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"Again."
Cairn hits the ground hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. His blades clatter across the cavern floor. Before he can suck in another breath, the dull edge of a practice axe rests against his throat.
"Dead."
His commander, Keg, takes a step back.
"Get up."
Cairn pushes himself onto shaking arms, chest heaving beneath borrowed Legion maille that doesn't fit and weighs twice as much as the old leather he'd worn in Dust Town.
He spits blood off to the side. "I slipped."
"No," Keg props the head of his axe on the stone ground next to him. "You died."
Cairn sighs. "There a difference?"
"Down here?" Keg's weathered expression doesn't change. "No."
Stone bites into his palms as he pushes up. He scowls. His arms rise on instinct, twin knives settling into the stance the Carta carved into him from a young age.
"Again."
The two dwarves circle one another. Keg lets the axe drag lazily across the stone while Cairn tries to read him.
Cairn lunges first. Just like he always did in the back alleys of Dust Town. Fast. Aggressive. Certain.
But Keg steps to the side.
Cairn's momentum carries him forward. A boot catches his ankle and he crashes into the stone again.
"Dead."
Cairn groans as he pushes up. "You didn't even swing."
"Didn't have to."
"Sodding hells…" He's a little faster getting up this time.
"You're still trying to win," Keg says after sending him to the floor another half dozen times.
Cairn sits up, rubbing his bruising shoulder. "Thought killing all the darkspawn was the point."
The commander barks a dry laugh. "No."
He rests his sparring axe across the back of his neck. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.
"You learned to fight dirty back home."
Cairn's jaw tightens.
"…Aye."
"Good."
The answer catches Cairn off guard. He expected disgust. A lecture. Instead, Keg only shrugs.
"Dirty kept you alive." Keg looks him square in the eye. "I'd never fault a casteless boy for surviving."
Cairn waits for the finishing insult. The reminder that the stone had already decided what he was worth. That he was lesser.
But it never comes.
"Darkspawn don't fight dirty. They fight to kill, and they don't stop."
Keg lets that sit for a moment.
"Every time you charged me, you left your flank open. The dwarf at your side would've died covering it."
Another pause.
"You're still fighting like there's only one life on the line."
The words land heavier than the bruises.
"So what, I'm supposed to just—" He stops himself, throat tightening around his words. "…What do I do?"
Keg doesn't answer right away. Instead, he nods toward the fire behind them, where the rest of the platoon is gathered in the glow of the flames. Eating, laughing, repairing gear. A few of them watch the spar with the tired amusement of veterans who've seen the same lesson taught a hundred times before.
Keg's gaze lingers before he looks back at Cairn.
"Your job isn't to kill the most darkspawn..."
Keg bends and offers him a hand, pulling him up as if the answer should have been obvious.
"…It's to make sure every bastard sitting around that fire gets to see it again tomorrow."
Cairn looks down. He’s solemn for a moment as Keg readies his axe.
"You keep them alive. They'll keep you alive. That's the only victory a Legionnaire gets."
Keg steps back into his stance.
"Now…"
The commander lifts his axe.
"Again."
Cairn raises his daggers. This time he doesn't lunge. The old instinct claws at him.
Move first. Strike first. Take the opening before it disappears.
He ignores it.
The ones who would stand beside him when the real blades come out.
His salroka.
Not because he needed them.
Not because he owed them.
Because they chose to stand beside him.
Keg watches him for a long moment.
The smallest nod.
"Better."