“Pick up the pace!” barked the guard leading Hannah’s group, ushering them through twisting hallways. She recognized the man’s signature scowl—Belial, the first guard she had met in this wretched place. He let out a sinister chuckle, his voice low and biting. “Mare is going to make you suffer today.” He paused, a faint, cruel smile forming. “Especially you, brat,” he sneered, throwing a glare over his shoulder at her.
The look held her in place, even as her legs carried her forward. For a moment, the world seemed to narrow to that gaze, cold and predatory. Then a light touch on her shoulder snapped her back—Atlas, his eyes filled with concern. Hannah met his look gratefully, feeling the fog clear, and nodded before returning her focus to the path ahead. None of them dared to risk Belial’s wrath again before the day had started.
Her focus shifted, her senses returning to the here and now. That’s when she felt it—bruises, dark and tender, creeping up her arms. They hadn’t been there the night before. She frowned, glancing down at the strange markings. It was as if they had appeared in her sleep. But how? Had someone—? Her thoughts scattered as Belial’s voice cut through her fog again.
“Quit daydreaming brats” he huffed pointedly, quickening his pace. The group followed him, tension simmering. Hannah’s nerves tingled; she wasn’t the only one. Ellie glanced back, pale under the harsh lights, her lips pressed tight. Atlas clenched his fists, and Zephyr’s jaw set in a hard line as they stepped into an unfamiliar room.
Inside, a murmur of voices greeted them. Other kids were scattered around, eyeing the racks of practice weapons with wary curiosity. Dax stood among them, arms crossed, his ever-present smirk sharpened with menace. Beside him, Kai snickered at something Dax had muttered, their shared amusement only adding to the oppressive atmosphere.
But another boy caught Hannah’s eye. Slighter than the rest, he hovered at the edge of the group, his scraggly hair falling over sharp eyes that darted around the room, taking in everything—the guards, the walls, the strange emblem painted on the floor—with quiet intensity. Unlike the others, he seemed more interested in his surroundings than in the weapons.
Mare’s voice sliced through the low hum of chatter. “You’re here to learn how to fight,” she said, each word cold and efficient. “Today isn’t about strength or skill. It’s about survival. Out there”—she gestured vaguely, eyes hardening—“no beast cares about your excuses, your fears. You either learn to survive, or you won’t last.”
Hannah felt the weight of her words settle heavily over the group, even over Dax, who shifted uncomfortably but stayed silent. Mare’s gaze flicked from child to child, her eyes hard, appraising.
“You may think you’ve fought before,” she continued, her tone unyielding, “but what’s coming next will demand more than just courage. Weakness has no place here.” She nodded to the weapons. “Take your pick. Today, you either learn to survive—or you learn what failure feels like.”
Hannah’s hand shook as she reached for a practice sword, heavier than she’d expected, solid and foreign in her grip. Around her, the others chose their weapons in silence, exchanging quick, uncertain glances. From the back of the room, Typhon’s smile widened as he watched, his eyes gleaming with something that twisted her stomach.
It hit her then: today, they weren’t just training. They were being tested, measured.
The kids shared wary looks, silently sizing each other up. Hannah drifted closer to Atlas and Ellie, trying to stay within reach. But Dax’s voice cut across the room, loud and taunting. “Scared, are you?” His eyes fixed on her with anticipation. “Think you’re tough? Show us, then.”
At the edge of the room, the scraggly boy stayed silent, watching. His gaze lingered on Dax, then shifted to the weapons, his expression unreadable.
The clinking of weapons filled the room as the children struggled with the unfamiliar weight of their chosen arms. Belial leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his mouth twisted in a smug smile as he observed their attempts.
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“Pathetic,” he sneered, loud enough for everyone to hear. “You think you’ll survive like that? I’ve seen rats with more bite than this lot.”
The comment sparked unease in most of the kids, but Dax’s smirk widened as he met Belial’s gaze, relishing the approval in the guard’s eyes. The others, however, focused on the challenge before them. Each of them fell into distinct movements—fighting stances emerging from instincts, previous experience, or sheer desperation.
Zephyr’s movements were grounded, practised, his feet shifting quickly as he tried to balance the weight of the sword. Every move was sharp and aggressive, as though he’d once known how to fight and was trying to reclaim it. Nia took a different approach, circling defensively, her gaze flickering for any opening, her stance cautious and deliberate.
