Chapter 6
No one moves. The silence stretches, broken only by the drip of blood on stone.
Then Voss is there, in my face, his breath hot and reeking of meat. “You,” he growls, eyes narrowing as they lock with mine. “You're the one who helped the boy. Compassion?” He spits the word. “That better die here today.”
I hold his gaze, fighting the urge to step backward. How did he become this monster? Around us, the other recruits watch with deathly stillness, waiting to see if there will be another corpse on the training room floor.
“I helped myself,” I manage to respond. “H-He was useful.”
Voss studies me, his ruined face unreadable. Then he barks a laugh that holds no humor. “Survival instinct. Good.” He turns away, addressing the room again. “Finish your meal. Training begins in ten minutes.”
The tension breaks. Recruits return to their hard-won food, though many eat mechanically now, eyes darting to Tomas's body. No one approaches it. No one speaks of him. Already, he's becoming a lesson rather than a person.
Ellis shakes beside me, his eyes fixed on the spreading pool of blood. I force a piece of bread into the boy’s hand.
“Eat,” I whisper fiercely. “Or you're next.”
“He just—they just—” Ellis stammers.
“Yes. And they'll do it again without hesitation.” I grip his shoulder, forcing him to look at me instead of the corpse. “Eat. Stay alive. That's all that matters now.” I feel like I’m telling myself this as much as him.
He nods shakily and takes a bite of bread, chewing without seeming to taste it. Lira joins us, her knuckles split and a bruise forming along her jaw, but clutching several pieces of fruit.
“Smart move with Milor,” she murmurs, passing me an apple. “Though he'll remember it.”
I take a bite, the sweetness almost painful after days of near-starvation. “Let him,” I rasp.
My eyes scan the room, trying to catalog threats, allies, and the uncertain space between.
Krall watches me from across the yard, evaluating.
Nessa and Sariah have formed a defensive position in another corner, sharing food between them.
The Laverte twins move in near perfect synchronization, one guarding while the other eats.
And high above, on a viewing platform I hadn't noticed before, stands Handler Selen.
Unlike the other handlers who watch the proceedings with bored cruelty or sadistic amusement, her expression is analytical, assessing.
When our eyes meet, she doesn't look away.
Instead, she makes another note in her book.
“That one watches you,” Lira observes, following my gaze.
“Everyone's watching everyone,” I reply, though I know it's different. It's some kind of assessment, not simple observation.
Voss's whistle cuts through the air, and handlers begin clearing away the food carts, kicking aside those who try to grab final morsels. Two guards drag Tomas's body toward the exit, leaving a dark smear on the stone. No ceremony. No acknowledgment. Just disposal.
“Form lines!” Voss bellows. “Four ranks! Move!”
We scramble to obey, organizing ourselves with the desperate efficiency of the terrified. I position myself between Ellis and Lira, hoping to shield the boy from the worst of what's to come. My muscles ache from the food fight—a minor skirmish compared to what awaits us, I'm sure.
“Training begins now,” Voss announces, pacing before us. His misshapen face twists into what might be a smile on a normal man. “First lesson: pain.”
More carts are wheeled in, but these hold no food. Instead, they're laden with crude wooden weapons—staffs, clubs, and practice swords. Handlers distribute them randomly, ensuring some recruits receive nothing at all.
“Pair up,” Voss commands. “Those with weapons, those without. Begin.”
For a heartbeat, no one moves. Then understanding dawns. This is another test. Another culling.
“Begin or join the noble!” Voss roars.
The yard erupts into chaos once more. I find myself empty-handed, facing a rail-thin woman wielding a wooden staff. I recognize her from processing—one of the street thieves from the eastern ward, with quick eyes and quicker hands. She hesitates, clearly reluctant to attack someone unarmed.
That hesitation could get us both killed.
I lunge forward without warning, ducking under her surprised swing and driving my shoulder into her midsection. We crash to the ground, and I wrench the staff from her grip, rolling away before she can recover.
“Sorry,” I mutter as I rise, weapon now in hand. “Better me than them.”
Her eyes narrow with understanding, and she nods once before retreating into the chaos.
All around us, similar scenes unfold. Those who hesitated find themselves weaponless or worse. Those who struck first, who embraced the cruelty of the game, gain advantage. It's a lesson written in bruises and blood: compassion is a liability here.
