Chapter 3

The dormitory bells didn't just wake them—they violated them. 

A sound like shattering glass, like a blade dragged across bone, tearing through the fragile veil of sleep. Ezra jolted upright, his body screaming in protest. Every muscle burned. His mouth tasted of rust and old blood. Around him, the other candidates groaned, their uniforms stiff with yesterday's sweat and filth, their faces hollow with exhaustion. 

No time to think. 

Only move. 

They spilled into the courtyard like cattle to slaughter, the pale morning light doing nothing to soften the brutality of what awaited them. The training grounds had transformed overnight—weighted poles stood like gallows, towering walls studded with jagged iron, mud pits that reeked of old blood and fresh despair. 

And at the center of it all—him. 

The instructor. 

If the senior from the night before had been a blade, this man was a guillotine. 

Tall as a fortress wall, broad as a warhorse, his hair scraped back into a brutal knot, his face all sharp angles and unforgiving lines. His uniform was battered, the fabric stained with things Ezra didn't want to name. Scars mapped his hands—thick, ropy things that spoke of battles won and lives taken. 

He didn't smile. 

He didn't greet them. 

He simply spoke.

"Welcome to Blackspire."

His voice was gravel dragged over stone, the kind of sound that scraped against the inside of Ezra's skull. "You survived the first culling. Congratulations."A pause."Half of you will wish you hadn't." 

He paced the line of students, his boots sinking into the mud with deliberate, crushing steps. His gaze was a physical weight, pressing down on them, measuring, judging . 

"You are here because someone thought you might be worth the air you breathe." His lips curled, just slightly. "Prove them right—or die trying."

No pretense. No speeches. 

Just the truth. 

Ezra felt the others stiffen as the instructor's gaze passed over them. Not respect. Not admiration. 

Fear.

"You eat when I say eat. You sleep when I say sleep. You breathe when I say breathe." The instructor's voice dropped, low and lethal. "You are no longer people. You are weapons. And if you fail to be sharp enough?" A shrug. "You'll be discarded."

A boy at the end of the line swayed, his face still bloodless from yesterday's trials. 

The instructor's eyes snapped to him. 

"You."

The boy stumbled forward, trembling. 

The instructor moved. 

A blur. 

A fist to the gut—hard.

The boy folded like wet parchment, collapsing into the mud with a choked gasp. 

"Weak." The instructor looked down at him, his expression cold. "And weakness is a disease."

He turned back to the others. 

"Drag that filth off my field. The rest of you—pair up."

A heartbeat of silence. 

Then—chaos. 

Ezra moved on instinct, his body reacting before his mind could catch up. Find someone. Fast. Someone who wouldn't break him in half the second they got the chance. 

But before he could— 

"Move faster, gutter rat." 

Ezra turned. 

Cassian. 

Of course it was Cassian. 

He stood there, his crimson hair like fresh blood against the dull gray of the courtyard, his smirk sharp enough to flay skin. His ruby eyes gleamed with amusement, his posture lazy, arrogant—like this was all just a game to him. 

Ezra's fists clenched. 

Across the field, the others paired off, their movements hesitant, uncertain. They were fresh meat. Untested. They had no idea what was coming. 

Ezra's heart pounded, a dull, throbbing rhythm in his chest. 

Then— 

"Get into position."

The instructor's voice cracked like a whip. 

Ezra dropped to his knees, his body screaming in protest. The others followed, some slower than others, their fear palpable in the air. 

The instructor raised a hand. 

"Begin."

The world shifted. 

The air thickened, pressing down on Ezra like a physical weight, crushing his lungs, making every breath a struggle. His skin prickled, the sensation of something unnatural crawling over him, squeezing tighter, tighter— 

Then— 

Pain.

The instructor's fist connected with the side of Ezra's head. 

The impact was like being hit by a battering ram. His vision whited out. His ears rang. His skull ached. He staggered, barely catching himself on the stone, his palms scraping raw. 

Before he could recover— 

A boot to his ribs. 

Ezra hit the ground, gasping, his chest on fire. 

"Stay down if you want,"the instructor said, his voice cold. "But your squad will fail." 

Ezra gritted his teeth. 

No. 

No.

He wouldn't fail. 

He couldn't. 

With a grunt, he forced himself up, his muscles trembling, his mouth filling with the metallic tang of blood. Around him, the others weren't faring much better—grunts, gasps, the sickening thud of bodies hitting stone. Cassian was on the ground, clutching his side, his smirk gone. Rin was still standing, but barely, her sharp eyes narrowed in pain. 

Then— 

A snap of the instructor's fingers. 

Weapons appeared . 

Blades. Rods. The crackle of energy in the air. 

"Pick one." The instructor's voice was a growl. "Fight. Fail—and you die."

Ezra stumbled to his feet, his vision swimming. He didn't care what weapon he grabbed. He didn't care about the pain. 

This was his only chance. 

His fingers closed around the hilt of a training sword. 

The air shifted again, the weight crushing down on him like a vice. He gritted his teeth, forcing the blade up, his arms shaking with the effort. 

Then— 

Cassian struck. 

Steel flashed. Ezra barely dodged, the blade whispering past his throat. 

