Chapter 5: The Taste of Defeat

The morning sun hung low, casting long shadows across the training yard. The Boy moved stiffly, his muscles aching from yesterday's grueling session. Every breath sent a dull throb through his ribs, a constant reminder of the blows Vardek had landed. But despite the pain, he stood at the edge of the yard, ready to begin again.

He had to be. Survival wasn't a choice in this place—it was the only goal.

The older boys were already practicing, their movements sharp and purposeful as they swung their practice swords in wide arcs. Overseers paced around the yard, their voices barking commands, ensuring no one slacked. The Boy joined the younger trainees, a group of children like him—small, underdeveloped, and with everything to prove. Their eyes darted nervously, aware of how easily they could be picked for punishment, or worse—made an example of.

He kept his head low, hoping not to draw attention. But he knew that after yesterday's fight with Vardek, the overseers were watching him more closely. And so were the other boys. No one respected him yet. Beating Vardek yesterday hadn't earned him their admiration; it had only made him a target.

As if summoned by his thoughts, the overseer's sharp voice cut through the air. "You."

The Boy's heart skipped a beat. His eyes flicked up to see the tall, gaunt overseer—the same one from the day before—pointing directly at him. "Step forward," he commanded.

The Boy obeyed, walking into the center of the yard. His feet felt heavy, his body still aching from yesterday's bruises, but he didn't hesitate. He knew that showing any sign of weakness would only make things worse.

The overseer motioned to the rack of weapons at the edge of the yard. "Pick up a sword."

The Boy moved toward the rack, his hand reaching for one of the wooden practice swords. The rough wood felt heavy in his grip, heavier than it had the day before. His fingers ached as he wrapped them around the hilt, his knuckles white. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his breathing steady.

Across the yard, the other boys stood in silence, their eyes fixed on him. He knew what they were thinking. They wanted to see him fail. Especially Vardek.

And then, as if the overseer had heard their thoughts, he spoke again, his voice sharp with authority. "Vardek. Step forward."

A murmur ran through the group as Vardek stepped into the yard, his lips twisting into a cruel smile. His bruises from yesterday had darkened, but his pride was still intact, and his anger simmered just beneath the surface. He hefted his practice sword with ease, his muscles rippling as he moved.

"I'm ready," Vardek said, his voice low and menacing, clearly relishing the chance to finish what he had started.

The Boy's heart sank. He had barely survived the last fight, relying on quick thinking and luck. But today, the overseer's cold gaze told him there would be no such luck. This was meant to be a test of his endurance, his will to fight even when everything seemed lost.

The overseer's lips curled into a smile. "Begin."

Vardek wasted no time. He lunged forward with a ferocious swing, his sword coming down like a hammer aimed at The Boy's head. The Boy barely managed to raise his own sword in time, the force of the impact sending a painful jolt through his arms and rattling his bones. His grip wavered, and the wooden sword slipped in his hand, but he held on, his feet skidding backward in the sand.

Before he could recover, Vardek attacked again. This time, the strike was aimed at his ribs, and The Boy wasn't quick enough to block it. The blow landed with a sickening thud, knocking the wind from his lungs and sending him sprawling to the ground.

The yard erupted in cruel laughter. The other boys were enjoying the spectacle, their voices a low murmur of satisfaction. The Boy struggled to breathe, his vision swimming as he tried to push himself up from the ground.

Vardek didn't give him the chance. He kicked The Boy's hand, sending his practice sword flying across the yard, and followed it up with another strike, this time to his back. Pain exploded down his spine, and The Boy collapsed face-first into the sand.

"Get up!" Vardek snarled, his voice dripping with contempt.

The Boy tried to stand, his limbs trembling, but his body refused to obey. Every muscle screamed in protest, and the pain in his ribs made it hard to breathe. He reached out for his sword, but it was too far away, and Vardek's shadow loomed over him.

"Pathetic," Vardek spat, kicking sand into The Boy's face. The grains stung his eyes, but he didn't move, didn't speak. He knew he was beaten.

The overseer watched with a satisfied gleam in his eyes. The fight was over, and The Boy had lost—badly. But there was no anger or disappointment on the overseer's face. Instead, there was something else. Something calculating.

The yard fell silent as the overseer stepped forward. Vardek stood tall, his chest heaving, but the overseer's attention was focused entirely on The Boy, who lay crumpled on the ground, his body shaking with the effort to rise.

"Enough," the overseer said, his voice cutting through the tension. "Vardek, back in line."

Vardek hesitated for a moment, clearly unsatisfied with how quickly the fight had ended, but he knew better than to disobey. He sneered down at The Boy before turning and walking back to join the others.

The Boy struggled to his feet, his legs unsteady, his face coated in sweat and dirt. He could barely stand, but he refused to stay down. He wouldn't give the overseer the satisfaction of seeing him broken. Not completely.

The overseer stared at him for a long moment, then turned to the other boys. "This is what happens when you think you're clever but lack the strength to back it up. Remember that."

He gestured toward The Boy with a dismissive wave. "He isn't ready. He needs more time. Some of you think winning a fight with quick thinking is enough. It isn't."

The other boys smirked, clearly enjoying The Boy's humiliation. But the overseer's next words cut through the crowd's amusement like a knife.

"And yet," he said slowly, "he has something the rest of you don't."

The yard grew quiet.

The overseer stepped closer to The Boy, his dark eyes gleaming with something that almost looked like pride. "He's not as strong as Vardek, but he will be. And when he is, he'll be better than all of you." His words sent a ripple through the yard, and the boys exchanged uneasy glances.

The overseer glanced at another man—a shorter, stockier overseer who had been watching the fight from the shadows. The two exchanged a look, and then the taller one nodded.

"Take him to the lower training chambers," the taller overseer said to his companion. "He needs to train differently. Slower. Let him grow."

The shorter overseer nodded, his eyes lingering on The Boy with the same cold calculation.

"He's not ready for the pit," the taller overseer continued, his voice firm. "But he will be. He has potential, more than any of you. He just needs time. Time and the right training."

The Boy stood there, his body trembling from exhaustion and pain, but something flickered in his chest at the overseer's words. He had failed today—badly—but the overseer saw something in him. Something worth saving. Something worth developing.

The taller overseer turned back to the group of boys. "The rest of you, continue your drills."

The other boys moved quickly, eager to avoid the overseer's wrath, but The Boy stayed where he was, his mind spinning. He had been beaten, humiliated in front of everyone. But the overseer's words echoed in his mind: he has something the rest of you don't.

The shorter overseer stepped forward, his hand gripping The Boy's arm firmly but not cruelly. "Come with me," he said, leading him toward a different section of the yard, away from the others.

They walked in silence, the echoes of steel on steel fading behind them as they descended into the lower chambers beneath the arena. The air grew cooler, the walls damp and lined with moss. The Boy's legs felt heavy, each step a reminder of the pain he carried, but his mind was racing.

They reached a small, dimly lit chamber. It wasn't like the main training yard—there were no other boys here, no overseers barking orders. Just silence. In the center of the room, a large wooden post was embedded in the ground, thick chains attached to it.

The shorter overseer released The Boy's arm and turned to face him. "You're not like the others," he said, his voice low but steady. "You're not as strong. But you're not weak either."

The Boy didn't respond. He didn't know what to say.

The overseer stepped closer, his eyes sharp. "Strength can be trained. You will grow. But that's not what makes you dangerous. It's what's in here." He tapped a finger to his temple. "That's what sets you apart. And that's why you need to be trained differently."

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