Meanwhile, Atlas moved with an awkward determination, focusing more on stability than finesse. His grip was too tight, but he handled the sword with brute strength, almost hacking at invisible targets. Ellie, by contrast, used her slight frame to her advantage, staying low and quick, darting in and out with a speed that would have made her hard to hit in a real fight.
And then there was Hannah, her eyes darting between the others, studying their techniques. She held her sword steady, finding her balance before attempting tentative strikes, not committing fully to her motions but analysing each one for weaknesses and openings.
Belial’s voice cut in again, laced with disdain. “You call that fighting?” He barked out a laugh. “One swipe from a real opponent, and you’d be finished. Try again. This time—don’t hold back.”
His words spurred a new urgency. The children tried harder, pushing themselves past their limits. Dax, emboldened by Belial’s attention, swung his weapon with a reckless confidence, catching Mare’s eye—and not in a good way. She narrowed her gaze, watching him closely, as if searching for something more than brute strength in his performance.
And on the outskirts of the group, the scraggly boy stood with a different energy altogether. He didn’t mimic the aggressive stance of the others but moved fluidly, watching for patterns, for flaws. His strikes were cautious, each movement a subtle calculation.
With a grim smile, Mare nodded approvingly. “That’s more like it. Remember, this isn’t just about force—it’s about strategy. Control.”
Her words hung in the air, a cold reminder that survival here would demand more than physical strength.
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As the group’s movements grew sloppier with exhaustion, Mare called a sharp halt. The children froze in place, panting, weapons sagging in their hands. Her cold gaze swept over them, her lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval.
“You think exhaustion excuses failure?” she asked, her voice slicing through the heavy silence. “The battlefield doesn’t care if you’re tired.” She paced slowly between them, her boots thudding against the floor with deliberate force. “Let me make something clear: there’s no room for hesitation, no time to falter. Survival demands everything.”
Her eyes landed on Dax, who had faltered in his last exchange, and then shifted to Hannah, scrutinising her stance.
“Strength and strategy will only take you so far. When death stares you in the face, there’s something else you need.” Her voice softened, her tone suddenly distant, as if her mind had drifted to a place far away.
“I learned that lesson on the battlefield,” she said, her fingers brushing absently over her forearm, where faint scars lay hidden beneath her sleeves. “It was chaos. Blood and screams all around me, the ground soaked in red. My blade had shattered, and my body was failing. I should have died that day.” The room grew still, the children listening intently, even Dax abandoning his cocky smirk.
“But something happened,” Mare continued, her voice lowering. “In that moment—when I knew I was out of time—I felt it. A pull. A hunger.” Her eyes flicked to the children, sharp and unyielding. “The blood surrounding me...it called to me. And I answered.” The children exchanged nervous glances, unsure whether her words inspired awe or fear.
Mare’s expression hardened, the memory clearly etched into her features. “The next thing I knew, the battlefield was silent. I stood surrounded by corpses, their blood flowing toward me, as if drawn by an unseen force. It wasn’t strength that saved me, or skill. It was something greater—a gift.”
She straightened, her cold, commanding presence returning. “Yamuna shined her favor on me that day. She showed me that survival isn’t about strength alone. It’s about embracing what you are and wielding it without hesitation.” Her gaze locked onto Hannah. “Some of you may have a spark of that favour. But you’ll never know if you waste your time fearing what’s inside you.”
The room felt suffocating, the weight of her words pressing down on them. “You want to live?” Mare snapped. “Then fight like it. Don’t wait for a miracle to save you.”
Belial clapped mockingly from the corner. “Well said, Mare. Nothing like divine intervention to inspire the little whelps.” She shot him a withering glare before turning back to the children. “Pick up your weapons,” she commanded. “Again.”
The practice resumed, but Mare’s story lingered in their minds. As Hannah adjusted her grip and swung her sword with newfound determination, a storm churned within her. The goddess Yamuna. Mare’s so-called favour. It made her stomach twist with anger.
Where was Yamuna when she was abandoned? When they were chained, beaten, and starved? What kind of goddess blessed one person while letting so many others suffer?
Yet... the idea of having a power like Mare’s—a strength born not from prayer but from something primal, something earned—pulled at her. If survival meant tapping into that kind of force, then maybe she didn’t need Yamuna’s favour. Maybe she could take it for herself.
Her strikes came faster now, harder. If the goddess wouldn’t save her, then she’d find a way to save herself.