Chapter 30

A Test of Heart and Bone

> They arrive with dreams of grandeur, eyes wide with the promise of luxury—their minds filled with visions of the apartments they’ll call their own and the soft beds they’ll rest in. If only they knew the truth of their first week. The Institute strips more than your comfort. It takes your soul and grinds it underfoot until what remains is worthy to rise. Luxury comes after the blood, not before.

>

> — Reflections on the First Trials

>

> Knight-Captain Esthra Vos

The rough fibers of the canvas bag scraped against his skin as it was yanked away, leaving his head throbbing. A blinding light bore down on him, piercing his senses like knives. Godfrey squinted, instinctively trying to shield his face, but his hands wouldn’t move—bound tightly behind his back. Slowly, the world came into focus, the searing brightness giving way to a dim, sterile room. Stone walls. No windows. And the faint metallic tang of blood in the air.

His heart pounded as he blinked against the brightness. His memories filtered in like fragments of a broken mirror, sharp and disjointed. He had told Antonia just last night that he didn't know what awaited him at the Institute. A week at most, he had said.

The memory of his early arrival that morning came crashing back. The cold air. The barren grounds, eerily empty before dawn. The darkened hall. He’d found the door open, the same door he had entered two days before. Confidence had been his mistake. There could be no danger here, he had thought. It was the Institute, after all—his future.

But the moment he stepped through the threshold of the auditorium, everything had gone dark. Now, he sat in the cold silence, bound.

A shadow loomed over him, blocking the light. He tried to look up, his muscles stiff from the tight bonds. His captor, or perhaps his instructor—it was hard to say which—stood silently for a long moment before finally speaking.

“Welcome to your first lesson at the Institute, Inductee,” the voice said, cold and unfeeling. It came from somewhere above him, detached and merciless. “Consider this your introduction to our hospitality. Here are the rules. You can quit at any time. You will immediately be assigned to the Army, where you will spend your days shoveling latrine pits, and your nights dodging arrows and bombards.” The voice paused, letting the weight of that future settle like a boulder on his chest. “Should you survive this week, you will be a Squire of the Hand. Those are the only rules. Do you understand?”

Godfrey blinked through the remnants of blinding light, his throat dry. Quit? The word echoed in his mind, heavy and final. He swallowed, his voice barely a rasp. “What… what is my task?”

For a brief moment, silence hung in the air like a drawn breath. Then the voice returned, edged with amusement. “This room is simple, Inductee. Your task is to open the door behind you and exit it. It is unlocked.”

Godfrey twisted his wrists against the bindings, confusion creeping into his thoughts. Unlocked? His head swam. “That’s it?”

“Good luck,” the voice added, dismissive and without a trace of concern.

He heard the distinct sound of footsteps receding behind him, and then the soft click of a door closing somewhere out of sight. Alone now, he strained to peer over his shoulder. There—just barely visible at the edge of his peripheral vision—was a thick metal door, heavy and foreboding. Unlocked, the Captain had said. It should have been easy, just stand up, walk to the door, and open it.

But the cold steel digging into his wrists reminded him he wasn’t moving anywhere until he got out of these bindings.

The challenge was clear. The task wasn’t the door. It was freeing himself.

The Institute had begun its games.

Godfrey’s breathing slowed as he assessed his situation. He was no longer in his own clothes. The Institute uniform—simple, gray, and devoid of any insignia—clung to his skin like a second prison. His wrists were bound tightly behind his back, fixed to a thin wooden chair that creaked ever so slightly beneath him. His legs, tied together with rough rope, were further restrained by heavy manacles that bound his ankles. He could tip the chair over, but what good would that do? He wasn’t going to brute force his way out—not without a plan.

He flexed his fingers behind his back, testing the resistance of the manacles. Stuck fast. He let out a slow breath. The chair could be broken, but not without leverage, and with his feet bound, the thought was useless. For a moment, he imagined himself being watched—observed like an animal in a cage—but the stone walls revealed no sign of windows, no hint of a shadowed gaze lurking behind them. It didn’t matter; he was sure of it. This was a test. The Institute had begun measuring him from the moment they knocked him out, probably before. He imagined he lost some points by falling into the ambush.

His mind raced, considering what an average Sculpted Inductee would do. They would rely on strength—brute force to shatter the chair or pull apart the bindings. But the manacles were sized precisely to prevent that, clamped to be proportionally effective, no matter the strength of the wearer. Flexibility, then? No, even the most limber of bodies couldn’t twist out of this without breaking something.

And then, the thought crystallized, cold and certain: He could break something.

Godfrey stilled. The clarity was brutal. If he were willing to injure himself, he could escape. He glanced down, his mind mapping the problem like a puzzle. His pinky finger—the smallest, most fragile bone. It would be the easiest to sacrifice. Break it, slide his hand free of the manacle, and then... well, he'd still have the rope and the manacles on his ankles to deal with, but he could move. He could work from there. A fire sparked in his chest, not of fear, but of cold resolve.

