Adam watched the terrified Quintella run around the training grounds, a terror that made her stumble when she saw the boy's torn uniform. Blood spurted from his back, painting a scarlet trail behind him with each of his forced steps. She bit her lip, forgetting about how exhausted she was for a moment.
The boy was her age. He was crying.
But Grimhilde didn't care—she had never cared.
Instead, she saw Grimhilde's pupils dilate at each stumble, saw her lips moisten, and saw her fingers twitch around the shadowy whips. Was this really training? She didn't know anymore, or rather felt too confused and tired to think. All she knew was that she couldn't stop. She had to complete the twenty laps or be flailed until she did.
Tears pooled in her eyes as she forced her weak legs to carry her. Each breath felt like acid poured into her burning lungs, the sound like one she'd only heard from an overworked horse after sprinting hundreds of kilometers.
