Forged in Ruin

Chapter Two: The Academy's Cold Embrace

I wake up to the sound of a blaring horn, sharp and shrill, echoing through the barracks like a physical jolt to the chest. My eyes snap open, and for a second, I'm disoriented, blinking up at the ceiling as reality crashes back in. The lights flicker on, harsh and fluorescent, casting the room in an unforgiving white glare that makes everything look even more sterile and unwelcoming. Around me, recruits are scrambling out of their bunks, pulling on uniforms and lacing up boots in a rush to avoid whatever consequences come from being slow.

I roll out of bed, my movements stiff from the unfamiliar mattress and the tension that never quite left my muscles. My boots feel heavy as I shove my feet into them, the laces tangled and tight, but I don't have time to fix it. I follow the flow of bodies, moving with the other recruits as we stumble out of the barracks and into the freezing morning air. The sun hasn't even bothered to rise yet, just a faint glow on the horizon that does little to cut through the biting chill. My breath fogs in front of me, and I rub my hands together, trying to force some warmth back into my fingers.

The courtyard is already alive with activity. Instructors pace back and forth, shouting orders, their voices booming over the low hum of engines and the clatter of gear. I'm herded into formation with the rest of the recruits, our lines crooked and uneven, a stark contrast to the older cadets who move with the precision of a well-oiled machine. I try to keep my head up, my posture straight, but it's hard not to feel small under the watchful eyes of the instructors.

"Listen up!" One of them steps forward, her boots clicking against the concrete, and the chatter dies instantly. She's tall, built like she could break a person in half without much effort, and her eyes sweep over us with a look that makes it clear she's not impressed. "Your first day begins now. This is your introduction to what it means to be a cadet at the Academy. And if you think for a second that we're here to coddle you, you're wrong. This place is built to test you, to push you past your limits, and to find out who's worth keeping."

Her gaze lingers on me for a fraction of a second longer than anyone else, and I force myself not to flinch. I can't afford to show any weakness. Not now, not ever.

The first task of the day is an obstacle course, a sprawling mess of metal bars, ropes, and uneven terrain designed to test every ounce of strength and stamina you've got. It looks more like a death trap than anything that could remotely be called training, but no one questions it. We're lined up at the start, the cold seeping through my clothes and into my skin, and I can already feel my heart hammering in my chest. There's no warm-up, no explanation—just the sharp blast of a whistle that sends us sprinting forward.

I push off hard, my boots slipping on the damp ground as I launch myself at the first obstacle—a low wall that we have to climb and drop over. I hook my fingers on the edge, hoisting myself up with a grunt, my muscles straining against the weight of my body. I land awkwardly on the other side, the impact jarring through my knees, but I force myself to keep moving.

The next section is a series of ropes strung high above a muddy pit, and I hesitate, my breath catching as I stare at the slick, fraying cords. My arms are already burning, and I can see other recruits struggling, their hands slipping, bodies splashing into the freezing mud below. I grit my teeth and reach for the first rope, swinging my legs up and wrapping them around it as best as I can. My grip is weak, but I refuse to let go, inching forward one agonizing pull at a time until I finally reach the other side.

I'm breathing hard, my muscles screaming in protest, but I keep going, pushing through a maze of wooden beams, crawling under barbed wire that snags at my clothes, and leaping over ditches that threaten to swallow me whole. The whole time, instructors are shouting from the sidelines, barking out critiques, and pointing out every mistake with the kind of enthusiasm that makes it clear they enjoy this. They want us to mess up. They want us to fail.