanced around at the others, breaking the silence. “Well,” she said with a faint grin, “after all that, I think we’ve earned the right to know who we’re suffering alongside.”

The unicorn mare spoke first, brushing some dirt off her leg. “Dusklight,” she said with a half-smile. “Though I’m starting to think ‘Dustlight’ might be more accurate after today.”

The older earth pony chuckled, rough and warm. “Brassforge,” he said, stretching out a kink in his back. “And I’m way too old to be doing this nonsense. But… figured I’d see if there’s any spark left.” He shot a glance at the pegasus. “Looks like I’m in good company, at least.”

The pegasus grinned. “Stormchime. And you’re right, Brass; they could’ve at least warned us we’d be hauling half the parade ground along with us.”

Bistrena smirked. “Thought I’d signed up for the reserves, not a retirement home.”

Dusklight glanced at the older stallions, raising an eyebrow. “Guess not.”

Brassforge, who’d been sipping from his canteen, choked and spit the water out with a cough. “Retirement home? What, you think we’ll get a shuffleboard set and bingo nights?” He wiped his mouth, chuckling.

“Could be,” Bistrena said with a grin. “But hey, as long as the snacks are good.”

Stormchime shook his head, his wings rustling. “You’ll see. Training’s just the start.”

Brassforge slapped her on the back. “Better be ready to do it all again next week, kid.”

Bistrena rolled her eyes, her grin widening. “Just as long as it’s less ‘napping’ and more ‘nausea,’ yeah?”

They all shared a tired laugh, and then one by one, they headed off in different directions.

Afterwards, Bistrena took the train home, the quiet hum of the tracks lulling her into a calm she hadn’t felt in months. Finally, as she sank into bed, she surrendered to a deep, dreamless sleep—the kind she hadn’t known since the start of the war. For the first time, she felt just a little closer to where she belonged.

Author's Note

Another short chapter. I'm aiming to update more regularly and maintain what is hopefully a high degree of polish. Flexed my banter and humour muscles this time around, I promise I'm funny in real life, but shit me, writing comedy is so damn hard.

Please like and comment, let's get some reader interactions going, shall we? If you want to get anything you can think of into the story, don't be afraid to pitch it to me in a comment or a PM, and I'll have a go.

Lastly, look after yourselves, tell your friends and family you love them, and be kind to yourselves. You're all special and irreplaceable.

Until we speak again.

-PaleFace