Acceptance

"Just call me 'old man,'" he said with a twinkle in his eye.

I somehow felt like my mouth was curling, appreciating his humor. "Alright, old man. If that is what you want."

*******

The next few days passed in a grueling routine. We were woken up early each morning, even before the sun had risen, by the harsh sound of a whistle. The cold air bit at our skin as we stumbled out of our makeshift beds and lined up for roll call.

Training began immediately after. We spent hours practicing with spears, perfecting our stances, thrusts, and parries. My muscles screamed in protest, but I pushed through the pain, determined to prove myself.

Breakfast was a brief reprieve, a chance to catch our breath and refuel. The meals were meager—stale bread, boiled potatoes, and occasionally, a hard-boiled egg. Despite the poor quality, I was grateful for the sustenance.

After breakfast, we returned to the training yard for more drills. The sergeants, including Stroud, watched us closely, barking orders and correcting our form. Stroud seemed to take a particular interest in me, often singling me out for extra "attention."

"Thorne, your stance is sloppy!" he would shout, smirking as he knocked my spear aside with a powerful strike. "Do it again!"

I gritted my teeth and complied, my body aching from the repeated blows. The other trainees watched with a mix of pity and amusement, but I refused to let their judgment affect me.

Brann was a bit more lenient, but even he had a stern side. He pushed us hard, emphasizing the importance of discipline and precision. I respected him for his fairness, even if his methods were tough.

One afternoon, as we were practicing in the yard, Stroud approached with a smug expression. "Thorne, I've heard about your little arrangement with the rations," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "It seems you've been getting extra food, courtesy of Sergeant Brann."

I stood at attention, my heart sinking. "Yes, sir. It was a punishment for the bullies who tried to steal from me."

"Bullies, you say? I don't see them doing such a thing, though? Rather, I am more inclined to believe it was you who tried to steal their food. After all, you have never tasted such measly amounts of food before, haven't you?

His words stung, but I held my ground, my mind flashing back to the times when I had been punished for my failures. When I was younger, there were many instances where I had not been allowed to eat because I had not met my father's expectations.

I remembered the nights spent training tirelessly to earn my meals. The times I had collapsed from exhaustion, only to push myself to get up and continue. The hunger and fatigue had been my constant companions, but I had endured, driven by a desire to prove myself worthy.

I wanted to retort, to tell Stroud that he was wrong, that I had never stolen anything in my life. But I knew it would be futile. In this place, my words held no weight. The stigma of being a noble had already painted me as a liar and a thief in their eyes.

"I would never steal from others," I said quietly, keeping my voice steady.

Stroud sneered. "Of course, that's what all nobles would say. But each of you pockets the taxes you exert from the common folks. I've seen too much for that not to be the case."

If it was before, I would have normally argued back. But, just yesterday and the other days, I had been hearing the talks between the people in the barracks. All of them were commoners, and quite a few of them were here because of some meager crimes.

Of course, there were many who had murdered or assaulted women and many with gruesome crimes. But, the number of people who were here just because they had offended a noble and were thrown into prison was immensely high.

And I also learned that this place was not the only camp. There were countless different places like this behind the battlefield to supply the expendable soldiers.

It was, in a way, a flowing state of business.

So, I did not refute it.

"You may believe what you wish, but until this moment, I have never stolen something in my life. I can swear on my honor."

Stroud's eyes narrowed, and he took a step closer, his sneer turning into a cold, mocking smile. "Your honor?" he repeated, his voice dripping with contempt. "You no longer have any honor to swear on."

His words hit hard, and for a moment, I was at a loss for how to respond. He was right, at least in the eyes of everyone here. My family had disowned me, my status as a noble was meaningless, and my reputation was in tatters if I had even one remaining to begin with. I had nothing left but my determination to survive and prove my innocence.

With a quiet nod, I acknowledged his statement. "Perhaps you're right," I said softly. "But I still have my integrity, and I'll hold onto that."

Stroud's sneer remained, but he somehow looked not satisfied with my response. "Well, that arrangement is now nullified. You won't be receiving any extra rations." he barked, turning away. "And Brann will be hearing about this."

