“How’d you know I like it rough?”
“Shut up,” Orin grunted, pushing a laughing Riven away with disgust.
I pursed my lips and shook my head, turning towards the bonfire. I was alive, and if I was going to stay alive long enough to find out why the Gods spared me, I needed warmth. Not to watch a match of testosterone. “Wait,” Orin said, shrugging out of his jacket and extending it to me.
I stared at it as if it had teeth. “I don’twantyour help,” I said before turning away from him.
“I take it you have some history there,” Riven said as he followed me, shaking out his arm dramatically and flexing his fingers.
I glanced over my shoulder at Orin, who watched me intently.
“Something like that,” I replied.
We pushed through the throng of drenched initiates crowding the fire, a sigh of relief escaping me as its warmth soakedinto my numb skin.
“And honestly, the backflip was an unnecessary risk to take. You could have easily died smashing into the rock face.”
“Princess, I happen to be good at taking unnecessary risks. You on the other hand…” He chuckled. “We both know you’re not here with the king’s blessing. I’m assuming you’ve run away.”
He dipped his head so I could see the amusement playing in his grey eyes.
I cast my gaze down, expecting him to deliver the same blow Orin did, that I was too weak. Instead, he started slow clapping. He smirked and I couldn’t help but return his grin.
“So, she swaps gowns with swords to protect her beloved Kingdom herself.” He shook his head in wonder.
I stifled a startled laugh. I wasn’t here for any noble reason. The only thing I had sought was the finality of death.
“Dreya!” Riven called past me, and I turned to see the woman who tackled Aldric walking towards us, arms wrapped around herself.
Slowly, my skin began to thaw. I drowned out Riven and Dreya’s conversation and ignored the cheers as more initiates stumbled ashore. My skin may no longer be numb. But I was.
“Initiates!” A commanding voice cut through the excited chatter, rising above the roar of the waves.
I’d seen this man speaking with my father before, and the memory made me instantly wary.
Commander Earl Kragthorne stood atop a large rock, radiating authority.
Behind him, the rockface opened like a maw leading to the barracks while the bonfire flared at our backs. Hiseyes were piercing and unnerving through his war hardened face, his grey armour baring the mark of the Iron Guard on his chest plate.
“Formation!” he bellowed, the sneer twisting his grey-streaked beard.
Iron Guard soldiers closed in from the edges of the clearing, some with orange or yellow bands strapped tight around their biceps.
They barked orders and shoved initiates into place, driving us into harsh, orderly rows.
“The Gods have deemed you worthy of Ascension!” his voiced echoed, and the initiates around me clapped and cheered.
“Don’t celebrate too soon. The Gods chose you, but I haven’t yet. Weakness festers. It’s my job to cut it out before it spreads. If your Sanctum does not reveal itself in the first two weeks, I will sacrifice you to the Gods myself.” Muttering broke out around us.
“Quiet!” his voice boomed across the clearing, and silence followed.
“Seventy-five of you survived out of the two hundred that jumped. A record high. You will be divided into squads; a sergeant and a corporal will help you acclimate. Welcome to the Iron Guard, where fear is forged into obedience, and mercy dies.”
One-hundred and twenty-five innocent lives lost to feed Gods who don’t care about us.
“What a morbid speech,” Riven muttered under his breath.
Commander Kragthorne unrolled a parchment, his gauntleted fingers scraping against the brittle edges.
