After returning to their cell that night, the next few days seemingly blurred into a mess of struggle that they were forced to overcome for no reason. Fate had played a cruel trick on them it seems, as they were made the victims of others.
The cell became their only sanctuary, though it offered little comfort. Each night, Seraphina, Samuel, and Edwin would return to its cold confines, battered and broken from the day's trials— conversations were sparse, reduced to whispered exchanges as they slumped against the rough walls.
For Edwin, the days were grueling but predictable.
Training the recruits, most of whom were barely more than thugs, was a test of patience and endurance. His wounds slowed him down, and the trainees' incompetence often pushed him to the brink of frustration— worse yet they showed him little care knowing he couldn't actually harm them.
But Edwin endured, using the opportunity to observe the camp's structure and its oddities. The people he was training were lacking in discipline and even promise, however the knight trainees were different.
He didn't have to train them, they had their own training and often practiced amongst themselves.
Each night, Edwin shared his observations with Seraphina and Samuel, his tone grim.
"They have potential and discipline."
He admitted one night, his silver eyes sharp despite his exhaustion.
"They look like soldiers being trained, or were trained. Something about it is odd."
Samuel's struggles were of a different nature. Tasked with the hunting party, he found himself surrounded by bandits who took every opportunity to make his life miserable.
They mocked him openly, shoving him into thorny bushes or deliberately leaving him behind to carry the heaviest loads— even though he was stronger than them, reacting and causing a scene wasn't something he could do.
By the time he returned to the cell each night, his arms were scratched and bruised, his usual smirk replaced with a simmering scowl.
"They're cowards."
He muttered one evening, rubbing his sore arms.
"Picking on me because they know I won't fight back. Not yet, anyway, once I get the chance I'll decorate my blade with their blood."
Despite their hardships, Seraphina's days were far worse. Her assigned task of cleaning and organizing the camp's supplies seemed deliberately chosen to humiliate her.
The bandits took every chance to harass her, scattering the supplies she had just sorted, throwing stuff on the ground for her to pick up again, or even touching her with their grimy hands.
"Look at the little noble, so far from her palace."
One sneered as she cleaned the dirt-streaked floor of the supply tent.
Another leaned close, his breath reeking of alcohol.
"Bet you never had to lift a finger before this. How's it feel, princess?"
Seraphina ignored them, her jaw clenched as she continued her work.
The insults were constant, grating at her nerves with every passing hour, but mere insults would not break her. She knew this wasn't just cruelty; it was a calculated test.
Someone— perhaps Karel or one of his rank-one knights— wanted to see how far they could push her before she snapped.
But it wasn't just words.
The bandits grew bolder as the days passed. They would shove her as she carried supplies, deliberately spilling crates to create more work for her.
One even tripped her, sending her sprawling into the mud as they laughed uproariously— her wounds barely got the chance to heal because of them.
Each night, Seraphina returned to the cell covered in dirt and bruises, her missing arm a constant, throbbing reminder of her vulnerability. Samuel and Edwin watched her with concern, but she waved off their questions, her violet eyes burning— thankfully they couldn't take her mental library from her.
"I'm fine."
She would say every single time, though her trembling hands betrayed the truth.
The breaking point came on the fifth day.
It had been another grueling cycle of insults and sabotage, with the bandits seemingly taking extra delight in tormenting her. By late afternoon, she was reorganizing a stack of crates near the supply tent when a group of four bandits approached her, their grins twisted with malice.
"Well, well."
One drawled, leaning against a crate.
"Look who's still pretending to be one of us. Bet you'd rather be back in your fancy estate, huh?"
Seraphina didn't respond, her focus remaining on her task.
Another stepped closer, his grin widening.
"What's the matter? Too good to talk to us now?"
The third bandit chuckled darkly, as he rested his arm around her shoulder.
"Maybe she just needs some encouragement."
The tone in the man's voice pissed Seraphina off, his direct touching made her even more angry, but he refused to react.
"Hey, I'm talking to you."
The first bandit grabbed her arm— her only arm— and yanked her toward him. The others laughed, their taunts growing louder.
"Let go."
Seraphina said quietly, her voice steady despite the fire raging within her.
"Oh, she speaks!"
The bandit sneered.
"What are you gonna do, princess? Tell Daddy on us?"
The laughter erupted again, but Seraphina's patience had run out.
Her body moved before her mind could fully process it. With a sharp twist, she broke free from the bandit's grip and grabbed his wrist, twisting it until the sickening crunch of bone echoed in the air.
He screamed, dropping to his knees as she released him.
The others froze, stunned by her sudden ferocity.
Seraphina didn't hesitate, action had already been done and there was no stopping it now. She pivoted, driving her elbow into the ribs of the nearest bandit, sending him staggering back with a gasp of pain.
The best she could do was avoid killing them so she could lessen her punishment.
The third bandit lunged at her, but she sidestepped and grabbed a nearby crate, swinging it with all her strength. It shattered against his head, and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
The last bandit raised his hands in surrender, his face pale.
"Wait! We were just joking—"
Seraphina stepped forward, her eyes were filled with rage as she didn't care what he had to say. She slammed her knee into his stomach, sending him sprawling to the ground.
By the time it was over, three of them were writhing in pain on the ground, while the fourth scrambled away, shouting for help.
Seraphina stood in the center of the mess, her chest heaving, her remaining hand balled into a fist. The onlookers who had gathered were silent, their expressions a mix of shock and grudging respect.
She wiped the blood from her lip, straightened her posture, and met their gazes head-on. She knew there would be consequences for this, but for the first time in days, she felt a flicker of control amidst the chaos.
Her sharp eyes caught a few bandits running toward Karel's tent. She exhaled slowly, as she leaned her body back against the crates waiting for her punishment to arrive.