The morning came on slow legs, dragging with it the taste of iron and bleach.
Cael woke to a metallic buzz overhead, the lights stuttering to life in broken intervals—one flicker, then another, until the barracks were cast in their usual sterile white. The chill that greeted him wasn't just in the air anymore; it had sunk into the beds, into the uniforms, into the silence. Into their bones.
He stayed there for a moment—flat on his back, watching the condensation of his breath curl and vanish. It was the only proof that he was still alive, still breathing. That the night hadn't taken him in his sleep and swapped him out for something else.
But even before he sat up, he felt it.
The hum.
A low, nauseating vibration underfoot. Subtle enough that it could be missed if you weren't listening—but once you noticed it, you couldn't un-feel it. Like something was stirring beneath the concrete floor, stretching, convulsing.
Like the building itself was bracing for pain.
Across from him, Wren was already awake. She sat upright on her cot, knees hugged to her chest, the fabric of her sleeves clutched in her fists. Her face didn't move, but her eyes were fixed on the eastern wall.
Then it came.
A scream—muffled, distant, unmistakably human.
And then another.
Short. Sharp. Cut off in a burst of static agony.
Not from this room. Not from this floor.
But close enough that the walls seemed to flinch.
"Again," Wren whispered, more to herself than to anyone else.
It wasn't the first scream they'd heard that morning. They had begun sometime in the dead hours, when time blurred and the lights stayed dim for mercy's sake. At first, Cael had assumed it was a drill. An audio manipulation. A recording made to keep them rattled.
But by now, they all knew better.
Because no sound tech in the world could fake that kind of suffering.
Another shriek rose, jagged and raw—ending in a rattling, wet sob that seemed to echo long after the voice stopped.
Cael pressed his palms into his eyes, hard.
And tried not to see it again.
The White Knight.
The one they'd dragged past the glass corridor during training. The way its limbs had bent the wrong direction. The veins swollen and black, crawling like worms beneath the skin. That... thing inside its chest. Bulging. Pulsing. Moving.
They called it Mutation Protocol.
But he knew better.
That wasn't mutation. That was mutilation.
He wasn't the only one rattled. Across the room, a small cough broke the silence. From one of the far bunks, near the edge of the row.
The boy who'd vomited during their first drill—skinny, shaking, always watching everyone else like they might turn into monsters—was curled under his blanket. His fingers clutched at his wrist, tight enough to bruise.
"Pax," Wren said quietly, without looking away from the wall. "Drink something."
So he had a name now. Pax.
The boy fumbled for the tin cup beside him and sipped. His hands trembled, but he kept the cup steady enough not to spill.
On the opposite side of the room, a girl shifted in her cot. She had short, dark curls and a fading scab stretching across her temple from where she collapsed during drills. Her eyes met Cael's—uncertain but aware—and she gave the smallest of nods.
He nodded back.
"Her name's Lyndra," Wren murmured. "From Ashspire too."
"You just know that?"
"I asked."
"Why?"
Wren's eyes slid sideways toward him, then back to the wall. "Because they'll die. Maybe not today, but… eventually. And when they do, I want to remember their names."
Cael said nothing.
Because she was right.
Here, names were the only armor they had left.
Every day chipped away at their humanity—cutting it into pieces like a game board. Forgetting was easy. Too easy. But remembering? That was an act of rebellion.
A soft hiss split the air.
The door to the barracks unlocked, folding outward like a jaw.
The Drillmaster stood there, her sharp coat immaculate, boots silent. But something about her looked... off today. Not tired, exactly. More like worn thin. Like parchment about to tear.
"We begin in the north atrium," she said, her voice flatter than usual. "Follow."
They moved like shadows—eight Pawns, all clad in black.
Cael. Wren. Pax. Lyndra. And the other four whose names hadn't yet surfaced. One boy with a hollowed cheek and limping step. A girl with a whispery voice who hadn't spoken since arrival. Another with a burn scar just beneath his collarbone. And the last—a tall, older one named Ryve, whose posture was too relaxed for someone trapped in this place.
The hallways today felt darker. Not just from the flickering lights, but from the sound leaking through the vents.
More screams.
More breaking.
The scent of blood barely masked by antiseptic.
As they rounded a corner, Cael caught sight of a pair of black double doors. Symbols were carved into the steel—♛ in gleaming silver.
The Queen's Sector.
"Vira," he muttered under his breath.
Wren heard him.
"You know her?"
"No," he admitted. "But... she knows me."
"That's worse," she said, but didn't press.
The north atrium was already lit when they arrived. It should've been familiar by now—the sparring mats, the stacked weapons racks, the grid training monitors lining the walls. But today, everything felt... off.
No weapons were laid out.
No simulations displayed.
Instead, a single holoscreen glowed across the far wall. It showed a map—roughly circular—divided into four quadrants. The arena. Its jagged lines marked each elemental domain: Ember Wastes. Root Labyrinth. Glass Mire. Crown's Hollow.
But today, large portions of that map glowed red.
"Volatility readings," the Drillmaster said. "Updated in real time. They will determine deployment order."
Pax raised a hand, his fingers shaking. "What… what do the red zones mean?"
The Drillmaster didn't blink. "They burn hotter."
He shrank back.
Lyndra leaned in toward Cael, her voice just above a whisper. "That's where they're sending the injected pieces first."
"How do you know?"
"Two Officials. Yesterday. One said, 'Need to test strain stability under live combat.' The other said, 'Drop them into heat.'"
Another scream rattled the air—this one louder, closer. A sharp smack followed. Bone hitting steel. Flesh against wall.
They all flinched.
Even the Drillmaster turned her head slightly.
And then they heard it:
Laughter.
Not joyous. Not sane. A bubbling, broken sound that rose and fell like someone drowning in their own madness.
The Drillmaster's expression twitched. Not quite pity. Not quite fear.
"Your training resumes now," she said. "Blunt weapons only. Partner assignments are locked. No injuries requiring medical removal—understood?"
No one answered.
She didn't wait.
Names were called. Cael's partner was Pax.
He stepped forward, shaking.
But when he held the baton, his grip was steady.
Cael gave him a nod. "Don't hold back."
Pax didn't smile. Just exhaled and lifted his weapon.
The session was longer than usual.
Or maybe it just felt that way—drawn out by the sounds behind the walls. Every clash of their batons was followed by a scream from some unseen chamber. Every stumble on the mat was underscored by a thud in the distance.
Lyndra trained against Ryve. She moved sharper than before, her hesitation gone.
The boy with the limp was knocked down four times but always stood again.
Wren faced off against the girl with the burn scar—and for the first time, Wren looked like she was holding back.
By the end of the session, sweat clung to their spines. Shoulders ached. Arms trembled.
But no one spoke.
The Drillmaster dismissed them with a single glance.
Dinner was silent. The same protein slop. The same tin bowls.
The lights dimmed overhead, but the screaming continued.
Through it all, Cael lay awake.
Staring at the ceiling. Counting the breaths between each cry. Wondering how much of those sounds belonged to his teammates.
To Vira.
To Elijah.
To the others he hadn't even met.
The White Knight was back in his mind again. Not in form—but in voice.
That gurgling sound it made. The way its body twitched, as if still fighting something on the inside.
He turned to face the wall.
And saw Wren watching him.
Her eyes were hollow, her voice quiet.
"I think tomorrow's going to be worse," she said.
He didn't disagree.
Because in the quiet that followed…
He realized what he feared most wasn't the arena.
It was what the injections would leave behind.