Dawn arrived without warmth. A pale, merciless light filtered through the tangled canopy above, casting the world in hues of ash and frost. The clearing—if it could be called that—was thick with morning mist and breathless silence. Damp earth clung to bare feet. A chorus of terrified children huddled in clusters, their eyes glassy, their bodies trembling with cold and something deeper: the raw, primal fear of the unknown.
Ravian stood among them, frozen in place, his small fists clenched so tightly his knuckles burned. He hadn't slept. None of them had. They hadn't been allowed to. There was only the cold, the distant rustle of the forest, and the looming dread of whatever came next.
The training ground looked more like an ancient killing field. The earth was a churned-up mire of mud and rotting leaves, scattered with splintered wood and metal debris too rusted to identify. Trees formed a jagged circle around them like silent witnesses, their crooked limbs clawing at the sky. A crow cawed once overhead and was never heard again.
The clearing was filled with the scent of moss and old blood, of mildew and damp sweat. Someone sobbed. Another child threw up. The silence wasn't peace—it was paralysis. As if even the trees were holding their breath.
Then came the sound.
Boots. Heavy. Unhurried.
Every child stiffened.
The men emerged from the treeline like reapers from a forgotten tale—armor mismatched, eyes blank, movements smooth with the laziness of those who knew they would not be challenged. In their hands: clubs, chains, hooks, leather coils. Tools not for training, but for breaking.
At the front was a tall man with a scar like lightning stitched across his cheek. His eyes were two stones, and his smile was worse.
"Look at you," he said, voice cutting through the cold like a blade. "So weak, you can't even cry properly. You're not warriors. You're meat. And our job is to carve the rot away."
A few children whimpered. One fainted. No one moved to help them.
"You will eat when we allow it. Sleep if we permit it. And you will train until your bones crack and your souls beg for mercy. But there is no mercy here. Only steel."
A cart rolled into view, pushed by two grinning men. Its contents rattled: rusted shackles, ropes, leather bindings, blood-darkened collars.
A fresh wave of dread passed over the children like wind through dying wheat.
"Shackles," the scarred man said, as if explaining to the blind. "Because free limbs don't learn fast enough."
And so the shackling began. No ceremony. No kindness. Children were dragged, bound, and tossed back into the dirt like broken dolls.
When Ravian's turn came, the iron bit into his skin. Cold. Too tight. The chains clanked with every small movement. It took three attempts to stand.
Then came the order: "Run."
Murmurs. Confused looks. Shackled feet. Run?
The man answered with his whip.
The first crack was a warning. The second—punishment. Flesh tore. A scream rang out. Blood hit the leaves.
Ravian ran.
Not because he understood. Not because he wanted to. But because the part of him that wanted to live took over.
The pain came quickly—shackles grinding bone, lungs on fire, legs too short. He stumbled. Fell. Got up.
Around him, children ran and fell and screamed and bled. The world blurred into a storm of agony and motion. It was no longer a training field—it was a gauntlet of suffering.
A boy fell beside him—barely older, his face twisted in silent terror. He would learn later his name: Niaz. But now, he was just a child falling too fast.
Ravian reached for him. Pulled. Whispered: "Don't stop."
Together they ran, like hunted animals, their bodies barely holding together. The pain was constant. The fear worse.
Eventually, the men called a halt.
Children collapsed. Some vomited. Some prayed. Some just stared.
And then the lesson continued.
A boy too slow was lashed across the back. Screams rose again. Blood. Dirt. A boot on a child's neck.
"You will learn," the man said coldly. "Or you will die."
Ravian felt bile rise in his throat as he watched, his mind reeling from the cruelty unfolding before him. He had known the world could be harsh, but this... this was something beyond cruelty. This was a place where fear was the air they breathed, where pain was the only thing that reminded them they were still alive.
Niaz shifted beside him, his voice barely a whisper. "What do they want from us?"
Ravian shook his head, unable to find the words. He didn't know. He didn't know what these men wanted, what they were trying to make them become. All he knew was that he had never been so afraid in his life.
The hours stretched on, a relentless blur of running, beatings, and cold, suffocating terror. They were given no food, no water. The sun had risen high in the sky, burning overhead, but the warmth did nothing to ease the cold that had settled deep into Ravian's bones.
At some point, they were marched back to the center of the clearing, lined up in crooked rows. The men stood at ease, laughing, drinking from flasks. A few sat beneath the trees, sharpening blades or tossing dice.
"This lot's softer than the last," one muttered.
"We'll fix that."
And they would.
Ravian knew it now—not as a thought, but as a truth that buried itself into his marrow. There would be no rescue. No savior. No going back.
He looked at Niaz. The boy's tears had dried into tracks of dirt on his cheeks. His body trembled. His eyes clung to Ravian's.
The men laughed again. Cruel. Drunk on power.
And Ravian looked down.
And broke.
Just a little.