The relentless pounding in Hannah’s legs had been her only constant for days now. Her muscles throbbed, a deep, aching protest with every step she took. Her breath burned in her chest, coming in short, uneven bursts as sweat slicked her brow and dripped into her eyes. The days had blurred into one endless, gruelling cycle—drills that tested the very edge of their endurance, running until her legs trembled beneath her, then pushing further still.

Every morning was the same. Mare’s voice rang out like a whip cracking over their heads, her commands carving the rhythm of their existence: Move. Faster. Again. Hannah had come to dread that voice. It was as if Mare’s words themselves carried weight, adding to the crushing load they bore.

But today was different.

“Enough!” Mare’s voice shattered the steady cadence of boots pounding dirt, louder, sharper than usual. The children stumbled to a stop, their bodies swaying like trees caught in a sudden wind. Some stared at her with wide, disbelieving eyes, others simply collapsed to their knees, too exhausted to care what came next.

“Today is Sunday,” Mare declared, her tone quieter now, almost... lenient.

The word hung in the air, strange and out of place, like something they weren’t meant to hear. Sunday. A word that belonged to a different life, one left behind.

“Yamuna is understanding,” Mare continued, her voice taking on a note of something softer. Almost human. “On Sundays, there is no training.”

The declaration seemed impossible. No drills? No running? No punishment? For a moment, relief washed over Hannah, a fragile, fleeting thing. But just as quickly, doubt crept in. Nothing here came without strings.

“Today is roster day,” Mare said, her sharp eyes scanning the group. “You will each have a task to complete.”

The word roster didn’t settle right in Hannah’s mind. It felt foreign, something she should understand but didn’t. Around her, the older kids exchanged wary glances, whispers flitting back and forth, barely audible. The mood shifted, relief giving way to unease.

Mare’s dismissal was as abrupt as her announcement, leaving them standing in awkward silence. No barked orders to line up, no schedule to adhere to—just the lingering question of what would come next. For a group that had learned to move as one, the absence of direction felt jarring, like an instrument suddenly out of tune.

Later, in the common room, the answer arrived. A masked guard, his expression unreadable beneath the smooth, cold surface of his helmet, handed out slips of parchment. One by one, the children took them, their hands hesitant, their gazes flitting nervously across the neat, formal lettering.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Hannah stared at hers, her stomach knotting as she read the word: Kitchen. Others muttered their assignments—cleaning, gardening, maintenance. There was no excitement, no relief, just a dull acceptance. Tasks weren’t gifts. They were another way to wear them down.

When her name was called, Hannah joined her group, heart sinking at the faces around her. Ellie was there, at least—her one solace in the nightmare of this place. But the others were strangers. A girl with sharp cheekbones and hollow eyes who looked like she might collapse at any moment, and a boy with tangled black hair and a haunted expression, one she vaguely recognized as the kid who had fallen in front of Belial on their first day. They were as worn down as she felt, and Hannah wondered, briefly, if this was deliberate.

Their escort was a Warrior, a silent figure who led them through the complex’s dimly lit hallways. His presence was suffocating, a constant weight pressing down on them as they trudged forward. When they reached the kitchen, he handed out cleaning supplies without a word, then stationed himself by the entrance, his eyes a quiet threat that needed no voice.

The kitchen hit Hannah like a physical blow.

The air was thick, heavy with the bitter tang of something acrid and burned, clinging to the back of her throat like the memory of fire. The walls, once painted white, were smeared with grime and streaked with peeling paint that hung in jagged strips. Metal counters lined the room, their surfaces tarnished and dented, their stains dark and unyielding.

A hulking, wheezing stove dominated one side, its heat radiating through the space, suffocating in its intensity. Overhead, pots and pans dangled from rusted hooks, their soot-blackened surfaces clanging faintly with every shift of movement. Everything about the room felt wrong, like a sickness buried deep in its foundations.

Hannah bent to her task, scrubbing at the counters with a rag that felt as worn-out as she did. The work was monotonous, every motion blending into the next. She caught glimpses of the Warrior through the reflection of a nearby pot, his gaze wandering, growing less vigilant with each passing moment.

She waited for her chance.

A stack of dried meats sat in the corner, and Hannah’s eyes darted toward it. The jerky was tough, well-preserved—perfect for hiding. As the Warrior’s attention wavered, she slipped closer, her hand moving with practised ease. She tucked a piece beneath her shirt, her movements quick and seamless, then grabbed a second.

The Warrior shifted, his gaze snapping toward her. Hannah froze, her heart pounding. A beat passed. Two. Then his attention drifted, his suspicion fading.

She let out a slow, careful breath and returned to her scrubbing, her prize hidden beneath layers of fabric. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

As she worked, a sharp sting drew her attention to her arm. A dark bruise, swollen and ugly, had blossomed near her elbow. Hannah stared at it, her stomach twisting. She knew it hadn’t come from training—she had been keeping track of every ache, every scrape, every moment her body hit the ground or collided with another. This wasn’t from falling, wasn’t from sparring, wasn’t from anything she could explain. Her mind flickered to the drink they were forced to consume each morning, that bitter concoction that burned its way down her throat and sat heavy in her gut.

Was this because of that?

She shook the thought away and kept scrubbing, the ache in her legs fading into the background as she focused on the task at hand. The day dragged on, the jerky pressing against her ribs a quiet reminder that she could still take something back, however small.