16.| What Makes Or Breaks A Thrall

"Move it, fresh meat!" The guard growled as he shoved me forward, nearly making me eat dirt.

We shuffled past the towering colosseum, its shadow looming over us like some giant monster. The roar inside was deafening—I could practically feel the clash of steel and screams vibrating in my bones. My imagination went wild, picturing all sorts of gruesome scenes.

Our ragtag group stumbled towards a squat, menacing building. The words 'THRALL TRAINING GROUNDS', were carved above the doors, looking like they'd been gouged out by a large claw. As we got closer, I heard the sickening sounds of violence— fists on flesh, angry shouts, the works.

The doors creaked open with a groan, releasing a wave of air so foul it made my eyes water. I froze, my legs turning to jelly.

"Oof!" Another shove from behind nearly sent me sprawling, but a hand grabbed my arm.

"Watch it," Dyon muttered, his eyes still glazed over. He looked like he'd seen better days, and I was the reason for it.

"Thanks," I whispered back. The last thing I needed was to look like a total weakling bait.

As we entered the stone courtyard, my jaw dropped. Thralls were everywhere, training in ways that looked more like torture. One guy was punching a wall until his knuckles were a bloody mess, while another ran across actual flaming coals! 

"This can't be real," I mumbled, feeling sick.

Suddenly, I overheard two thralls nearby. One was that smart-aleck with the crew cut who'd tried to show me up earlier in the carriage.

"Listen, newbie," Crew Cut hissed to a scrawny kid. "If you wanna survive this hellhole, you gotta play it smart. Find the biggest, baddest thrall here and make yourself useful. Polish their boots, massage their ego, whatever it takes!"

The scrawny kid's eyes were wide as saucers. "B-but that's so... degrading!"

Crew Cut grabbed the kid's shirt. "You wanna keep your teeth? Then swallow your pride and bend over backwards for the top dogs. It's that or become a punching bag for the rest of your miserable life!"

The scrawny thrall's shoulders slumped. "I... I guess you're right. But how do I even approach the stronger ones?"

Crew Cut smirked. "Easy. Start with small favors. Offer to clean their gear, bring them extra food. Make yourself useful without being a nuisance. Before long, they'll-"

Suddenly, Crew Cut's eyes narrowed, focusing on something over the scrawny thrall's shoulder. His smirk twisted into a sneer.

"Well, well. Looks like we've got an eavesdropper," he called out loudly. "Hey, fresh meat! Yeah, you with the stupid look on your face. Enjoying the show?"

I realized that he was talking to me. My eyes widened as Crew Cut started walking towards me, his fists clenched.

"Got something to say? Or are you just gonna stand there gawking like an idiot?" he challenged, stopping inches from my face.

The courtyard suddenly felt very quiet, all eyes turning to watch the confrontation unfold. I swallowed hard, knowing my next move could set the tone for my entire stay in this hellhole.

If I backed down, I'd be marked as weak. If I swung first, he'd have the advantage with his extra muscle and knowledge. I had to play this smart.

What kind of fights would they allow here? They needed thralls alive for the arena, which meant killing was off-limits outside of it. That was my angle.

Summoning every ounce of strength, I smashed my fist into the center of his nose. His head snapped back, and I knew this moment was crucial. If I let him recover, I was done for. My goal: get him down and keep him there until the guards thought I might kill him.

In a heartbeat, I was on top of him, thralls forming a circle around us. A strange thought flashed through my mind: what would my sister do?

The same sister who broke my leg.

The same sister my family praised as a prodigy, despite her cruelty.

Rage boiled up inside me. I drew my fist back, channeling all the pain and anger from those haunting memories. My knuckles slammed into his face again and again, his head bouncing against the cobblestones.

He let out a choked wheeze, trying to shield himself. But I remembered my sister's brutal tactics. I drove a fist into his stomach, forcing his arms down to protect his core. Then I was back at his face, my fists a blur of motion.

"That's enough!" Trynton's voice boomed from behind as his powerful arms yanked me off Crew Cut.

I thrashed in his grip, yelling incoherently, lost in a haze of fury.

The other thralls looked on in horror. Even Dyon, who'd been so emotionless lately, had a flicker of fear in his honey-colored eyes.

As the red mist of rage slowly cleared, I realized I'd just shown everyone exactly what kind of monster lurked inside me. Was that just a show to survive, or had it always been in me too?

Trynton spun me around, his face a storm of anger and confusion. Those dark eyebrows of his nearly touched, shadowing his intense gaze. "What in the name of the gods do you think you're doing?!" he demanded.

I gulped air, trying to blink away the dark spots dancing in my vision. "Protecting myself!" I shot back, my voice cracking. "It's not like any of you were gonna do it!"

For a long moment, Trynton just stared at me, his grip so tight I thought he might snap my arms like twigs. Then, slowly, his fingers loosened.

"That look in your eyes," he said, his voice softer now. "What tragedy were you reliving?"

I blinked, thrown off balance. Where was the punishment? The beating? "Wait, you mean... I'm not in trouble for almost killing—"

"Killing?" Trynton scoffed, cutting me off. "You weren't trying to kill anyone, kid. You were making a statement." A hint of a smile tugged at his lips. "I know a strategist when I see one."

My jaw dropped. This mountain of a man had seen right through me. Was I that transparent, or was he just that perceptive?

"But... but I..." I stammered, unsure how to respond. Part of me wanted to deny it, to cling to the image of the uncontrolled berserker I'd just portrayed. But another part felt a flicker of pride at being recognized for what I really was—a thinker, not just a brawler. Something my own family couldn't see.

Trynton's eyes narrowed, a glint of something—respect? curiosity?—flickering in their depths. "You might just survive this place after all, kid," he muttered, his words barely audible. Before I could respond, he was gone, leaving me alone with the crowd of wide-eyed, terrified thralls.

I watched as they carried Crew Cut away on a bamboo stretcher, his face a mess of blood and bruises. Guilt tugged at my conscience, but I squashed it down. Almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"IN LINE!" The guard's bellow sent us all scrambling like startled rabbits. Nobody wanted to be at the front of that line, that was for damn sure.

We shuffled forward, a pathetic parade of fresh meat. The line inched along until we reached a row of cement stalls. Suddenly, icy water cascaded over me, shocking a gasp from my lungs. For a moment, I was back in that barn, Bryard's laughing face looming over me as he dumped a bucket on my head. The memory stung worse than the cold.

A bundle of cloth smacked me in the face, snapping me back to reality. Fresh clothes. I changed quickly, my fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar fastenings.

Then we were moving again, marching across a sun-baked field. The grass crackled underfoot, and sweat beaded on my brow almost instantly. My throat felt like sandpaper, each breath a rasp.

'Water,' my mind whimpered. 'Gods, I'd kill for just one more splash of that freezing water.'

We shuffled into the third building, a structure that loomed ominously against the harsh sun. The guards shoved me into a room so blindingly white it made my eyes water. Flickering torches cast dancing shadows on the walls, their orange glow a stark contrast to the sterile surroundings.

In the center stood a solitary wooden podium, worn and ominous. Before I could protest, cold metal bit into my wrists as they shackled me to it.

"Wait here," a guard grunted, his voice devoid of emotion.

And so I waited. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional crackle of the torches. My muscles ached, my throat parched from the earlier march.

'How long are they going to keep me here?' I wondered, fighting down a wave of panic. Then it hit me – this was my chance!

"Stats," I whispered, my voice barely audible even to my own ears.