I woke the next day to the same guard bringing me the same gruel as before. I ate it eagerly, my hunger making quick work of the bland meal. Across the hallway, the cultists seemed to be in a good mood, their energy noticeably lighter. I figured it had something to do with the prayers the previous night.
I couldn't blame them. I kind of understood why they did it. The feeling I'd had afterward—that comforting warmth—was almost addictive compared to how I normally lived and felt. It was a stark contrast to the cold, harsh reality of my usual existence, and for a brief moment, I didn't feel quite so alone.
After I finished eating, the same guard escorted me to the sandy pit for another round of what I assumed was either pre-training or some sort of selection process. I still wasn't entirely sure. This time, my trainer was a robust man clad in middling armor that covered his whole body. He carried a small shield he called a buckler and wielded a mace.
For that day's training, he had us pair up and practice moves designed to throw our partner to the ground. The problem for me was my weight and size; I struggled to throw anyone of my own gender. Seeing this, he paired me with a small woman. At first, I hesitated, worried I might hurt her. But when she slammed me into the sand without any hesitation or care, I figured it would be fine to do the same.
Surprisingly, my legs didn't bother me as much that day, so I was able to move more freely. By the time the exercise ended, I'd been slammed into the ground at least ten times, but I'd also managed to do the same to her. The trainer called us to stop and walked over to my partner.
"You're done," he said bluntly. "You don't have any potential here."
Her face twisted in shock, and she immediately tried to argue, but he raised a hand to silence her.
"If a child can slam you to the ground more than once, you'll die when someone bigger comes at you. This is for your own good."
Finally, she managed to get her words out. "Then why did you pair me with him? This was a trap!"
The trainer chuckled, his tone almost amused. "I paired you two together because I thought you'd be a hard match for the boy. But he was still able to match you. Now, wait over there."
He pointed toward the waiting area I'd been sent to yesterday. I could already see a few others standing there, their faces a mix of defeat and uncertainty. My partner sulked her way over, and I couldn't help but feel a strange mix of guilt and relief that I hadn't been sent there myself—at least not yet.
The trainer looked at me, his expression measured.
"Honestly, I'm not a good match for you at your age and weight," he said plainly. "I'll let the guards know you have potential here, but we'll need to wait until you're better suited for this style. In the meantime, you should try working with the other trainers."
While his reasoning was logical and fair, it didn't feel good to hear. Knowing that something beyond my control—my age and size—was holding me back left a bitter taste in my mouth. I nodded silently, swallowing my frustration, and prepared myself to be sent to the next exercise.
After the training for that day, I returned to my cell and, just as I had the night before, prayed with the cultists before settling in for the night. Once again, I didn't dream, but the lingering warmth from the prayers stayed with me. It was a faint comfort.
The next day's training paired me with a wiry, rat-like man who wielded a dagger. His sharp, beady eyes and quick movements gave him an untrustworthy air. He announced that we'd be working on an agility course, but just as I was about to step forward and begin, the man with the large sword from before strode over. His presence alone seemed to command attention, and without hesitation, he began speaking with the rat-like trainer.
"You, boy. Come here. You have been selected to train with Instructor Kushim," the Rat-man said, his sharp tone cutting through the air.
I hesitated for a moment before walking over, feeling a strange mix of curiosity and apprehension. Why was I chosen? I hadn't done anything extraordinary. As I followed the Rat-man, I noticed how others seemed to give him and the Combat Master a wide berth. There was something about this situation that felt different from the other selections.
When we arrived at the Combat Master's training area, I realized I was the only one there. The space was quiet, almost painfully so, with none of the noise or chaos from the other training zones.
Instructor Kushim turned to me, his gaze sharp and assessing. He wasn't the largest man I'd seen, but there was an aura about him—dangerous, commanding, predatory. His presence alone felt heavier than anyone else's. Even his scent was distinct, a natural musk faintly tinged with the metallic bite of blood.
"Boy, do you have a name?" he asked, his voice calm but carrying an edge that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
"Yes, sire. It is Edric," I replied, my voice steady despite the nervous flutter in my chest.
He nodded slightly, his piercing eyes never leaving me. My nerves heightened as I stood before him, feeling as though I was being stripped bare under his gaze. This man wasn't the largest or loudest, but he exuded a raw, undeniable danger that made everyone else seem almost harmless by comparison.
"How would you like to be an executioner?"