Hand Selected #4
Another scratch of ink against parchment. Another slow turn of the page.
“Clive of Black Timber Forest,” Sol said next, without looking up. “It is correct you do not have a sword?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will also report to the armory when we are finished here.”
Sol pushed his chair back with a sharp scrape that echoed across the stone like the drawing of a blade. Collin tensed instinctively. The sound carved straight down his spine.
The head captain moved to the front of the table and began pacing—measured, methodical—down the center aisle between the two rows of seated recruits.
“You have all been hand-selected,” he said, his voice low but crisp, “because we saw the potential each of you possess.”
Collin leaned forward slightly, listening. Finally, an explanation. Something concrete. Each word landed with the weight of stones dropped into deep water, and he didn’t know how deep the well went.
And Sol continued to pace.
When he reached Aries and Gravis, he paused. His eyes narrowed, expression unreadable. He studied them a second longer than anyone wanted, then resumed his slow prowl. Like a lion circling prey too exhausted to run.
“You have the potential to become the best,” the head captain said, his boots tapping steadily across the stone, “but none of you are there yet. Some of you are cocky. All of you are rash. You lack training. You lack control. You lack discipline.”
He stopped behind the table again, hands braced flat against the surface like he could command the entire hall by touch alone.
“You will be shaped,” he said, his voice lowering a notch. “You will be broken and rebuilt until you meet my standards. Until you are exactly what I require.”
Sol’s gaze swept down the row. It landed briefly on Lekyi—who visibly paled—then lingered too long on Nic, then on Niall. When it locked on Collin, his heart went still.
It wasn’t hatred in Sol’s eyes. Nor challenge. It was colder than that. Calculation, perhaps. Measurement. Like a blade resting on the back of his neck, waiting.
And yet—Collin forced himself not to look away.
His instincts screamed at him to drop his eyes, to yield like prey before a predator. But something inside—pride or fear or both—refused.
His heart thundered. The wooden chair felt small beneath him, fragile. He couldn’t tell if he was sweating or trembling or both. Sol’s gaze carved through layers he hadn't meant to expose, prying into all the places Collin tried to keep quiet.
He wanted to vanish. He wanted to stand. He wanted to run. Mostly, he wanted Sol to move on. He held his breath.
And then—Sol’s eyes moved on.
Collin breathed.
But the noose around his neck didn’t loosen. Not yet.
“You are dismissed from your jobs effective immediately,” Sol said. “You will report to the North Town training camp at dawn. You will train seven days a week until I say otherwise. Until then... your lives belong to me.”
The finality of the words rang out like the toll of a great iron bell.
Sol consulted the roster.
“Gravis of Nereid. Sky of White Wood. You will be assigned host families during training.”
Then, he rose. In full stature, Sol seemed taller than before—his presence heavier somehow.
“Are there any questions?”
No one breathed.
The question wasn’t an invitation. It was a dare.
When no one spoke, the captain gave a slow, satisfied smile.
“You are excused.”
The word snapped the room’s tension like a trap springing open. Everyone stood, chairs scraping across stone like teeth gnashing.
No one spoke until the double doors thudded closed behind them.
Niall exhaled sharply. “Seven days a week. That can’t be legal.”
Nic stood frozen for a heartbeat, still pale beneath his usual swagger—then his eyes lit up as they locked on Helen waiting beyond the steps.
He launched himself toward her, swept her into a tight embrace, burying his face in her curls.
“Sweetheart, is everything alright?” she whispered.
Nic threw an arm around her, guiding her away at a brisk pace. “We need to talk about our plans,” he said, voice falsely bright. “Preferably before I’m turned into military-grade compost.”
Collin and Aries crossed the square, the sun hot on their backs.
“I guess my birthday trip’s off,” Collin murmured, barely more than breath. The words tasted hollow, sour—like cheese left out too long.
Aries gave a hard smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Yeah. Sol owns us now.”
Collin spent the remainder of the day adrift, as if suspended in the eye of a storm that hadn’t yet reached him.
Nothing held his focus—each task he touched seemed hollow, like going through the motions of someone else’s life.
In the garden, his hands worked absently; more than once, he yanked a tender sprout instead of a weed, each mistake a fresh jolt of frustration.
He shuffled clutter from one corner to another, convincing himself he was tidying when really, he was just rearranging the chaos to mirror the unrest inside him.
Even his glass project, once a refuge, betrayed him—each cut and etch reminded him of Captain Sol’s voice, sharp and cold and echoing with unspoken consequences.
As the house settled into silence, he lay rigid in bed, eyes fixed on the clock. The hands moved, but the weight pressing against his chest didn’t. Tomorrow had already begun to arrive—quietly, relentlessly—and he was nowhere near ready to meet it.