A dull ache pulsed behind Ren's eyes. His mouth felt dry, lined with grit, and the hard surface beneath him offered no comfort, only cold that seeped into his bones. He blinked, vision swimming. Dim, flickering light…torches maybe cast long, dancing shadows across rough-hewn stone walls that seemed too close, too high. The air was stale, thick with the scent of something sharp and metallic.
He wasn't on his pallet. He wasn't in the orphanage dormitory.
Sounds filtered through the fog in his head, muffled crying, shuffling movements, a low groan nearby. He pushed himself up slightly, the movement sending a wave of dizziness through him. He was in a large, low-ceilinged room, crowded with other children. Dozens of them, maybe more, all looking as lost and frightened as he felt. None were familiar.
A heavy wooden door scraped open at one end of the room, silencing the low sounds instantly. A figure stood silhouetted against the torchlight from the corridor beyond. Tall, broad, one side of his face a roadmap of old scars that pulled his lip into a permanent sneer. His voice, when it came, was like stone scraping over stone.
"Up! On your feet, maggots!"
Ren scrambled up with the others, legs unsteady. He kept his eyes lowered, watching the scarred man's movements from under his brow. The man stalked into the room, his gaze sharp and dismissive as it swept over them.
A boy near the front, stumbled forward. "Where... where are we?
Vorl moved faster than Ren would have thought possible for his size. A backhand strike, hard bone against soft cheek, sent the boy sprawling to the stone floor with a choked cry. The manal stood over him, impassive.
"My name is Vorl and rule one," The man said, his voice deceptively low now, yet carrying absolute menace. "You do not speak unless spoken to. You do not ask questions. You obey. Instantly." He nudged the sobbing boy with his boot. "Understand?"
A choked gasp was the only answer. Silence descended again, thick and terrified.Vorl began to move down the rough line the children had formed, jabbing a thick finger at each one. "001. 002. 003." He paused in front of Ren, his single eye boring into him for a fraction longer than the others. Ren kept his gaze fixed on the floor, heart hammering against his ribs. "007."
Vorl moved on. 008. 009. The numbers continued down the line. 007. When all were numbered, Vorl jerked his head towards the door. "Move."
They were herded out of the receiving room and through bare stone corridors. The air grew colder. They passed other groups, all under the watchful eyes of similarly hard-faced instructors or guards clad in dark, simple tunics. Finally, they were pushed into another vast, echoing chamber, this one filled with rows upon rows of stark, metal-framed bunks stacked three high.
"Find a bunk. Stay there," Vorl ordered from the doorway, his presence a weight even as he turned to leave. Ren scanned the rows. The lowest bunks were already being claimed by the quickest or the most aggressive. He hesitated for only a moment, then moved towards a vacant middle bunk near the back wall, climbing onto the thin, rough mattress. It offered a slightly better vantage point than the floor level.
He lay still, listening to the sounds of the barracks, shuffling, muted sobbing from somewhere nearby, the creak of metal as others settled. He was Cadet 007. He was in a cold, hard place run by violent men. He was alone.
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A sharp crack echoed through the cavernous dormitory, followed instantly by another against metal. Ren's eyes snapped open. Figures moved down the narrow aisles between the triple-tiered bunks, striking the frames sharply with heavy wooden rods.
"Up!" a voice like grinding boulders roared. It wasn't Vorl, this one was deeper, rougher.
Cadets spilled from their bunks, a clumsy cascade of grey tunics and trousers in the dim torchlight. The previous day's exhaustion put a deep ache in muscles Ren hadn't known he possessed. He swung his legs over the side of the middle bunk, landing softly on the cold stone floor. Around him, others groaned, moved stiffly.
"Single file. No sound," he commanded, his voice cutting through the low murmur of movement.
Breakfast was ladled quickly into rough bowls, a thick, greyish stew with unidentifiable chunks. It smelled vaguely of boiled roots and something metallic. Ren ate, forcing it down. It wasn't food to be enjoyed. The five minutes allotted passed in near silence, broken only by the scrape of spoons and the instructors' watchful pacing.
"Yard. Move!" Vorl barked as the last bowls were scraped clean.
They were marched out onto the large, paved courtyard. Lines were painted on the stone surface, faded but visible. Waiting for them was the owner of the boulder-like voice, a burly instructor even broader than Vorl, with arms like tree trunks and a shaved head that gleamed under the grey morning sky.
Attend!" Vorl's voice cut through the morning chill. Silence fell instantly.
