Forged in Sand #3
Nic and Clive were studying the rails, their expressions wary. Collin’s own eyes drifted to an apparatus that looked disturbingly like gallows—except instead of a noose, a pair of chains with handles hung ominously from the top bar. A shiver ran down his spine at the sight of those cold irons.
Spencer clapped his hands together, his deep voice cutting through the morning air. “Alright, pups. Spread out. Give yourselves plenty of room to move around. You are mine today, and I am going to shape you limp lumps of mush into men!”
The boys scattered, moving as if competing for prime real estate. Collin barely had time to register where he had ended up before it was too late to go anywhere else—the gallows.
Despite Spencer’s neutral expression, he was relentless.
The first hundred pushups felt like a slow descent into hell.
Collin’s arms trembled by the time he reached fifty, his shoulders burning as if set on fire.
By seventy, his breath came in ragged gasps, sweat dripping from his brow and stinging his eyes.
The sand beneath him was damp with sweat.
By eighty, he had pretty much lost the will to live, but he kept going.
Nic and Gravis, stronger than the rest, pushed through with clenched jaws, their movements sharp but slowing. Clive faltered first, his arms giving out beneath him, his face hitting the sand with a muffled grunt. Spencer didn’t take pity.
“Get up!” the lieutenant barked. “You think this is hard? You haven’t seen hard yet!”
Collin forced himself to keep going, his muscles screaming in protest. The only thing keeping him upright was the thought that stopping would be worse than enduring.
The ten-minute break was a brief but welcome relief.
The nearby well offered salvation, and though the spring day was pleasantly warm, the sun golden and gentle, it felt as if they had been thrown into a furnace.
None of them had the energy to exchange words.
They had just enough life left to gulp down water and splash their faces and chests.
As Spencer called them back, Collin vaguely considered making a break for it—but his legs were barely keeping him upright. Running was out of the question.
The next regimen was just as punishing. Kettlebells.
Standing straight, they had to lift the weight from their sides to shoulder level.
Collin didn’t lift the weight; he begged it to rise.
His muscles screamed in protest, his shoulders locking up with each lift.
The ten-pound iron might as well have been a boulder, his fingers barely holding on, and every second Spencer counted seemed twice as long.
By noon, Spencer had nearly shouted himself into a frenzy, his threats growing more elaborate.
He wasn’t the only one. Across the camp, Lieutenant Tate’s bellows rang out just as vehemently—the girls were still running laps in the deep sand, struggling against exhaustion.
Collin could only imagine what Aries and the others were enduring at the lake under Eric’s command.
The captain’s threats might not be as empty as the lower guards’.
At long last, the lunch bell rang out across the training grounds. It was a glorious sound, like the voice of a nymph luring men out to sea.
Everywhere, guards stopped what they were doing and began heading for the meal tent in herds. Once Spencer had his charges put the barbells into storage crates, he shepherded them toward the enticing scent of food.
Collin didn’t know if he had ever been this hungry. Or this tired.
And the day was only half over.
The massive meal pavilion was alive with movement, the midday bustle filling the air with the clatter of dishes and the low hum of conversation.
Even the guards who patrolled the town and nearby woods had returned, drawn by the promise of food.
Lightweight tables and chairs were scattered throughout the space, but most people opted for the plentiful benches lining the tent.
Spencer led the boys to the end of a crowded line, where they waited, shifting on sore legs, until their turn came.
When Collin finally collected his plate—a generous serving of finely prepared fare—he felt the first true wave of relief since dawn.
Spencer left them to find their own seats, and Collin scanned the pavilion, searching for familiar faces.
It wasn’t difficult to spot the girls. An invisible perimeter seemed to have formed around them, as if the guards had been warned to keep their distance.
Dragonfly, Sky, and Rhea sat side by side on a deserted bench at the far end of the tent, hunched over their plates, their exhaustion evident in every movement.
Nic, Clive, and Gravis were still searching for a place to sit when Collin jabbed Nic lightly in the ribs. “This way,” he said, leading the way.
When Collin sat beside Dragonfly, she offered him a weak smile—small, but genuine.
She looked as drained as he felt. Her hair was tied in a loose knot at the back of her head, but wavy tendrils had escaped the blue ribbon, curling against her flushed cheeks and neck.