My stomach clenches painfully despite the recent food. The scraps we fought for barely took the edge off my hunger. My body craves more, needs more to sustain what's coming. But hunger is clearly part of the “training”—keeping us desperate, making us fight like animals for basic necessities.
I scan the room for Ellis and spot him backed against a wall, fending off a man twice his size with a broken chair leg. The scholar's movements are panicked, uncoordinated. He won't last long.
“Keep your guard up!” I shout, starting toward him.
A staff whistles past my ear, forcing me to pivot. Krall looms before me, his massive frame blocking my path, a crude club gripped in one scarred fist.
“Going somewhere, street rat?” he growls.
I adjust my stance, raising the staff defensively. “Not looking for trouble, Krall.”
“Too bad. Trouble found you.” He swings the club in a vicious arc.
I dodge, the weapon stirring the air inches from my face. He's strong but slow—years of pit fighting have taught him to overpower rather than outmaneuver. I dart left, then right, staying just beyond his reach, looking for an opening.
“Stand still and die with dignity,” he snarls, frustration mounting.
“I'd rather live without it,” I reply, feinting forward then dropping low as he swings again. The momentum carries his arm wide, exposing his side. I drive the end of my staff into his flesh with all my strength.
Krall grunts, more annoyed than injured. His free hand shoots out, catching my shoulder before I can retreat. His grip is like iron as he drags me closer.
“Not bad,” he admits, raising the club. “But not good enough.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Ellis fall, his opponent standing over him with weapon raised. No time for finesse. I slam my forehead into Krall's nose, feeling cartilage give with a sickening crunch. He howls, releasing me as blood pours down his face.
I don't waste the opening. Spinning the staff, I deliver a crushing blow to his knee, then another to his temple as he buckles. Not enough to kill—I don't need that kind of attention—but enough to put him down.
As Krall collapses, I sprint toward Ellis, but I'm too late. The man standing over him has already brought his weapon down—only to have it intercepted by Lira's staff. She moves with lethal precision, disarming Ellis's attacker with a twist and strike that leaves him clutching a broken wrist.
Our eyes meet across the chaos, and she gives me a curt nod. Message received: we protect our own.
“Enough!” Voss's voice cuts through the din. “Weapons down!”
The fighting stutters to a halt. I help Ellis to his feet, noting the swelling around his eye. Around us, recruits assess their injuries, some leaning heavily on improvised weapons, others sprawled on the ground.
“Pathetic mortals,” Voss announces, surveying the carnage with disdain. “Half of you would already be dead in a real fight.”
He gestures to the handlers, who begin collecting the weapons. One pauses beside a young man who lies motionless on the ground, blood pooling beneath his head. After a cursory check, the handler simply moves on. Another casualty, not even worth remarking upon.
My stomach growls painfully as the adrenaline begins to fade. I catch myself staring at the exit doors, wondering if they'll finally provide a proper meal. Around me, others do the same, eyes hollow with hunger and exhaustion.
“You think you're finished?” Voss laughs. “We've barely begun. But clearly, you’re not yet hungry enough. Tonight, you go without food.”
A collective agonizing groan tears through the recruits. The sound—primal and guttural—echoes against the walls. I quickly scan the ground for any scraps from earlier but find none. They’re breaking us down physically to make us more desperate, more vicious. It will work.
“Dismissed,” Voss barks. “Back to your cells.”
As we file out, I notice Handler Selen has descended from her observation platform. She stands near the exit, watching each recruit pass with that same calculating gaze. When I approach, she steps directly into my path.
“Interesting strategy, Four-Three-Seven,” she says, voice cool and precise. “You protected the weak one.”
I keep my expression neutral. “I protected an ally.”
“Allies become liabilities quickly here.”
“Or they keep you alive when you're not looking.”
Something flickers in her sharp eyes—not approval, exactly, but that now-familiar assessment.
“Most recruits learn to abandon compassion before training is complete,” Selen says, stepping closer.
The other handlers are distracted with herding recruits, leaving us in a moment of relative privacy.
“It slows them down. Makes them vulnerable.”
“Maybe,” I concede, meeting her gaze directly. “Or maybe they misunderstand what strength really is.”
Her eyes narrow. “And what do you think strength is, Four-Three-Seven?”