Without hesitation, he centered his thoughts on his left hand. He could feel his Control—instinctual, raw—take hold. He weakened the bones of his pinky, letting them go soft and brittle, the sensation strange but familiar, like tuning an instrument until it hit the perfect note. And then, in one swift, decisive motion, he snapped the bone.

A sharp, tearing pain shot up his arm, a vicious crack that echoed in the silence. He stifled the urge to cry out, biting down hard as his hand slid free from the manacle. The air hissed between his teeth as the pain settled, throbbing and hot, but it didn’t matter. He had done it.

Quickly, he untied the rope around his legs and torso, working with deliberate movements despite the pulsing agony in his hand. Free from the chair, he stood—unsteady but on his feet. His ankles were still bound by chains, but at least he could walk. Slowly.

Godfrey inhaled sharply as the pain in his hand threatened to overwhelm him, but with a single, practiced thought, he Focused on the nerve. The sharp, burning throb dulled into a distant ache, like an echo in a far-off chamber. His left hand was still mangled, but at least the agony no longer clawed at his mind.

His pupils flared outward, a response to the sudden surge of Focus, but he caught himself quickly, pulling back, manually contracting them. Not now. He couldn't let his mastery be seen—not by whoever might be watching.

The door was there, waiting.

He exhaled, steadying his breath. The Institute wanted to break him. But not yet.

He opened the door.

XXX

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Godfrey stepped through the door, the echoes of his slow, shuffling, clinking steps drifting behind him.

The room he found himself in was almost identical to the one he had just left—bare, cold stone walls, and a faint echo from his slow footsteps. But this time, two additional doors stood on either side of the room. And in the center, bound to a chair, was another young man, his head still covered by a rough canvas bag.

Godfrey’s pulse quickened. The man wasn’t moving, his body slumped forward, as if unconscious. Or perhaps he was pretending. His hands were manacled behind him, his legs secured to the chair much like Godfrey’s had been just moments ago. The resemblance to his own ordeal sent a shiver down Godfrey’s spine.

A small table stood nearby, stark and out of place in the center of the otherwise empty room. On it, a single piece of paper lay flat. Godfrey stepped closer, but didn’t touch it. Instead, he leaned over to read the neatly scrawled message:

"This is a commoner of Centria. He has been tried and convicted of burglary, and this is his sentence. You may choose which of you will face the next room. If you let the commoner go before you, you will not have to face the dangers of that room. If you allow yourself to go first, he will be set free."

He glanced back at the young man, still slumped and motionless. Godfrey’s hands twitched at his sides, his mind racing.

Godfrey stared at the note, his pulse pounding in his ears. This wasn’t just a trial of strength or wits—it was a trial of trust, of sacrifice. His mind churned with the possibilities. Could the commoner be part of the test? Was he a real criminal or just another pawn in the Institute’s games?

Or, was this a test of judgment?

Godfrey stood still, eyes flicking from the note to the bound figure slumped in the chair. The cold stone walls felt even more oppressive as the weight of the choice settled over him. Presumably, the commoner would be killed in the next room. The thought twisted inside him. If he let the man go first, he might as well be delivering him to his death for the crime of burglary—a sentence far harsher than the crime deserved. That didn’t sit right with him.

But if he went through the door himself, he’d be letting a burglar walk free, absolved of punishment. Godfrey frowned. He couldn’t forget that the man was a thief, convicted under Centrian law. Was it his place to judge? Of course, this was all assuming the note could be trusted as truth.

His gaze drifted back to the man bound to the chair. Kidnapped, blindfolded, bound, and left to the mercy of young nobles. Godfrey’s stomach turned. The man had been used as nothing more than a pawn, subjected to this twisted trial at the hands of the Institute. That alone had to be punishment enough.

Godfrey's mind was made up. He glanced back at the small table, and then—almost too obvious—he saw the edge of a key poking out from beneath the note. He picked it up, turning it over in his fingers for a moment before stepping forward. The man’s breathing was slow and steady, unconscious or perhaps still pretending.

Without hesitation, Godfrey unlocked the manacles on the man's wrists, hearing the metallic clink as the heavy bindings fell away. He moved quickly, untying the ropes around his legs, and then stood back.

The man didn’t stir.

Godfrey leaned in, his voice low but firm. “Wake up.”

The man didn’t respond.

Godfrey narrowed his eyes and slapped the man’s face lightly, just enough to rouse him from his stupor. The man flinched, his body jolting awake as he struggled against his restraints—only to find them gone.

“Wake up,” Godfrey repeated, a little sharper this time. The commoner stilled, his breathing heavy beneath the canvas bag.