"Slower than I thought," Cassian taunted, his smirk returning. 

Ezra didn't answer. 

He couldn't afford to. 

Cassian lunged again. 

This time, Ezra blocked, the force of the impact rattling through his arms. The sword nearly slipped from his grip. Sweat dripped into his eyes. His chest burned. 

"Is this all you've got, gutter rat?" Cassian's voice was smooth, mocking. "You're nothing. A weakling pretending to be strong."

The words cut. 

Ezra's chest tightened. 

No. 

He wouldn't let them get to him. 

But then— 

A feint. A slash. 

Pain exploded in Ezra's shoulder as Cassian's blade bit into flesh. 

Blood welled, dripping down his arm, pooling on the stone below. 

Enough.

Ezra snapped. 

He dropped his sword. 

And lunged. 

His body moved before his mind could catch up, his fists connecting with Cassian's ribs, his weight slamming into him, sending them both crashing to the ground. 

Cassian gasped, his arrogance flickering—just for a second—before his knee drove into Ezra's gut, forcing him back. 

They rolled, a tangle of limbs and fury, fists flying, knees digging into ribs. Ezra tasted blood. Felt the heat of Cassian's breath. Saw the anger in his eyes. 

Around them, the others had stopped, watching, their expressions a mix of amusement and shock. 

Then— 

"ENOUGH."

The instructor's voice shattered the air. 

Ezra froze. 

Cassian shoved him off, his smirk returning, though it was strained now. 

The instructor loomed over them, his shadow swallowing them whole. 

"Did I tell you to fight?" His voice was low. Dangerous. 

Silence. 

The instructor's gaze locked onto Ezra. 

"You." A single word, sharp as a blade. "Name." 

Ezra forced the word out. "Ezra." 

The instructor didn't blink. "From now on, you do not step foot in my class for three weeks."

The words hit like a hammer. 

Three weeks?

Ezra's vision swam with red. 

Cassian's smirk widened. "Try not to die in the streets while you're gone." 

Ezra's fists clenched. 

"And you." The instructor rounded on Cassian. His eyes, cold as iron, locked onto Cassian, and for a brief moment, Ezra saw something like recognition in the instructor's eyes. But it was fleeting, lost in the shifting storm of the room.

"This afternoon. You're gone." 

The injustice burned. 

"Why?" The word tore from Ezra's throat before he could stop it. "Why does he get an afternoon and I get weeks?"

The instructor stopped mid-stride. 

A terrible stillness settled over the courtyard. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Slowly—so slowly—the man turned, his boots grinding against gravel as he pivoted to face Ezra fully. 

"What,"he said, his voice dangerously soft,"did you just say to me?"

Ezra's pulse roared in his ears. Blood dripped from his split lip onto the stones between them. 

The instructor took one step forward. Then another. Each footfall echoed like a hammer striking an anvil. The other cadets shrank back, forming a wide circle around them—a makeshift arena for what was coming. 

"I asked,"Ezra repeated, tasting iron, "Why does he get an afternoon and I get three weeks."

A muscle twitched in the instructor's jaw. 

Then—laughter. 

Not from the students. Not from Cassian. 

From the instructor. 

A deep, horrible sound that carried no warmth, no humor—only the promise of violence. 

"Oh," he murmured, still chuckling as he closed the final distance between them. "This one has spine" His scarred hand shot out, gripping Ezra's chin with crushing force, forcing his head up. "Let me educate you, gutter rat."

With brutal efficiency, he dragged Ezra by the jaw toward the center of the courtyard. Ezra stumbled, his boots scraping against stone as the instructor flung him forward— 

—right into the mud pit. 

Ezra hit the sludge face-first. Foul, blood-tinged water filled his nose, his mouth. He came up sputtering, mud dripping from his hair, only to find the instructor standing at the pit's edge, arms crossed. 

"You want to know why?"The man's voice carried across the silent training grounds. "Because he"—a jerk of his chin toward Cassian— " a blade that needs polishing. But you?"

A pause. A smile. 

"You're a stain"

The cadets snickered. Cassian's smirk widened. 

The instructor crouched at the pit's edge, his shadow falling over Ezra like a shroud. "Three weeks," he said conversationally, "because that's how long it takes to scrub filth from stone. Because every time we get one of you District rats, you think the rules don't apply. You think you're special."

He reached down, grabbing a handful of Ezra's hair, forcing his head back. 

"Let me make this clear." His breath smelled of stale tobacco and something metallic. "You are nothing. You will always be nothing. And if you ever speak to me like that again?"

A twist of his wrist. Ezra's scalp burned. 

"I'll throw you back in the gutter where you belong."

He released Ezra with a shove, sending him sprawling into the muck again. 

"Now crawl out of my sight."

The laughter followed Ezra as he dragged himself from the pit—Cassian's loudest of all. Mud clung to his uniform, his skin, his soul. The instructor's words echoed in his skull, each one a brand searing deeper than the last. 

But as Ezra limped away, his hands clenched into fists so tight his nails drew blood. 

This wasn't humiliation. 

This was kindling. 

And one day— 

One day, he would burn this place to the ground.