Magnus, 15 years old
"Hey," one of the warriors elbows his friend, tilting his chin toward me. "That bastard's back again."
"He really doesn't know how to quit—I'll give him that!" the other snickers, waving a meaty hand in my direction. "Hey, you! You know the drill. Clean up the training grounds when we're finished, then you can mess around here on your own."
I frown but bite back a reply. Words are wasted on them. Aside from my mother and little sister, I don't speak to anyone. Not because I can't, but because there's no one worth speaking to.
They're all fucking pieces of shit anyway. Not even worthy of the spit in my mouth.
Still, this place—the training grounds—is the only area fully equipped for honing one's strength, the only place where I can push myself to my limits. Ever since the King granted me the freedom to leave my quarters, my days have revolved around only two things: cleaning and training.