"Understood, sir."

"Tsk." He clicked his tongue as if he was not in a good mood, leaving me alone.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of training and drills, my mind constantly replaying the conversation. Despite the physical exertion, my thoughts were heavy with the realization of how deeply ingrained the hatred for nobles was in this place.

As evening fell, I made my way to the same quiet spot where I had eaten before. The old man was already there, his serene smile welcoming me. We shared our meager meals, and he began to recount more of his stories. Despite his life as a beggar, he had seen many interesting and unusual things. His tales of the city's underbelly, the hidden kindnesses among the poor, and the small joys he had found in such a harsh life were captivating.

I found myself genuinely enjoying his stories. They provided a brief escape from the harsh reality of our situation. The old man had a way of making even the direst situations seem bearable with his humor and perspective.

"Thank you for sharing your stories," I said, my mood lightened. "They make this place a bit more bearable."

The old man nodded, his eyes twinkling. "Stories are what keep us human, Lucavion. They remind us of who we are and where we come from. Hold onto them, and they'll help you through the darkest times."

I nodded, feeling a deep sense of gratitude. The old man's wisdom and kindness were a rare comfort in this brutal environment.

However, my interactions with the other trainees grew increasingly hostile. Stroud's stance against me had become evident to everyone, and his public scolding of Brann only fueled their disdain. They took every opportunity to make my life more difficult—hitting me on the shoulder, tripping my foot, or pushing me down whenever they could.

The two bullies I had confronted earlier were particularly relentless. They seemed to take special pleasure in targeting me, their hatred palpable. I tried to stay vigilant and avoid confrontation, but it was clear they were determined to make my life miserable.

One night, as I left the barracks to relieve myself, they cornered me in the dimly lit area near the toilets. Their faces twisted with anger and malice, and I knew what was coming.

"You think you're better than us?" one of them snarled, his voice low and menacing. "You think you can just make a fool out of us and get away with it?"

THUD!

Before I could respond, a fist connected with my stomach, doubling me over in pain. They didn't give me a chance to recover, raining blows upon me with brutal efficiency. I tried to shield myself, but there were too many of them, and they were relentless.

Each punch and kick sent waves of pain through my body, and I struggled to stay conscious. Their voices were a blur of taunts and insults, but I barely registered them. All I could focus on was enduring the assault, hoping it would end soon.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they stepped back, leaving me crumpled on the ground. "Let that be a lesson, noble scum," one of them spat, kicking dirt at me before they walked away, laughing.

I lay there for a moment, struggling to catch my breath and process the pain. Slowly, I forced myself to stand, my body trembling. I couldn't afford to show weakness, even now. I had to survive, no matter what.

With great effort, I made my way back to the barracks, each step a reminder of my battered state. As I collapsed onto my bed, I wondered.

'Is there really a need to endure this?'

Wouldn't it be better to just let it go?

Why must I experience all these things when I have done nothing wrong?

I lay there, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on me. The pain in my body was nothing compared to the anguish in my heart. Everything felt so unfair. Why did I have to endure all of this? What had I done to deserve such a fate?

Was there a point in all this? Was there a reason to keep going, to never stop fighting? My body stung from the beatings, my face ached, my muscles were tired, and the places where I had been hit churned with pain.

I felt a surge of immense anger towards the world. The injustice of it all was overwhelming. Anger towards my family, who had discarded me so easily. Anger towards Isolde, whose deceit had led me to this hell. And anger towards the being who had written that damned book, Shattered Innocence, as if it were a script for my life to follow.

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I clenched my fists tightly, the pain in my hands a welcome distraction from the turmoil in my heart. I couldn't help but cry silently, venting out the frustration and sorrow that had built up inside me. The tears flowed freely, soaking into the rough fabric of my bed.

Each sob was a release, a way to purge the bitterness that had taken root in my soul. I cried for the lost trust, the shattered dreams, and the life that had been taken from me. I cried for the injustice and the pain, for the hope that seemed so distant now.

I let it all out, everything that I had felt.

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