I squinted as harsh morning light beamed into my eyes, shivering under its glare from the early winter weather. An overseer of the training grounds paced back and forth before us thralls, lined up like cattle for slaughter.
"Strike!" he commanded. I flinched instinctively before sending my fist flying forward against the wooden pole. My torn knuckles left fresh blood staining the already darkened wood.
They say the more you hit hard objects, the tougher your knuckles get. But this wasn't about gradual improvement. We had a week and a half of training before being tossed into our first arena match. Learn fast or die trying—those were our options.
Sharp pain radiated up my trembling arm, my wrist aching, silently begging for mercy I couldn't grant. As the overseer commanded us to punch again, I let my mind drift to escape this torment, my body obeying on autopilot.
I glanced at Anyae, not a drop of emotion compared to the rest of us. One week in the hollows, yet it felt like a lifetime. One week since I'd seen her kill Crewcut.
They were still quietly searching the barracks, claiming some thrall had stolen contraband. But I knew better. They didn't want word spreading about what was really happening—a Daemon was among us.
My body screamed with each punch, muscles already sore from the punishing two-mile run. The memory of whip-strikes for every stumble was fresh, as was the lashing I'd received for helping Anyae. I had no desire to repeat that experience.
Through it all, the system kept reminding me to finish the mission, but when could I possibly sneak into the prayer keep? Every moment was consumed by this regimen they had us on.
"Halt!"
The training grounds overseer's command sliced through the cold night air, sharp as the edge of a newly-honed blade. The abrupt silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the ragged breathing of exhausted thralls.
I bit back a sigh of relief, grateful for the reprieve. My hand throbbed mercilessly, each bone feeling as if it had been shattered and poorly reassembled. We couldn't risk pulling our punches during these drills—the overseer's hawk-like gaze missed nothing, and the consequences of perceived weakness were... severe.
Thank the gods for small mercies, I thought, flexing my fingers gingerly. At least it's my off-hand.
Our overseer, red-hair-and-bad-attitude, stalked our line, probably searching for the weakest link. His gaze raked over us. I straightened my spine, squaring my shoulders in an attempt to project strength I didn't feel.
A chuckle from my right deflated my pitiful attempt at muscularity. Anyae. Of course.
"What's so funny?" I hissed through clenched teeth, not daring to turn my head.
Before she could answer—not that I expected a response from her—Dyon's whisper drifted from my left. "What'd you do to piss Anyae off so bad?"
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. If only he knew.
"Clearly, existing is offense enough," I muttered, loud enough for Anyae to hear. Then, unable to help myself, I added, "Maybe she resents being saved."
The last bit wasn't meant for the Daemon wearing Anyae's face, not the friend I'd once known.
We were stuck in this weird standoff, me and not-Anyae. I was the only one who knew what the Punishers were really looking for, so I could rat her out anytime. But here's the thing— she could kill me if she wanted, but that'd be like leaving a trail of breadcrumbs right to her door. And if she got caught, I'd look like her sidekick or something.
It was like we were playing this messed-up game of chicken. Who'd crack first? I could spill her secret, but then what? She'd probably find a way to take me down with her. And if I kept quiet, I was basically letting a Daemon run around free. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place.
Her widening grin suggested she knew it too. We had no choice but to tolerate each other. For now, that was.
Dyon, blessedly oblivious to the tension crackling between us, piped up again. "Hey, Anyae, I've been meaning to ask... how old are you, anyway?"
"Nineteen," she replied without hesitation, her voice a perfect mimicry of the real Anyae's.
I couldn't help but scoff. Liar. The way this fake Anyae talked, she had to be ancient. Like, older-than-dirt ancient. But it couldn't completely hide its true nature, not from me. Not after what I'd seen.
"What's with the twenty questions, Dyon?" I raised an eyebrow. "You hitting on her or something?"
He flushed, the tips of his ears turning bright red. "Look, we're all going to die young in this hellhole," he muttered. "Might as well try for some happiness before then, right?"
I wanted to facepalm so bad.
"We could die tomorrow, and you're worried about dating?" I shook my head in disbelief. "Your priorities are-"
"Something to share with the class?"
The guttural snarl froze the words in my throat. Slowly, I raised my eyes to meet the overseer's murderous glare. He loomed over me, close enough that I could smell the sour tang of cheap alcohol on his breath.
I shook my head mutely, praying to whatever gods might be listening that he'd move on.
The overseer leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a menacing growl. "Keep that mouth shut, or I'll remove your tongue. Understood?"
I nodded frantically, not trusting myself to speak.
As he moved down the line, I caught Anyae's amused glance. She was clearly reveling in my discomfor.
"Clear the lines!" the overseer suddenly bellowed. "Prepare for bed, you worthless maggots! Tomorrow's drills start at dawn!"
My shoulders sagged with relief as we were dismissed, the night's chill settling into my bones. Another day survived, but tomorrow's torments loomed all too near. As I trudged towards the barracks, I cast one last glance at Anyae.
She winked, a gesture so familiar it made my heart ache. But the cold, devilish intelligence behind those eyes extinguished any warmth the gesture might have kindled.
Soon, I promised myself. Soon, I'll find a way to save you, Anyae. The real you.
But as I collapsed onto my bunk, exhaustion dragging me towards oblivion, a traitorous voice in the back of my mind whispered: Or die trying.
***
I jolted awake to the sound of chaos erupting in the barracks. My eyes struggled to focus as I wiped away the last traces of sleep.
What the hell was going on?
The room was a blur of motion and noise. Punishers were everywhere, tearing through the floorboards like they were searching for buried treasure. Tattered clothes flew through the air, thralls tumbled out of beds with startled yelps, and the metallic screech of bunks being flipped set my teeth on edge.
I pushed myself up on my elbows, trying to make sense of the madness. The orange glow of torchlight danced across the walls, and my heart pounded in my chest as the light drew closer and closer, until it was right in my face.
I squinted up at the Punishers, my brain still foggy with sleep. Their hard faces were lit up by the flickering light. What did they want with me?
Then I heard the words that made my blood run cold:
"It's him. Grab him."
Rough hands seized my arms before I could even think about resisting. My mind raced. Why were they taking me instead of Anyae?
As they dragged me from my cot, I caught a glimpse of Anyae's face in the chaos. She stood there, watching silently before stepping into the shadowed corner of the room.
This piece of shit!
My feet scrambled for purchase on the cold stone floor as they hauled me towards the door. This couldn't be happening.
"You've got the wrong person!" I yelled out.
The last thing I saw before they pulled me from thr barracks was Dyon's face, concern etched into his features. Then the door slammed shut.