I was forced to move over to the group and stood with them for a bit, confused as to what was happening. It didn’t take long for more men to emerge. These ones didn’t look like guards, though they wore armor of their own. Each of them was distinct in appearance, but one in particular caught my eye—a large man carrying a sword. It wasn’t like the ones I’d seen before; its blade was uniform in width from hilt to tip, which ended in a blunt, rounded edge. The sight of it was unsettling, as though it wasn’t meant for battle but for something far more deliberate.

“Alright, I don’t want to waste any time, so here’s how this will work,” the man in the gold-adorned armor said, his tone carrying the weariness of someone already tired of their own words. “These fine trainers will each take a handful of you for training. You’ll rotate between them daily until we figure out which art suits you best. Do as they say, or I’ll have you flogged.”

The guard began separating us into groups of ten. I was assigned to a trainer armed with a long pole and dressed in lightly padded clothes. He seemed to specialize in ranged melee combat, emphasizing speed and precision above all else.

Our training began with thrusting exercises using straight wooden sticks. The repetitive motion went on for what felt like hours. Each thrust demanded the use of my legs, and the strain quickly became unbearable. My legs burned, threatening to give out beneath me, but I refused to falter. The thought of messing up my chance for freedom kept me pushing forward, even as exhaustion clawed at every fiber of my being.

When I started to falter, the trainer walked over to me, his expression a mix of observation and mild irritation.

“You’re putting too much strain on your back and legs when you thrust. Use your arms more, like this,” he said, demonstrating the motion again with deliberate precision.

I tried to mimic him, but he stopped me mid-movement, shaking his head slightly.

“Hmm. No, it seems like you don’t have the joint flexibility to do it properly,” he muttered, almost to himself.

He made a subtle motion with his hand, and a guard approached.

“He has potential, but I’m not the right fit for him,” the trainer said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Send him back over here if he doesn’t work out with the others, and I’ll take another look.”

The guard nodded, taking the stick from me before gesturing for me to follow. I felt a pang of dejection. Didn’t he just say I had potential? Then why was he sending me away?

The guard led me to the side, where I stood and watched the others continue their training. My thoughts churned as I observed their movements, their sweat-drenched determination a mirror of my own. Before long, the man in the gold-adorned armor called out.

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“This is the end of training for today. Do not assume what you did today is what you’ll be doing in the future, so don’t carry it with you to tomorrow.”

With that, the guards began escorting everyone back to their quarters. The others were taken back to wherever they’d come from, while I was returned to my cell. A bucket of water waited for me in the corner, and as I entered, the guard handed me something. I looked down to find a block of some kind of dried meat and a green, unidentifiable substance.

“That’s your dinner. Eat it all and don’t save any,” he said curtly. “If we find out you’re hoarding food, you’ll lose your rations for a period of time.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked back down the hall. I watched him go, straining my neck to see as far as I could until the shadows swallowed him. Turning my attention back to the cultists’ cell across from mine, something felt… off.

It seemed less populated somehow.

The elder approached the cell door with that same unsettling smile.

“Young blessed one, would you like to join us in prayers?”

I was about to refuse, but then I remembered my plan to stay on their good side. Reluctantly, I nodded and said, “Yes.”

He motioned for me to follow, and I complied, kneeling down despite the protest of my worn-out legs. I tucked them beneath me, sitting back on my heels. The elder gestured for me to straighten my back, and I mirrored his posture.

As I settled into place, I noticed the others in the cell were doing the same, all facing the wall where a torch burned. Unsure of the significance, I shifted my body to match their orientation. The elder’s smile widened, and he gave a small, approving nod before beginning what I assumed was a prayer.

“Immortal Flame, bearer of renewal and light,

Guide us through the shadows of despair.

Cleanse our hearts, strengthen our resolve,

And burn away the chains that bind us.

May your warmth protect us,

May your light never falter,

And may we rise, reborn, in your eternal embrace.”

I repeated the words, letting them roll off my tongue with the same quiet reverence the others did. As I did, two things happened. The necklace I’d been given began to warm against my chest, its gentle heat spreading through me and easing the fatigue that had been weighing me down.

At the same time, that familiar feeling in the back of my mind grew stronger. It wasn’t alarming—it spread like a fog, soft and enveloping, yet strangely comforting. Instead of fear, I felt a deep sense of safety within it, as though I were cradled in unseen hands, shielded from harm.

After the prayers, I returned to my spot against the wall, letting my body sink into the cold stone. Exhaustion pulled at me, and before long, sleep claimed me. That night, I didn’t dream of anything—no void, no golden lights—but the lingering warmth from the prayers remained. It wrapped around me like an unseen blanket, soft and reassuring, even in the stillness of the dark.