Ezra turned the motion over and over in his head.
They'll break this camp from the inside out. And the Trial won't even have to lift a finger.
He glanced at Rowan again, who sat at the fire's edge, eyes fixed on the flames, jaw clenched. Ezra couldn't shake the image of that moment — Merrick's feet kicking, Rowan's arm steady, and that flash in his eyes.
He'd trusted Rowan once. He wanted to again. But in the Trial, even trust looked sharp enough to cut.
And the firelight didn't soften what he'd seen.
It only made it burn brighter.
The camp felt different after Rowan's hand left Merrick's throat.
Not louder. Not calmer. Just… tight. Like every word people spoke had to slide around an invisible wire, careful not to trip it.
Ezra didn't sleep much that night. He lay in the half-dark with Rin still out cold beside him, Milo snoring somewhere near the water barrels, and the fire burning low. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw Rowan again — his arm rigid, Merrick's feet scrabbling, and that flicker in his gaze.
Not human. Not the boy who used to fall asleep during strategy lessons. Something else.
He told himself it was adrenaline. Hunger. The Trial. But the lie didn't land.
By morning, the camp slipped into its routine. People spread out in little clusters — sharpening, stitching, counting rations. Ezra tried to ignore how eyes lingered too long on Merrick and Jalen when they passed the water barrels.
Rowan barked orders, his voice calm again, almost tired. "Cassian, with me. Soren too. Hunt past the ridge today."
Cassian just nodded, already looping a strap around his knife. Soren pulled his hair back with a strip of cloth, bloodstains still crusted along his shirt from the last carcass. Neither argued.
Rowan glanced at Ezra. "You're with Nora. Sweep east, see if anyone's alive past the split tree."
Ezra almost laughed. Like anyone left is just waiting for us to come say hi. But he didn't argue. Work kept you alive.
The brothers? Rowan didn't assign them anything. Not directly. Jalen muttered something under his breath, but Rowan didn't blink, didn't bite. Just ignored him like a dog not worth feeding.
That might've been worse.
By midmorning, Ezra was knee-deep in vines with Nora at his side. She moved like she had something to prove — fast, sharp, checking every ruin like she could drag her missing friends out of the stones. Ezra trailed her, cutting through brush, marking the path with shallow scratches in the bark.
"You're quiet," Nora said finally.
"I usually am."
She snorted. "Liar. You were never quiet in the dorms."
Ezra smirked, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Trial changes people."
She didn't answer. Just shoved aside a branch and scanned another hollow.
By the time they circled back, the camp smelled wrong.
Not food wrong. Wrong-wrong.
Ezra's nose wrinkled. Bitter, metallic. He dropped his spear and crouched by the water barrels.
One of them had been shifted. A shallow trail in the dirt marked where it had been dragged just far enough to angle against the shadow of a tent.
Nora crouched beside him, her bandaged arms tense. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
"Yeah," Ezra muttered. His chest tightened. He tilted the barrel, dipped a finger inside, sniffed. Not normal. Acrid, sour, almost like the time he'd watched Theo show how poison reacted to flame.
His throat went dry.
They actually did it. Poison. Water.
He swallowed hard, wiped his hand on his pants, forcing his voice steady. "Don't drink this. Not unless you want your guts flipped inside out."
Nora's face darkened. She looked toward the brothers' corner of camp — empty now.
Ezra's heart beat harder. Of course. Stupid Trial doesn't even need monsters. We're enough to kill ourselves.
Rowan returned before Ezra could decide what to do, dragging a carcass with Cassian and Soren at his heels. His eyes scanned the camp once, sharp, landing on the barrel tilted in Ezra's grip.
Ezra met his gaze. "It's tainted."
The camp froze.
Rowan's jaw worked, his expression unreadable. Then, in that same calm voice: "Who touched it?"
No one answered. But Ezra didn't miss the way Milo's eyes flicked — quick, unintentional — toward the edge of the clearing, where Jalen and Merrick were slinking back into view.
Rowan followed the glance.
The brothers stopped.
Ezra's gut twisted. He braced himself.
The Trial was about to get uglier — not with beasts or shadows, but with each other.
—
The fire crackled, the only sound in the taut silence that followed the argument.
Merrick spat into the dirt. "Hunting doesn't work if you keep rationing us like children. My brother nearly starved on watch last night."
Rowan's voice was steady, tired. "We divide it evenly. That's the only way anyone here sees next week."
Jalen's laugh was sharp and ugly. "Evenly? Tell that to Soren tearing through beasts like he's a god. Tell that to Atlas, sitting on his ass with his glass eyes, muttering nonsense. Everyone else bleeds for scraps, but not your favorites, eh?"
