Forged in Ruin

Chapter Four: The Rivals

I wake up to the dull ache that pulses through my body, every muscle protesting as I roll out of bed. My shoulders feel like they've been pulled apart and stitched back together wrong, and there's a sharp sting in my palms where the rope had burned into my skin yesterday. I sit up slowly, wincing as the springs of the bunk creak beneath me, and glance around the barracks. The other recruits are moving in a sluggish daze, the weariness of yesterday's trial still heavy on all of us.

The morning horn blares, cutting through the silence like a knife, and everyone jolts into motion, scrambling to get dressed and ready. I pull on my uniform, feeling the stiffness in my limbs, and lace up my boots with fumbling fingers. The cold of the barracks seeps into my skin, and I can't shake the tight knot of anxiety that's settled in my chest. I keep thinking about the way the instructors watched us yesterday, their eyes dissecting every movement, every mistake. It's not enough to survive here; you have to impress them, to stand out for the right reasons, and yesterday, I was barely hanging on.

We file out of the barracks, moving in a disorganized line toward the mess hall. The sky above is a flat, unremarkable gray, and the air is thick with the smell of damp earth and sweat. I can feel the strain in every step, the lingering exhaustion from the trial weighing down on me, but I force myself to keep up. The mess hall is already buzzing with noise by the time we get there—cadets eating, talking, trading stories about the first trial. I grab a tray and slide it along the line, trying not to think too much about the unidentifiable slop that gets ladled onto my plate.

I find a seat at the edge of a table, as far from the louder, more confident cadets as possible. The food is bland, almost tasteless, but I shovel it down anyway, more out of necessity than anything else. As I eat, I can feel the eyes of the other recruits on me—some curious, some indifferent, but mostly judgmental. I can already hear the whispers, the barely-concealed snickers.

"That's her, right? The one who barely made it?"

"Yeah, she's the one who got knocked down right at the end."

"She's not gonna last long here."

I try to block it out, focusing on the food in front of me, but the words stick like burrs under my skin. I knew coming here wouldn't be easy, but I didn't expect to feel so out of place, so alien. Everything about the Academy feels designed to highlight my weaknesses, to make me doubt every decision I've made. I'm smaller, slower, not nearly as physically capable as most of the other cadets, and it's clear that my unconventional approach to the course yesterday hasn't earned me any favors.

As I finish my meal, I hear the familiar sound of mocking laughter—a grating, taunting noise that immediately sets my teeth on edge. I don't have to look up to know who it's coming from. The broad-shouldered cadet who'd slammed into me at the end of the trial stands a few tables away, flanked by a group of recruits who hang on his every word like he's the Academy's unofficial leader.

"Hey, look who it is," he sneers, his voice loud enough to carry across the mess hall. "Our little climber from yesterday. You enjoy your mud bath, princess?"

I clench my fork tightly, my knuckles turning white, but I don't respond. He's baiting me, trying to get a rise, and I won't give him the satisfaction. But my silence only seems to encourage him.

"What's the matter? Too tired to keep up? Or maybe you're just not cut out for this after all." His smile is a razor-sharp slash of teeth, and his friends laugh, echoing his disdain.

I swallow hard, fighting the urge to snap back. Every instinct in me is screaming to stand up, to tell him exactly where he can shove his arrogance, but I know it won't help. It'll just make me an even bigger target. So I force myself to stay quiet, to keep my head down and my focus forward.