Fugitive of Death

2

 Because of course he was.

King Kostas's second son circled like a vulture, silently judging every recruit. If their towering masses of pure muscle didn't impress him, I was first in line to disappoint.

"Lysidora will accept nothing but the best in order to beat Byssia into submission," he said, echoing my thoughts. "Should you pass the physical exam today, you will train for three months. If you make it through that, you will stand trial before Death."

The other recruits began murmuring nervously.

I rolled my eyes. The Lysidorians were clearly trying to light a fire under their recruits' asses. The Horror of Death was locked away deep in the forest outside Pyrgolis—allegedly. We'd most likely be tasked with standing before a shrine without getting devoured by anything living in the woods.

The Horrors were nothing more than a story told to misbehaving children.

"Should the Horror let you live, you'll be shipped off to the front lines," Xander continued. "Then and only then is when you can call yourself a soldier of Lysidora."

Pass the test. All I have to do is pass the test. My heart thundered in my ears as I gripped Iris's dagger tighter. I had no idea what I was doing.

"We'll split you up into sparring pairs," he said, planting himself into the ground before us. "Best of three wins. You may choose between weapons or fists. Myself and my lieutenants, Eutriza, and Phrixos will be watching. Any questions?"

No one spoke. Logically, I raised my hand.

The captain sneered. "Yes?"

"So you're throwing out able-bodied soldiers?" I asked. "Is that not a waste of potential manpower?"

Staring incredulously, he dropped his shoulders and began to approach. "Who are you?"

"Bibi, sir." Was sir appropriate? I had no idea. The only person I had ever addressed formally was my father.

"Bitty?" he asked.

"Bibi," I said. I was quickly getting tired of correcting people.

Standing before me, I knew he was looking down on me in more ways than one. "To answer your question, Bitty, no. Losers are not fit for the Lysidorian Army. There is no success with weakness, no glory with failure." He leaned in close. "Have I made myself clear?"

Up close, I notice a thin white scar slashing through his right eyebrow about the length of my smallest finger. It creased as his brows furrowed with judgment. How he could judge me was a mystery—his logic made no sense.

"Sure," I said, raising my hands in submission, "although it still feels like a loss. But what do I know?"

He scowled so naturally I assumed it must have been the face he was born with. "You have too many opinions for someone with no experience or skills to back them up. May I remind you of your place, cadet? Or, perhaps I shouldn't waste my breath. You'll be gone soon enough."

I bit down hard on my tough to keep from revealing far too much information. My place is technically above you, second-born, I thought to myself. Or at least it would have been had I stayed in Byssia. That was an entirely separate issue that didn't matter here.

He was right but I wasn't about to admit that.

So I kept my mouth shut instead, watching as the three commanding officers divvied the pool of recruits up into pairs. A knot formed in my stomach as the number of sparring partners dwindled. My options were all muscular men and women twice my size. What the fuck were they feeding these people?