One month.
The sharp crack of rods against bunk frames before dawn was no longer a shock. Ren moved, swinging down from the middle bunk onto the cold stone. His body was leaner, the softness before replaced by hardening muscle pulled taut over bone, but the deep ache of fatigue was a constant companion.
The barracks held fewer shadows now. Ren didn't count, didn't make it obvious he noticed the empty spaces on bunks or the slightly thinner ranks during formations, but the knowledge was still there. Maybe forty-five left now in this block? Down from whatever number had first filled it. Provincial Orphanage #7 felt like a distant, hazy memory.
The morning routine was unchanged. Wake, wash, eat, march. Instructor Vorl oversaw breakfast with the same chilling impassivity. Today, the grey stew seemed different. Thicker, maybe? Fewer root vegetables, more grain perhaps. Ren ate quickly, head down, but chanced a quick glance across the hall towards Cadet 011the wiry boy he'd grown close to. 011 was frowning slightly at his own bowl, then met Ren's gaze for a fraction of a second.
The paved courtyard awaited. Instructor Grak seemed tireless, his voice a constant rumble driving them through another endurance run. Ren fell into the rhythm, focusing on the slap of boots on stone, the harsh rhythm of his own breathing. He kept pace. He endured. The consequences for failure were swift and permanent; several more gaps had appeared in the formation since that first day.
The afternoon brought hours of strength work, logs this time, heavier than the stones, carried back and forth across the yard until muscles burned and screamed, until hands were rubbed raw. Grak prowled the lines, his rod a constant threat. Ren focused on the lift, the carry, the drop, the return. One step, then the next. Survive the moment. Survive the hour.
Exhaustion was total by the time they were dismissed after the evening meal. Ren found his bunk, the effort of just climbing up sending tremors through his arms. He lay still, listening to the sounds of the barracks settling, weary groans, shifting bodies, the occasional muffled sob quickly stifled.
Hours later, in the deepest part of the night when the torches in the corridor outside cast only the faintest light, a hesitant whisper broke the near silence.
"Seven?"
Ren didn't move, listening. The whisper came again, closer, from the bunk below his. "007?"
He recognized the voice, though he'd barely heard it speak before. 011. Ren shifted slightly, turning his head just enough to look down into the gloom.
"Yes?" His own voice was raspy from disuse.
There was a pause, the sound of shallow breathing. "The stew," 011 whispered. "It was different today."
Ren thought back. Thicker. Less root, more grain. "Yes."
"Think it means anything?" 011 asked, the question hanging nervously in the dark.
Ren considered it. Everything here probably meant something, usually something unpleasant. "It was different," he replied, offering nothing more.
Another pause. Then, softer still, "I'm… they called me Liam. Before."
Silence.
"...Ren," he whispered back, the name feeling rough in his own throat.
He heard Liam let out a quiet breath below him. "Ren. Okay."
Silence stretched between them again, filled now not just with exhaustion but with the small, shared risk of their names hanging in the dark. They lay there, listening to the sounds of the other cadets turning in their sleep, until the first grey hints of pre-dawn light began to filter through the high, narrow windows, promising the inevitable crack of the instructors' rods.
---------------------
Two months.
The sharp pre-dawn wake-up calls, the forced runs, the grueling labor, Ren moved through it. His body, leaner and harder, responded with less overt protest now, settling into a pattern. The barracks held fewer faces, the initial chaotic fear had mostly subsided among the survivors. There were perhaps forty or so left in Ren's block now.
He and Liam talked often, usually late at night, muffled by the thin blankets. Short observations, shared complaints about the ache in their backs or the unpredictable texture of the stew, which had indeed changed subtly again last week.
Today brought a change. After the morning meal, instead of the usual run around the paved courtyard or assignment to labor, Instructor Grak marched their block towards an adjacent area, a wide expanse of churned mud enclosed by the same high stone walls. Crude obstacles were set up here: several timber walls, maybe twice Ren's height, slick with damp, and long, flat logs laid end-to-end, raised perhaps a foot off the muddy ground to serve as balance beams.
"New task," Grak rumbled, gesturing towards the course with his rod. "Wall. Beam. Wall. Beam. End. Move fast. Do not fall." His eyes scanned the ranks. "Hesitation is failure. Falling is failure. Begin!"
He pointed at the first row. "Go!"
Cadets surged forward. The first wall immediately caused a bottleneck. Some tried to scramble up using brute strength, finding few handholds. Others hesitated, earning a roar from Grak. Ren watched for a moment as his row waited, analyzing the wall's construction.
When his turn came, he moved without pause. He used a small knot near the base for his first foothold, gained momentum with a push off the ground, found another slight seam higher up, and hauled himself over the top, dropping into the mud on the other side. It wasn't easy, his muscles strained, his palms scraped on the rough wood, but he was over on the first attempt.
Next was the beam. A log, flattened on top but still narrow, slick with mud tracked onto it by previous cadets. He focused, finding his center, arms slightly out for balance, moving with quick, deliberate steps. He ignored Grak bellowing at someone else, ignoring the cadet splashing through the mud beside the beam. Just the log, his balance, the other side.
He made it across, then faced the next wall. He scrambled over it, then approached the final beam. He was halfway across this one when a cadet to his left, 064, lost his footing. The boy flailed wildly for a moment, arms windmilling, before pitching sideways with a cry, landing heavily in the thick mud below.
Grak was there almost instantly, looming over the fallen cadet. 064 pushed himself up, mud dripping from him, face contorted in pain or fear. "Instructor, I-"
"Failure!" Grak bellowed, cutting him off. He didn't even use his rod this time. He simply grabbed the front of the cadet's tunic with one massive hand and hauled him bodily out of the mud, dragging him towards the ever-present side gate like a sack of unwanted grain. The gate slammed shut. Grak returned, his face unchanged. "Next row! Move!"
Ren finished the course, his heart pounding less from exertion and more from the casual brutality. He fell into line with the others who had completed it, waiting to go again. He caught Liam's eye briefly as the other boy finished, mud splattered up his legs from a near fall on the beam.
They ran the course again. And again. Until muscles quivered uncontrollably, until balance became a desperate fight against gravity, until the mud and the aching exhaustion were all that existed. Back in the barracks that night, Ren lay on his bunk, the phantom sensation of balancing on the narrow log still playing in his mind.