Ezra shifted closer, pulse ticking. He could feel the camp coiling tighter around the fire, everyone waiting for a break.
Rowan's jaw flexed. "Drop it."
"Or what?" Jalen sneered. "You'll play king again? Pretend this camp belongs to you?"
Merrick leaned in, voice low, poisonous.
"Maybe if you'd watched Silas half as close as you watch the meat, your little boy toy wouldn't have vanished." His grin split wide. "Such a shame. I wouldn't have minded taking him for a turn first."
The words hit like a knife.
Rowan didn't shout. He didn't warn. One heartbeat he was standing, the next his hand was around Merrick's throat, slamming him back against the post hard enough to rattle the whole shelter. The wood cracked. Merrick's feet scrabbled uselessly against the dirt, choking for air.
The camp erupted in shouts. Jalen surged forward, only for Cassian to step in, blade flashing, eyes cold.
Ezra froze, caught between lunging and watching, because for just a moment Rowan wasn't Rowan. His eyes—steady, warm, the anchor that had kept them together back at the Academy—weren't there. What stared out instead was raw, animalistic, something that didn't care about rules or ration counts. Something that wanted to kill.
"Rowan—" Ezra started.
Rowan's grip tightened. Merrick's face darkened, veins bulging.
And Ezra realized with a jolt: if no one pulled him back, Rowan wasn't going to stop.
Rowan's hand stayed locked around Merrick's throat. The man gagged, clawing at his grip, legs kicking against empty air.
The camp's shouts blurred into a single pulse in Ezra's ears. He couldn't move, not yet, not when Rowan's eyes burned like that—feral, stripped of reason.
Then Rowan shifted. Drew Merrick forward an inch, then another. And with a sudden, savage motion, he drove his fist into Merrick's jaw.
The crack echoed. Teeth hit the dirt with wet clicks. Merrick's scream broke into a gargled wheeze.
Rowan didn't flinch. His voice came low, flat, heavy as stone. "I've given you more chances than you ever deserved." He slammed Merrick back into the post, wood splintering against his spine. "But you've taken the cake."
For a long second, nobody breathed.
Rowan finally let go. Merrick crumpled, coughing blood, clutching his ruined mouth. Jalen lurched forward, rage twisting his face—only for Nora to plant herself between them, blade out, eyes blazing.
"Try it," she hissed. "See where it gets you."
The fire spat sparks into the dark. Merrick knelt in the dirt, blood pouring down his chin, hands shaking as he tried to gather the teeth Rowan had scattered from his mouth.
Nobody moved to help him. Not Jalen. Not the others who had muttered at his back.
Rowan stood over him, fist still curled, shoulders heaving. For one heartbeat too long, he looked like he'd strike again. Ezra caught the gleam in his eyes—wild, unshaped, like a beast straining against its leash.
Then Rowan straightened, wiping blood from his knuckles. His voice carried low, steady, and cold across the camp.
"This is your last warning. All of you." His gaze swept them, pinning faces one by one.
"I've held my tongue. I've tried patience. But this Trial doesn't reward patience. It punishes weakness."
No one spoke.
Rowan's stare landed back on Merrick, who spat a glob of red into the dirt. "You want to sneer about Silas? Mock the missing? That's where it ends." He kicked the broken man's hand away from the pile of teeth. "You don't belong here anymore."
Jalen finally found his voice, hoarse with fury. "You can't just—"
"I can," Rowan cut in. His tone was final. "And I will."
The words hit heavier than any blow.
For a moment, the only sound was the crackle of fire. Then Rowan raised his arm and pointed to the trees. "You two are done here. Take your gear. Take nothing else. You live out there now. See how far you last without rules."
Merrick staggered upright, blood dripping from his split lip. Jalen caught him under the arm, eyes burning with hatred. They looked ready to fight—ready to throw themselves at Rowan again.
Then Cassian moved. Just a step, blade in hand, but it was enough. The weight of it settled the air.
The brothers spat curses, but they went. Dragging themselves into the treeline, swallowed by dark.
Rowan watched until the night had closed around them. Only then did he turn back to the camp.
"Anyone else think the rules don't matter?" His voice was soft now, but it reached everyone. "Disobey, and you go too. I don't care who you are. We don't have room for dead weight."
Ezra's stomach turned as silence swallowed the fire again. The camp had always been fragile, but now it felt colder, sharper. The line between belonging and exile was clear. One step wrong, and you vanished.
And in Rowan's eyes—just for a second—Ezra thought he saw something worse. Not just anger. Not just grief. Something animal, staring out through the cracks.
The camp didn't speak of Merrick or Jalen again. Not that night. Maybe not ever.
But Ezra knew the silence wasn't agreement. It was fear.