CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT: THE WEIGHT IF ARRIVAL

"Sometimes the heaviest battles are the ones we fight within ourselves — the struggle to find where we truly belong."---- Anonymous

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Gravill didn't know how long he slept.

The world faded into quiet darkness, and his body, finally given permission to rest, sank into the mattress like it belonged there. The distant sound of waves echoed in his dreams — gentle, rhythmic, like the ocean itself was cradling him. For the first time in what felt like eternity, he wasn't fighting to stay alive. He wasn't clawing his way to the surface, desperate for air.

He just existed.

But peace never lasted long.

The door to the dorm creaked open, the sound sharp enough to slice through the quiet like a blade. Footsteps echoed across the wooden floor, soft at first, then louder, multiplying as more figures entered the room.

Voices followed.

"Man, that last drill almost killed me."

"You're complaining? I swear the instructor was targeting me specifically. I can't even lift my arms."

Laughter rippled through the room as the boys trickled in, their words bouncing off the stone walls. They moved in clusters — twos and threes — their clothes damp with sweat, hair sticking to their foreheads, skin streaked with dirt and seawater.

They smelled like salt and exhaustion, like they'd been pushed to their limits and somehow still had energy left to joke around.

One boy tossed his bag onto his bed, stretching until his joints popped. His shirt was soaked through, the fabric clinging to his back like a second skin. He yanked it off and wiped his face, only to pause when his eyes landed on the corner bed.

"Hey," he called out, jerking his chin in Gravill's direction. "Who's this?"

Another boy, already halfway through unlacing his boots, glanced up. He had a scar running across his cheekbone and hair that looked like it had never seen a brush. He squinted at Gravill, who remained motionless, his chest rising and falling in steady, deep breaths.

"I think he's the new guy," the scarred boy muttered, kicking his boots off with a grunt. He flopped onto his bed, folding his arms behind his head. "Heard someone else was supposed to show up today."

The first boy snorted, tossing his shirt aside. "He's just sleeping? Seriously?"

"Wouldn't you?" another voice chimed in — this one belonging to a taller boy with sharp, angular features and an air of practiced indifference. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching Gravill with an unreadable expression. "If he just got here, he probably went through hell getting in. Let him rest."

The shirtless boy ignored him, stalking closer to Gravill's bed. He crouched, peering at him like he was inspecting some strange, rare creature that had washed ashore. Gravill's face was still smudged with dirt, his knuckles scraped raw, and his breathing shallow, like even in sleep, he hadn't fully relaxed.

The boy tilted his head. "Wake him up."

The scarred boy propped himself up on one elbow. "Why?"

"Because I want to know who I'm rooming with." He grinned, a sharp, toothy thing that didn't quite reach his eyes. "And I'm bored."

The boy nearest to Gravill — shorter, with wild curls and a nervous energy that clung to him like static — hesitated. "Maybe we should just let him—"

The shirtless boy didn't wait.

He grabbed the edge of Gravill's mattress and shook it violently.

"Oi. Wake up, fish boy."

Gravill's eyes snapped open.

For a split second, he forgot where he was. His body reacted before his mind caught up, muscles tensing as he bolted upright, hand flying to his side like he expected to find a weapon there. His chest heaved, heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to break free.

The boy jolted back, hands raised in mock surrender. "Whoa, relax. I'm not here to kill you."

Gravill blinked, forcing himself to breathe. His pulse slowed, the remnants of survival instinct ebbing away like the tide. He dragged a hand down his face, wiping away the lingering haze of sleep as he took in the room — the boys sprawled across their beds, the faint smell of salt and sweat lingering in the air.

The boy who woke him up was still grinning, unbothered by the sudden flare of tension. "So, you got a name, or should we just call you 'new kid'?"

Gravill swallowed, rubbing his eyes. "Gravill."

"Gravill," the boy echoed, testing the name on his tongue like it was a foreign word. He flopped onto the bed across from Gravill's, propping his head up with his hand. "I'm Kieran. Welcome to the circus."

One of the other boys snorted, tossing a pillow at Kieran's head. "Stop being dramatic."

Gravill rubbed his chest absently, still feeling the ghost of aching bruises beneath his skin. "How many of you are there?"

Kieran stretched, his joints popping. "Nine, including me. Ten with you. Each dorm fits ten people, from the first floor to the last. We all train together, eat together, and suffer together. So get used to our faces."

Gravill nodded slowly, his gaze flicking to the rest of the boys. They were talking amongst themselves now — recounting the day's training, laughing at each other's mistakes, grumbling about the instructors. It was loud and chaotic, but... oddly comforting.

They all looked like they belonged here.

Gravill didn't know if he ever would.

He sank back against the wall, exhaustion already threatening to pull him under again. But this time, he didn't fight it.

He let the voices wash over him like waves, grounding him in this new, unfamiliar place.

For better or worse, he was here now.

And he wasn't leaving.