Kinsley could barely see through the sweat dripping down his forehead. It covered his eyes and left his lips salty and dry.

His heart pounded like a jackhammer, beating so fast he was worried it might explode at any moment. Every muscle in his body, every nerve, every fibre - screamed at him to stop running. But he didn't stop; he couldn't. The man running beside him made sure of it.

Twice already, Kinsley had stumbled and fallen onto the gravel path, and twice, the man had picked him up like a ragdoll and set him to running again.

"Can we please stop!!" Wheezed the girl beside him. She had black hair and a perpetual scowl. At least before they started running. Now, her face was twisted in agony, and she was drenched in sweat like the rest of them, wheezing for breath between stumbling steps.

Mallory was her name. And, despite only knowing her for a few hours, Kinsley didn't like her. There was something about the way she looked down at him that got on his nerves. It was like she thought she was better than him.

They ran together, seconds trickling by in excruciating pain.

Kinsley had already forgotten how many laps they had done around the manor house. It could have been ten or ten thousand, everything had turned into mush, so he could bo longer tell. His legs were numb and wobbly, only moving through sheer force habit. Every step felt like it could be his last.

"Did I say you could stop!?" Bellowed Jackson, their trainer. The muscly brute was built like a small bison, with a shaved head and a pitch-black goatee that twitched when he spoke. Despite the fact that he had been running with them the entire time, the man didn't look even the slightest bit tired. It was like he had been on a calm stroll and not a relentless jog around the house.

"I… I…” Mallory struggled to get the words out. "I don't… Have to… do this…”

She tried to stop running, but Jackson grabbed her elbow and started dragging her along the ground behind him. She looked like a sullen anchor, yelping as her knees were rubbed raw on the gravel.

A few minutes ago, Kinsley had been considering giving up as well, but after seeing what happened to Mallory, he decided that he wouldn't stop running after all. Being dragged across the natural equivalent of a cheese grater was not on his bucket list.

He glanced up ahead, wiping sweat out of his eyes to get a clearer view of the two front-runners. A boy and a girl, both of them tall and strong, running with confidence and experience. Essentially, they were the opposite of Kinsley and Mallory.

The boy, Grant, had sandy blonde hair – and a face that would one day resemble that of a hero in a war film. Despite being barely thirteen, he already looked somewhat grizzled, with eyes that had seen too much and a jaw that was beginning to look square.

All he needed was some stubble and a few dog tags to look like a proper soldier.

Although Kinsley hadn't spoken to Grant earlier, the older boy had given him a very reliable impression. He seemed like someone who you wouldn't mind watching your back.

When the group had met earlier, it had been him to start the introductions. Almost without thinking, he naturally slid into the leadership position, with all the familiarity of putting on an old sock.

As for the girl, Sloan, she had something altogether sharp about her. Perhaps it was those steely grey eyes that almost cut what they landed on, or maybe, it was her back - straight as a ramrod and unflinching. Her hair was short and brown, tied back in a braid that hung down to her shoulders.

She was the oldest of them, at fourteen, and seemed the least bothered by the running. From the looks of it, she wasn't even breathing heavily. She had given Kinsley the impression of a bodyguard or some kind of silent warrior. A samurai, maybe, or a knight old.

Stoic, was perhaps the best word to describe her.

There should have been a fifth runner with them, but the other boy hadn't shown up yet.

Kinsley had some suspicions about why that might be, but he would have to see the boy first before he could confirm anything.

As for Kinsley himself, he was waif thin and covered in old scars and callouses. A long, jagged white line ran down from the bottom of his ear to his shoulder, and there were hundreds of grease burns marked all along his hands and forearms.

No boy of thirteen should have looked like he did, but that was the life he had lived. Until now, anyway. Kinsley was short for his age and had long, dark hair that clung to the sides of his face from the sweat. It was greasy and unkempt, giving him the look of a bedraggled crow.

Which he supposed suited a person like him.

Funnily enough, despite his physical weakness, it was not Kinsley who suffered most from the running, but Mallory. Her face was beat red, and the makeup she had been wearing streaked down it like dried-up riverbeds through a savannah. It made her look like a weeping clown, which was at least a little bit funny.

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Mallory reminded him of a duchess or princess. The first time they had met, she had looked at him like a servant, or less than that, even. Whether it was the way she had moaned and complained the whole time they were running - or how nothing, not the house's food or rooms, ever seemed to be good enough for her, Mallory seemed like a stuck-up prick. To Kinsley, anyway.

Thanks to his poor impression of the girl, he had to admit that there was some schadenfreude to be had from watching the dark-haired girl run on shaky legs covered in scratches. He would probably have enjoyed it far more if he, too, wasn't on the verge of collapse.