Her blouse clung to her frame, damp with sweat, and though she lifted her fork, she seemed too worn-out to bring it to her mouth with any real enthusiasm.
As Collin settled onto the bench, the full weight of his exhaustion hit him.
His body ached, his muscles stiff and sluggish, but it was his mind that felt truly spent—drooping like a wilted weed under the midday sun.
Even his heart, which had pounded relentlessly through the morning’s trials, was too drained to race.
But the food—the food—was exquisite.
River had been right; the guards ate well.
The tender hunks of beef melted in his mouth like butter, rich and savory.
He was used to tough venison and wild boar, the kind that required effort to chew, and even the expensive cuts sold at the butcher had never been of this fine quality.
The vegetables were perfectly seasoned, fresh as if they had just been plucked from the garden.
And the bread—soft, airy, made from finely ground flour—was a far cry from the coarse, grainy loaves he was accustomed to.
For a while, the friends ate in silence, their plates balanced on their knees. The only conversation was the soft clinking of silverware.
Unlike Nic, who was wolfing down his meal as fast as he could, Collin chewed slowly, letting the flavors unfold on his tongue, unwilling to admit this might someday feel normal. But no. He could never tire of eating this way.
Dragonfly leaned close, a wisp of her silky hair brushing against his cheek. His breath hitched at the fleeting touch.
“Do you know where Lekyi and Aries got off to?” she asked, her voice soft, meant only for him.
He used the noisiness around them as the perfect excuse to shift closer. Beyond the potent scent of sweat clinging to the air, beyond the rich aroma of their meal and the sharp bite of herbs, he caught the delicate trace of her perfume—light, floral, intoxicating.
He leaned in, their heads nearly touching, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Eric took them to the lake. I guess they’re either having lunch delivered or eating later.”
Dragonfly took a sip from her mug, her lips pressing delicately against the rim. Collin’s gaze lingered there, his pulse quickening.
“I heard your guard shouting at all of you every time I jogged past your section,” she murmured. “Ours yells too. He refused to let me take a breath when my leg started cramping up.”
Collin barely registered her words—his mind was too caught on the way her lips moved, the way her voice curled around each syllable.
Now that his belly was full and his body had begun to recover, his thoughts drifted freely into dangerous territory.
He wanted to speak to her, to sit beside her in silence, to exist in this moment without the weight of the world pressing in.
“Our guard calls us veal,” he said, forcing himself to focus. “He threatened to chain logs to our ankles and make us walk home that way.”
Dragonfly laughed softly.
Oh, heavens, how he loved that sound.
“The leggings we have to wear under the skirts are so hot and itchy. The fabric doesn’t breathe,” said Rhea.
The spell shattered.
Rhea’s voice cut into Collin’s blissful bubble like a jagged blade, dragging him back to reality with an unpleasant jolt.
He didn’t glare. He didn’t sigh. He simply swallowed his fantasy along with his last bite of beef and waited for another interruption.
From his other side, Clive chimed in, “But I’d happily bear the itchy clothes if it meant eating like this every day!”
Collin exhaled slowly, forcing himself to let go of the moment.
For now.
Nic dragged a piece of bread over his already empty plate, soaking up the last of the gravy. “Damn! This is the best thing I’ve ever had in my life, including Helen. It’s a tragedy Uri is missing out.”
“You all eat beef often?” Gravis asked. “I think I had roast beef once in my life.”
“Roast beef, sure—but certainly not of this quality,” Collin replied, shoving his damp hair out of his face.
Nic swallowed the last bite and leaned back with theatrical satisfaction. “Only time I’ve tasted beef this good was at the awards banquet.” He let the words hang, then turned casually to Gravis. “I was Helen’s escort, of course. Daughter of Venus and all.”
Gravis smirked in derision but kept his thoughts to himself, returning to his meal.
“I wonder if we’re allowed seconds,” Clive said, his eyes drifting hopefully toward the serving tables.
Collin studied the line. A few of the guards looked familiar—he was fairly certain they had already been through once. He glanced at Nic, weighing his options. “I’ll go if you go,” he said, testing the waters.
Nic didn’t hesitate. He shot to his feet, empty plate clutched in both hands. “Come on, gentlemen. If Spencer’s going to keep working us like draft animals, we might as well eat like them.”