Commander Ryker stood by the window of his dimly lit study, staring out at the shadowed courtyard where the kathlok were gathered. The faint murmurs of their voices reached his ears, but he didn't focus on their words. His mind was elsewhere, dissecting the weeks ahead.
Fear was his most reliable ally. Over the years, he had learned to wield it with precision, shaping recruits into the warriors the king demanded. It wasn't brute strength or blind loyalty that forged champions—it was survival instinct, honed to perfection. And yet, as he thought about the months to come, a weight settled on his chest.
"They'll hate me," he muttered under his breath, "but they'll thank me when it's done."
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
"Enter," he called.
The door creaked open, and Overseer Tyros stepped in, clutching a scroll of parchment. His gaunt face was as impassive as always.
"The weekly assessments," Tyros said, laying the parchment on Ryker's desk.
Ryker nodded, gesturing for him to stay. "What's the report this week? Any surprises?"
"None that are pleasant," Tyros replied dryly. "The top four remain unchanged—Tobias, Mukt, Elair, and Shera. As for the rest…" He hesitated.
Ryker raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
Tyros sighed. "Most of the younger ones have fallen to the bottom of the rankings. If things continue like this, they won't last another month."
Ryker picked up the parchment, scanning the names and scores. His eyes lingered on the bottom section—children barely old enough to hold a blade, now fighting for their lives in a brutal competition.
"At least they'll be reunited with their parents soon," Tyros said with a hint of sarcasm.
Ryker shot him a sharp look. "Do not jest about that. Not here."
Tyros held up his hands defensively. "Apologies, Commander. It's just… you've seen how they cling to false hope. Most of them still think they'll leave here alive."
"And that's why we'll break them," Ryker said, his voice cold. "Hope is a weakness. Fear is what will keep them alive."
---
Ryker returned his attention to the list, his finger tracing over the names. The king's mandate was clear: seven elite warriors. Seven weapons to be unleashed upon the world. It wasn't his place to question the order, but the reality of it weighed heavily on him.
"You've trained countless recruits before," Tyros said, breaking the silence. "Why does this batch trouble you so much?"
Ryker didn't answer immediately. Instead, he rolled up the parchment and set it aside.
"These aren't ordinary recruits," he said finally. "They're orphans. Children who've lost everything. They're desperate, fragile. But desperation can turn into strength if wielded properly."
"And if not?" Tyros asked.
Ryker's jaw tightened. "Then they'll break. And when they do, they'll drag others down with them. I can't afford that. Not here."
Tyros nodded slowly. "So, what's the plan? More fear, I assume?"
Ryker allowed himself a small, grim smile. "Fear is the only language they understand right now. If they learn to use it, they'll survive. If they let it consume them…" He trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.
---
The following morning, Ryker stood before the assembled kathlok in the training yard. The sun was barely up, casting long shadows across the ground.
"Attention!" he barked.
The orphans snapped to attention, their faces a mixture of exhaustion and apprehension. Ryker let the silence stretch, pacing slowly in front of them.
"Do you know why you're here?" he asked, his voice low and menacing.
No one answered.
"I said, do you know why you're here?" he repeated, louder this time.
"To serve the king," Tobias said, his voice steady despite the tension in the air.
Ryker stopped in front of him, meeting his gaze. "And what does that mean, Tobias? To serve the king?"
Tobias hesitated. "To follow orders. To fight for him. To win."
Ryker chuckled darkly. "A noble answer. But wrong." He turned to address the group as a whole. "Serving the king doesn't mean winning. It doesn't mean fighting. It means sacrificing. Your comfort, your sanity, your lives—everything you have, everything you are, belongs to him now."
The orphans shifted uneasily, glancing at one another.
"Do you know how many of you will survive this training?" Ryker asked, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
Silence.
"Seven," he said, holding up seven fingers. "Out of fifty."
A ripple of shock went through the group. Ryker could see it in their eyes—the disbelief, the fear.
"You don't believe me?" he asked, his tone mocking. "You think this is some kind of game? That you'll all walk away from this, stronger and better for the experience?" He laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "Let me make this clear: the majority of you are here to fail. Your purpose is to weed out the weak so the strong can rise. That's it."
"Why?" a small voice asked from the back.
Ryker turned sharply, searching for the source. "Who said that?"
A boy stepped forward hesitantly, his hands trembling. "Why does it have to be this way?"
Ryker strode over to him, his expression cold. "What's your name, boy?"
"Jorin," the boy whispered.
"Well, Jorin," Ryker said, leaning down until their faces were inches apart, "if you have to ask that question, you're already dead."
Jorin's face crumpled, and he stepped back, but Ryker didn't let up.
"Do you think the world is fair? Do you think the enemies you'll face will care about your feelings, your morals, your sense of right and wrong? The world doesn't care, boy. It's cruel, and it will crush you if you're weak. If you can't accept that, leave now."
Jorin didn't move.
"Good," Ryker said, straightening. "Now, let's see if the rest of you have what it takes to survive."
---
Later that night, Tyros found Ryker in his study, pouring over the assessments again.
"You really went for the throat today," Tyros said, pouring himself a glass of wine. "The boy looked like he was about to pass out."
"If he can't handle my words, he won't survive the training," Ryker said without looking up.
"True," Tyros admitted. "But don't you ever wonder if there's a better way?"
Ryker looked up, his expression hard. "Do you think the king will accept 'better ways' when the war begins? Do you think our enemies will?"
Tyros shrugged. "I suppose not. But still... they're just kids."
"They stopped being kids the moment they stepped into this palace," Ryker said flatly. "They're soldiers now. Weapons. And if they can't handle that, they'll die. Simple as that."
Tyros sighed, leaning back in his chair. "You're a hard man, Ryker."
"And you're too soft," Ryker shot back. "That's why I'm in charge."
---
As the night wore on, Ryker found himself staring at the list again. The names blurred together, but his mind kept circling back to the same thought: Was this the right way?
He shook his head, pushing the doubt aside. It didn't matter. The king had given his orders, and Ryker would see them through.
Because in the end, fear was a tool—a weapon—and he would wield it with precision.