'This better stop soon, or Jackson will be dragging me next!' He thought. For a moment, he seriously considered diving into a nearby shadow and running away, but what then? If he ended up annoying Kline, would Kinsley get kicked out? Or worse, now that he knew what the High Priest was truly capable of.

The laps trickled by, and his legs gradually grew so numb that he felt like he was running on stilts. Step after step, metre after metre, he stumbled around the huge manor house like a zombie. At some point, Sloan and Grant lapped them, and then they did it again... and again. Gradually, Kinsley lost count, settling into a mind-numbing fugue where nothing seemed real.

Every time he wanted to stop running, Jackson would bark in his ear or pick him up with one arm and shove him forwards. There was no escape. No way out but to run.

The afternoon sun beat down on the back of his neck like a hammer on an anvil, and his head pounded furiously. Murky spots floated through his vision, drifting over the distant groundsmen that watched the ordeal with barely concealed mirth.

Despite his blurry vision, however, the spots did not obscure the boy that walked out the front door of the house. He had a baguette in one hand and walked while taking big bites out of the thing.

The boy had tangled brown hair that curled at the ends and a face that was rather plain - neither too handsome nor ugly. What stood out were his eyes, which seemed deeper than any Kinsley had seen before.

Except... he had seen these eyes before. Yesterday.

The boy was slightly shorter than Grant and thin, but not bone thin like Kinsley was.

Stepping down onto the gravel path, he stared around like a curious tourist in a museum, pausing to stare at the exhibits in wonder.

Kinsley's heart stopped from the shock… or maybe it was the running.

"It's him!" he yelped, not realising he had said it aloud.

Jackson heard the shout and glanced up, locking eyes on the boy like a homing missile. He took off in his direction with arms pumping furiously and legs pounding the gravel like sledgehammers.

"Boy!!" he bellowed. "Do you have any idea how late you are!!??"

Taking the opportunity to rest, Kinsley and Mallory collapsed on the ground, heaving for air. Mallory was giving the newcomer a seething glare that bordered on murderous, while Kinsley stared at him in disbelief.

Soon, Grant and Sloan pulled up beside them, breathing hard and drenched.

All four children stopped to watch as Jackson howled at the newcomer – who didn't seem particularly bothered by the constant berating. He seemed far more interested in his baguette, actually.

"That him?" Grant asked. "Fyn, was it?"

Kinsley couldn't help but be jealous of the boy, who had run far farther and faster than he had. He wanted to speak up and say something, but the words caught in his throat.

"I don't hold out much hope for someone who cannot keep time properly," Sloan snorted. "We were told to be here for twelve, not two."

"Ah, I'm sure he has a reason for being late," said Grant. His voice was calm and even, far beyond his years. "The servants would have dragged him here earlier if he didn't."

Mallory managed to revive herself just long enough to say. "It looks like he's just eating a sandwich! How is that a good reason to be late?? I'll bet we only had to run this far because he was late… what if… what if we have to do the same amount again now that he is here?"

Kinsley thought he might as well just die already if that happened. Not another step, he decided. One more, and that step would take him through the gates of the underworld. There he could finally rest.

In the distance, Jackson was hurling abuse at the boy, who hadn't stopped eating his sandwich yet. The big man's face was bright red, and in his fury, he stuck out a hand to try and grab the sandwich.

What happened next made Sloan's eyes narrow, and Kinsley gasp.

The boy - barely older than twelve or thirteen - swatted the huge hand away like it weighed nothing. Like the man behind it wasn't a walking mountain.

Everyone froze, Jackson included.

No one could quite believe what they had just seen. Even the boy looked shocked, as though he hadn't been expecting his casual slap to actually do anything.

Jackson just stood there, with his mouth open wide like a whale gathering krill. But soon, a servant rushed out and whispered something in the big man's ear. Finally, Jackson grunted – as though something made perfect sense – and bent down to whisper something to the newcomer.

The boy nodded and then glanced up in their direction.

Kinsley swallowed hard. Those weren't the eyes of a child, and he knew it. He had seen it happen. One moment, that boy had been a man, fully grown. The next… a child, just like them.

Kinsley had only followed the man out of curiosity from their encounter the previous night and knew he had seen something he wasn't supposed to.

His Holiness was a humanist! The high priest of the Church of the Lighthouse was a humanist! It was so surreal he wasn't sure if he had dreamt the whole thing.

Not until the man – turned boy – had shown up, anyway.

But what could he do? If Kinsley let anyone know what he knew, the High Priest would probably have him killed. And besides... did he even want anyone to know? If not for the holy man, Kinsley would still be cleaning the gunk out of gears in Factory B7.

Humanist or not, the High Priest had thrown him a lifeline.

Perhaps... Perhaps it was best to forget he had ever seen anything, he thought.

Right then and there, as Jackson approached the four of them – with the newcomer in tow – Kinsley decided that he would take this secret to his grave.

Or at least... until he had figured out something better to do with it.