Thierry didn't believe a word Gallagher said — not really. All that reassured talk of it being painless was just theatre. His knees buckled before the pain even hit. Warmth trickled down his spine. A moment later, he saw it — a chunk of his own flesh on the floor.
Well... shit.
He didn't get the chance to curse himself properly. The next moment, a chorus of euphoric howls burst from the other uninitiated. If someone stood outside, it would've sounded like a choir that had been drowned, gutted, and told to sing anyway.
Then something entered him.
It wasn't pain, not in the way he understood it. It was something deeper — older — as if the world itself had reached inside to rearrange him.
Gallagher's eyes lingered — something resembling concern flashing in them, though fleeting as a ghost. Thierry felt his limbs go numb, and then the stone came.
A thin layer began to crawl across his body like moss on a corpse.
Was I always this cold? Why does living hurt so much?
He couldn't move. His body defied command like stone resisting tide — an image plucked from some half-read book on the Lost Sea, south of Llunevia. Somewhere in the fog of pain and stillness, the stone hilt of the ritual blade seemed to burrow itself deeper — not just into flesh, but into soul.
Steam hissed from the growing cracks in the stone shell that encased them all. The ritual had finished. What emerged were people — barely — pale and breathless, eyes dim but lips smiling.
"What did I tell you?" Gallagher's voice came, smug as ever. "Didn't hurt that much."
He ran a hand across the scar down his neck and pushed back his dark brown mane, standing smugly at the centre like he hadn't just tortured a dozen kids. Thierry, still shaking, had the sudden urge to jam his fist right into that stupid smile.
"Yeah, sure," he muttered, voice dry and frayed. "Felt like a little pinch on the cheek."
Gallagher waved a rag soaked in fresh blood. His own? Probably not. The bastard looked far too proud of himself.
"Why the hell were you even here?" Thierry asked, voice low but edged. "Doesn't take Boundeds to stab some kids with rocks."
Gallagher chuckled, gaze sliding away.
"Just here in case of... accidents. Or if there was a resurgence of that thing."
The words dropped like stones into a frozen lake. Thierry blinked.
Accidents? Resurgence of that thing?
No one mentioned that, not the instructors nor the clan. Not even the damned pamphlet.
Those bastards. They said it was safe.
Gallagher disappeared out the glass doors of the greenhouse. The sunlight outside hit like a lie — warm, golden, indifferent. Inside, the air still stank of blood and cracked stone.
The rest of the newly initiated gathered near a makeshift stage. Thierry stayed at the edge — not quite part of the whole.
He'd always had trouble bonding. Even in the Flounders Troupe, his tongue had been too sharp, and his morals too dull.
Onstage, Magnus raised a hand, and silence fell like a blade.
"I'm inclined to believe I don't need to explain the changes to your bodies," the man said lazily. "Judging by how you all acted just now, I assume you've already tested your limits."
He paused, then added, "Rest for an hour. I suggest you find a weapon in the meantime."
Oh, of course. Let's toss in an assessment after the ritual torture. Why not?
Thierry scowled, like half the crowd. As panic took root in the others — hushed voices, quick glances, scrambling movements — he drifted toward the rear of the greenhouse and found a standard shortsword — plain steel with no ornament.
About the same weight as juggling pins…
He turned it in his grip, testing the balance. The edge was decent. He swung down hard, and the wind whistled.
A quiet thrill stirred in him.
Was it the boost in strength, or just relief that the sword was normal?
Unseen by Thierry, Magnus watched from the shadowed edge.
It's like core work from the stunt shows. Everything feels like it's being pushed by the anchor... but I don't understand how to use it.
There's something there — buried deep. Power I haven't touched yet. Like a chain pulled taut, waiting to snap.
He suspected the chain was the missing piece. None of the others in the cohort seemed to be like him — just Initiated.
I've come this far... may as well see it through.
He trained in silence, until his arms grew heavy and sweat cooled on his back. Then he rested, blade at his side, twenty minutes of quiet before it all began again.
When the call came, it wasn't shouted — just a bell, low and deliberate. The kind that sounded less like a summons and more like a warning.
They were led through the estate by Magnus. Thierry followed at the rear, still half-lost in thought. It wasn't long before he realised they were descending — down stairwells of smooth-cut stone, deeper and deeper into the earth.
Gods below. Are we actually being tossed into a dungeon?
But no. What awaited wasn't a prison — it was a colosseum.
Stone and steel. The scent of old sweat and iron clung to the walls. The cohort's separated group sat on the edge, eyes wide. In the centre stood one person.
Veron.
A wooden spear rested in his hand — dulled at the tip, weighed down by a sandbag. Beside him, the veteran leaned against a railing, unmoving.
He's going to give another speech. I feel it.
He did.
"You'll each fight the young master," the veteran drawled. "No need to take off your armour. Use what you've been given."
Some of the heirs grimaced. Thierry just sighed.
Let him talk. At least I'll know what I'm up against.
He watched the others charge in, one by one. Each fell, as if swatted by a monster in human shape. Forty heirs. Forty failures.
Veron didn't sweat. He didn't even blink wrong.
The group that had arrived with Thierry stayed silent. Cowed. Shaken.
Thierry rose. Wordless.
He tightened his grip on the shortsword, slid it into his left hand. His body still felt like it didn't quite belong to him — but he had come this far, and he wasn't about to flinch now.
If nothing else, I'd rather be beaten than forgotten.