A year had passed since Bastien and Arthur's first grueling days under Gerald Lazhar's tutelage. The air in Mad Hat still never felt fresh, always heavy with a mix of salty sea, rusted weapons, and the stench of old blood. But for Bastien and Arthur, the scent had become part of life, woven into their very existence. Every morning, before the sun even rose, they were already behind Gerald Lazhar's weapon shop, surrounded by weapons, sand, and sweat.
"Again," Bastien said, his voice short and firm. His breath was heavy, his body drenched in sweat, but his eyes remained locked on Arthur.
Arthur collapsed to the ground, clutching his bruised ribs. "We've been training for two hours, Bast! A little break won't kill us."
"Enemies won't wait for you to drink tea," Bastien replied flatly. He twirled the wooden staff in his hand before throwing it to the ground. "Get up. You need to take at least ten hits before you can strike back."
In the distance, Gerald Lazhar watched them with a calm yet sharp gaze. He sat cross-legged on a wooden crate, his hands busy dismantling an antique rifle yet his eyes never fully left his two students.
Their training had evolved over the past year, becoming more complex than simple physical endurance. Lazhar taught them how to read the battlefield, predict an opponent's movements, and judge a person's intentions from their body language. He showed them how to account for the wind before firing, how to assess the type of ground they were standing on, and how to recognize the tone of voice when someone was lying.
"Look around you," Lazhar said, his voice soft but as sharp as a blade. "This place isn't an arena. This is a battlefield. And war shows no mercy."
Bastien and Arthur had grown accustomed to the constant tension. Every day had felt like a test of life and death. If it weren't for Bastien's fiery determination, or Arthur's stubbornness and inability to quit, they both might have given up after the first month.
One afternoon, after a session of firearms and physical endurance training, they leaned against the stone wall, breathing heavily. Bastien gazed up at the gray sky above them. "Have you ever wondered what the world outside is like?"
Arthur shrugged. "If the outside world is as cruel as this, I'd rather stay here."
"But we won't stay here forever," Bastien replied, his tone more serious than ever. "One day, we'll get out. And when that happens, we need to be strong enough to survive. Or... take control."
Gerald overheard those words and gave a faint smile, his eyes narrowing slightly. He knew the boy was different. Not just because of his intellect, but because of the determination that was unusual for someone his age. Bastien's words weren't empty bravado they were the quiet confidence of someone who knew what they wanted and would stop at nothing to achieve it.
The reality of their world had become clearer every day, and Lazhar could see it taking root in both of them. Bastien wasn't just training to survive he was shaping himself into someone who would one day have the power to shape the world around him. Gerald had seen that drive in many faces throughout his own life, but rarely in someone so young.
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POV Elyndra (Year 1508)
A year had passed since the last time Elyndra had seen the light of freedom, and in that time, everything had changed. Behind the iron bars and the decaying wooden walls, she sat hugging her knees. The air in the basement was damp and cold, creeping into her bones. Her hair was tangled, her face gaunt, but the light in her eyes never faded it had only changed.
Every day, she saw new faces: girls who were captured, sold, and discarded like damaged goods. She learned to recognize the scent of fear, the sighs of hopelessness, and the mocking laughter of the guards.
But Elyndra no longer cried. Her tears had dried up in the first month.
'I know all their names. I know who touched whom, who secretly sold children out of town, who stole from their masters. I've absorbed everything. They think I'm a broken child. They're wrong.'
She stared at her reflection in the puddle of water on the floor. The image showed someone she didn't recognize anymore. But she didn't need her old face. All she needed was one thing an opportunity.
'Give me one weapon. One chance. And I'll turn this whole hell into ash.'
Her thoughts were dark, filled with vengeance, but the fire inside her burned with more than just anger. It was resolve. Her survival instincts were sharper than ever. Elyndra wasn't just waiting for an opportunity to escape; she was preparing herself to be the storm that would tear this place apart.