Darkness pressed against him like a weight.There were sounds—faint, fleeting. Laughter, once warm, now haunting. Voices called to him from somewhere far away, names he almost recognized but could not name. Then came the pain. A memory so sharp it seared his chest, yet hollow, as if it had been torn out of him. He could not grasp it, could not understand it—but the ache remained.
He gasped and jolted awake.
The boy lay on a slab of stone, cold enough to bite into his skin. A stale dampness hung in the air, carrying the smell of dust and iron. Above him loomed a ceiling so high it melted into shadow, lined with beams that looked more like bones than wood.
*Where am I?* His heart thudded. *What happened?*
He pushed himself upright. His legs shook, unsteady beneath him, as if they belonged to someone else. The chamber stretched outward, vast and silent. Iron sconces held dim torches along the walls, their flames sputtering weakly. The light revealed stone bricks scarred with cracks and claw-like scratches. He saw no windows, only a heavy wooden door on the far side.
*I don't remember this place… I don't remember anything.*
The thought made his chest tighten. He pressed his palm against his head, willing a memory to return, a name, a face—something. But there was nothing.
He forced himself toward the door. The hinges groaned when he pushed, the sound breaking the silence like a scream.
A man was waiting.
Leaning against the wall, his arms folded, his face was carved from shadow and stone. His eyes, sharp and gray as steel, locked onto the boy. He did not speak, only watched.
The boy's throat felt dry. "Uh… excuse me?" His own voice startled him, cracked and small.
The man straightened and spoke at last, his tone flat and commanding:
"Follow me."
The boy obeyed.
They walked through a narrow passage, the stone walls closing in like a throat. Their footsteps echoed, his light and uncertain, the man's heavy and deliberate. The corridor opened suddenly into a vast courtyard, wide as a battlefield.
Torchlight flickered against towering walls of black stone. The sky above was hidden by darkness and smoke, leaving only a sliver of pale light that bled through cracks in the ceiling high above. The air smelled of ash, sweat, and something metallic—something that made the boy's stomach twist.
Dozens of children stood there. Boys and girls, none older than him, all dressed in the same plain white garments. Their faces mirrored his confusion. Their eyes were wide and uncertain, some wet with tears they were too afraid to shed. Not one of them spoke.
On the ground lay scattered weapons: wooden swords, spears, and staves. Their shapes were rough, yet menacing all the same.
The man strode into the center of the courtyard. The baton in his hand caught the torchlight, its surface dented and scarred from long use. His voice rang out, cutting through the silence:
"Arm yourselves."
The children hesitated at first. Then fear moved them. Small hands scrambled to snatch up weapons, fumbling with unfamiliar grips.
The boy bent slowly, fingers curling around the hilt of a wooden sword. It felt wrong—too heavy, too real. He swallowed hard. *Why give us weapons? What are they going to do to us?*
All around him, children clutched their arms to their chests, waiting.
The man's gaze swept over them, cold as winter. For a long, terrible moment, he said nothing. The torches hissed and popped in the silence.
Then his voice thundered:
"Begin!"
And without hesitation, he charged. The baton whistled through the air as the first strike fell.