“You’re free,” Godfrey said. “I’ve untied you. You need to get up and leave. Now.”

The man’s head tilted, as though he were still processing his surroundings, but after a moment, his hands moved shakily to remove the bag. It slid off, revealing a pale, confused face, eyes wide with fear and disbelief. He looked at Godfrey, his mouth opening as if to speak, but no words came out.

“Go,” Godfrey urged, motioning to the door. “You’re not my prisoner. You’re free to leave.”

The man blinked, the weight of what had happened slowly dawning on him. He stood, unsteady on his feet, and glanced at the two doors—one leading to an unknown danger, the other to freedom.

Godfrey pointed to the door on the right, the one he believed led to the exit. “That way,” he said, keeping his voice steady. The man, still disoriented, hesitated before nodding. His hand shook as he reached for the handle, glancing at Godfrey with a mix of confusion and hope.

As the door swung open, two uniformed men appeared, standing calmly on the other side. Their faces were impassive, their movements efficient as they stepped forward. Without a word, they took hold of the man by the arms—not roughly, but firmly enough to guide him. He didn’t resist, casting one last, uncertain glance at Godfrey before allowing himself to be led away.

The two men escorted him silently down a dimly lit corridor, disappearing as the door swung shut behind them. A sharp click followed as the door locked, leaving Godfrey alone once more.

The room was still. The decision had been made.

There was no hesitation as he crossed the room, his boots making soft sounds against the stone floor.

His fingers wrapped around the cold handle of the remaining door. For a brief moment, he allowed himself a deep breath, bracing for whatever might come next.

With a sharp exhale, Godfrey turned the handle and pulled the door open.

XXX

Godfrey now stood in a long, narrow hallway, the far end shrouded in shadow, too distant to make out. The door behind him swung shut with a soft clunk, driven by hidden weights. The faint sound of movement followed, and his eyes darted to the door as it shuddered along its edges. A thin stream of water began trickling out from a small vent in the top of the wall. His heart skipped a beat.

Quickly glancing up and down the hallway, he spotted more vent holes spaced evenly along the length of the corridor, each beginning to pour out more water, slowly at first but increasing in volume with every passing moment.

His mind raced. A flood.

The icy water had already reached his boots, and the realization hit him—he needed to move. Fast.

Godfrey started to shuffle forward, his movements awkward and slow with the chains still binding his ankles. The water was now lapping at the tops of his boots, rising more quickly than he'd anticipated. Each step felt heavier as the water swirled around his feet, and a sense of urgency pulsed through him.

His awkward, stuttering gait would have been comical in any other situation, the chains dragging through the water, each step more labored than the last. But the rising sense of dread kept all humor at bay. The water was at his ankles now, and with every passing second, it seemed to rise faster, swirling higher and tugging at the heavy chains around his legs, threatening to slow him to a crawl.

The halfway point of the hallway came into view, the flickering iron lanterns casting dim, wavering reflections on the water’s surface. The sconces, mounted high on the walls, were soon engulfed as the flood rose higher. One by one, the flames hissed and sputtered before being snuffed out, plunging the hallway into darkness. The cold water licked at his thighs, now waist-deep, and Godfrey's heart pounded in his ears. He tried to wade forward, but the chains only dragged him down, keeping him tethered to the floor.

I’m not going to make it.

The thought flashed through his mind, but he crushed it with sheer will. There was still one option. He had to risk being noticed—he had no choice.

With a sharp intake of breath, Godfrey focused, jumping with as much strength as he could muster. He expanded his lungs, pushing the air deep into his chest, filling them until they strained against his ribcage. The sudden inflation lifted him just enough. His body became buoyant, barely keeping him above the waterline as he thrashed his legs and arms, fighting against the drag of the chains.

It worked—he stayed afloat, barely. His legs kicked awkwardly beneath him, but he made progress, inch by inch, in a desperate rhythm of thrashing limbs. His chest ached, the strain from the expanded lungs pulling at his muscles, but he forced the pain away. He couldn't afford to think about it. His focus narrowed to a single, urgent goal: the door.

The water was now nearly at the ceiling, and his vision started to darken, creeping in at the edges as exhaustion began to sap his strength. He couldn’t stop, not now. Thirty paces from the door, twenty paces. His body screamed for air, his limbs heavy with effort. The world was dimming fast.

Godfrey’s gaze locked onto the faint outline of the door ahead, just a shadow in the flood. The last few feet seemed impossible—his lungs burned, his muscles ached, and every breath felt like it might be his last.

Ten paces. He pushed harder, his arms cutting through the water, legs barely managing to move beneath the weight of the chains. He could only hope the door would open outward, because if not...

Five paces.

The darkness crept further into his vision, but he kept moving, desperate, every ounce of willpower channeled into survival.

He reached for the door, praying, Please, open outward. His fingers brushed against the cold metal handle as he lost consciousness.