"This facility is named Cradle. This initial phase purges weakness, and after you will come to know your purpose. "Follow orders instantly. Silently. Endure. Exceed expectations. That is how you might survive."
"Listen carefully. Your schedule is simple." He gestured vaguely around the courtyard. "Pre-dawn wake-up. Morning physical conditioning. Midday, you eat. Afternoon physical conditioning or assigned labor. Evening, you eat. Then sleep. That is your cycle."
His gaze swept across their faces, cold and appraising. "Follow orders. From me, from Instructor Grak, from any instructor. Do it instantly. Do it silently. That is all you need to know to perhaps survive the day."
Vorl's voice lowered slightly, losing none of its edge. "You are expected to endure. Mediocrity is failure. Excuses are failure. We forge weapons here, we do not tolerate flaws. Failure means removal." He gave a sharp nod towards the burly instructor who had joined him, the one with the tree-trunk arms. "Instructor Grak will begin."
Vorl stepped back as Grak moved forward, his presence alone seeming to lower the temperature.
"I am Instructor Grak," the man rumbled, his voice vibrating in Ren's chest even from yards away. "You are filth. Less than filth. My job is to see if any of you might one day be useful. Doubtful." He gestured with a thick, scarred hand. "Formation. On the lines. Now!"
They scrambled into ranks. Grak stalked the lines, adjusting positions with rough shoves.
"Today, we run," Grak announced. "You stay in formation. You keep pace. You do not stop. You do not fall. Simple." He raised his own heavy rod. "Move!"
The run began. Not a sprint, but a steady, grinding jog around the perimeter of the large courtyard. Boots slapped against the stone in a ragged rhythm that Grak enforced with sharp commands and sharper blows from his rod against the legs or backs of those whose pace slackened even slightly.
"Tighter! Close the gaps, 042!" Grak bellowed. "Keep your eyes forward, 117!"
Ren focused on his breathing, finding a rhythm. He watched the person ahead of him, matching his stride. The paved surface was unforgiving, jarring his bones with every step. Lap after lap, the initial shock wore off, replaced by burning lungs and aching legs. He could hear harsh gasps around him, see shoulders slumping.
A boy two ranks ahead stumbled, his legs buckling. He went down hard onto the stone. Grak was on him instantly. "Rule! What is the rule?" he roared. Before the boy could answer, Grak gestured to two guards standing nearby. "Remove it." The guards hauled the fallen cadet up and dragged him, limp and unresisting, towards a side gate. It slammed shut behind them. The formation kept running, a gap left where the boy had been. No one looked back.
The sun climbed higher, offering no warmth, only glare off the stones. Ren's body screamed, but he kept moving, matching the pace. He didn't know how long they ran. Time blurred into a cycle of pounding feet, burning lungs, and Grak's harsh commands. Occasionally they would stop for short breaks.
Finally, Grak called a halt. Children swayed on their feet, chests heaving. Some collapsed to their knees before being violently pulled back up. "Mess Hall," Grak grunted, seemingly unimpressed by the display of exhaustion.
The midday meal was the same grey stew. Ren ate mechanically, his body craving the fuel despite the taste. There was less shuffling now. The afternoon brought no respite. Instructor Grak marched them to a different section of the yard where piles of heavy, rough-cut stones and logs lay stacked.
"Move the stones," Grak ordered, pointing to a designated area across the yard. "Then move them back."
For hours, they labored. The stones were heavy, awkward, scraping Ren's hands raw. He paired up wordlessly with the cadet nearest him, 011 as it turned out, a wiry boy whose face was a blank mask of effort. They established a rhythm,lift, carry, drop, return. Muscles screamed in protest, it was different from the run, a deep ache in his back and shoulders. Grak stalked among them, his rod falling on anyone who dropped a stone or paused too long. "Again!" "Faster!" "Useless!" The commands were constant.
By the time the evening meal was called, Ren felt hollowed out, operating purely on instinct. The stew tasted like dust, but he finished it. The march back to the barracks was a slow shuffle of utter exhaustion.
He found his middle bunk, hauling himself up with trembling arms. He didn't bother removing his tunic or trousers, simply collapsing onto the thin pallet. Around him, the sounds were different tonight, fewer sobs, more low, weary groans, the exhausted breathing of dozens pushed beyond their limits. He closed his eyes, every muscle throbbing. This was just the first day. The thought offered no comfort, only the cold, hard weight of the days stretching endlessly ahead.