Dust.
Everywhere.
It lived in my nostrils, coated the back of my throat, clung to the sweat pooling at the bend of my knees. It turned the air into grit, the light into glare, and the ground into punishment.
This was morning drill.
Sacred, apparently.
The rite of burden-bearing, they called it. A spiritual exercise in forging character and sisterly resolve. In practice, it was a hill, a rock, and the instruction to haul one up the other. Again. And again. And again.
No rhythm, no destination. Just dust and pain and slogans that scraped like sandpaper behind the eyes.
I staggered forward, arms wrapped around a misshapen slab of stone roughly the weight of my dignity. It jabbed into my ribs with each step, like it was trying to break something that hadn't already been broken. My feet slapped dry earth, blistered and raw, the skin somewhere between numb and on fire.
They didn't give you sandals until week three.
Spiritual awakening, they said.
Communal modesty, they said.
Which explained the outfit. Gods.
Every fresh conscript wore the same ensemble: short white skirt — coarse linen, scratchy, stiff, rode up with every step. White cape, also linen, pinned at one shoulder with a dull bronze brooch shaped like something that might've been a flame, or a triangle, or a pair of thighs mid-revolution. Over the heart, a painted insignia — crooked, smudged, smelling like ash and mushroom paste. Mine: a lopsided winged tower. Apparently the symbol of "Fortitude."
We were all barefoot. All shaved, at least half the head. Mine had been hacked unevenly, the remaining hair yanked into tight braids that pulled at my scalp like punishment. One still had a twig in it. I left it there. Felt honest.
Oh, and my toenails? Blue. A bright, chip-flaking, sky-colored blue.
Banner color.
Because vanity was allowed, even encouraged — as long as it matched the war aesthetic.
I was thirsty. I was starving. I was bleeding somewhere beneath the rock. My arms shook with every step. My thighs trembled. My thoughts… well, they were getting less and less appropriate for collective chanting.
But I kept moving.
Because falling behind meant attention.
And attention meant pain.
And gods, I'd already tasted enough of that to last a dozen lifetimes.
So I kept climbing.
Rock in my arms.
Dust in my lungs.
Resolve somewhere far, far behind me.
The rock shifted in my grip again. Sharp edge in the ribs this time. I adjusted, exhaled, bit the inside of my cheek.
The chant started up ahead.
"Steel is sister!"
Like clockwork. Like cult clockwork.
I didn't answer. Just kept moving. Sand stuck to the sweat under my breasts. The hill stretched forever. My knees burned. The sun was somewhere directly overhead, watching us suffer with radiant glee.
"Flesh is duty!"
That was the second line. Always the second line.
I heard it in my sleep now. Heard it in my bones. In my teeth.
"Doubt is—"
"—treason," I muttered, just under my breath, because someone was always listening.
And sure enough—whip-whistle.
The crop snapped across the back of my thigh like a lover with no patience.
I hissed and stumbled. The rock slipped, bit deeper. I didn't scream. I didn't stop.
That would've been worse.
Behind me, someone sobbed. A thin, breathy little hiccup of despair. And then—
"I am a princess," came the voice. "Do you hear me? A princess! You can't do this to me—this rock is—oof—inhuman!"
I didn't look. I didn't need to.
That voice had been ringing through the column since before dawn, shrill and soaked in outrage. She'd arrived crying, kept crying, and never actually stopped. She said she was from Tanagra. She said she was noble. She said she had rights.
And now she was dragging a training stone roughly the size of a pumpkin and treating it like a boulder.
I didn't bother replying. I just clenched my jaw and kept moving.
Ahead of me — them.
The twins.
Or the copies. Or the zealots. I didn't know if they were sisters or lovers or just two sides of the same terrifying ideology. They marched side by side, perfect stride, perfect chant. Eyes fixed forward. Stones carried like sacred relics. Sweat glistening like it had been authorized.
They didn't speak to anyone else.
Just me.
"Feeling the fire yet, Sister Steel?" one of them called over her shoulder — sweet, too sweet.
"I'm feeling something," I said through my teeth. "It's violent. It's aimed."
Whip. Again. Same leg. I didn't flinch.
The other twin chimed in, voice like sunrise and smothering blankets. "Liberation hurts. Isn't it glorious?"
I stared daggers at the back of their heads. No effect. They were untouchable. Indoctrinated. Euphoric.
Someone hiccupped behind me again. Loma. The princess. She was still muttering about her lineage.
I shifted the rock higher on my chest, bit the inside of my cheek harder, and mouthed something very un-sisterly.
The whip snapped again.
They always saw. They always heard.
And my patience — what was left of it — was grinding down to dust.
The next hill ridge loomed ahead like a monument to bad decisions.
I could feel my arms going. Not just sore—gone. Gone like honor in a brothel. Like money in my pockets.
Behind me: the panting, muttering, gasping ghost of highborn entitlement.
"I am Loma of Tanagra!" the girl snapped, wobbling under her pitiful little stone. "My father is the rightful king and when he hears of this— oof—he'll send an army! A real one! With banners and cavalry and everything! You'll all be sorry!"
I stopped dead in my tracks.
Turned my head.
Stared.
"You," I said, "are not a princess of Tanagra."
"I am!"
"Nope."
"Yes!"
I turned all the way around now, rock still cradled against my ribs like a very disappointed pet.
"King of Tanagra is dead. Big funeral. Burning barge, tragic music, awkward speeches. I was there. Last year. Parade was awful. Too many drums, not enough wine. No one cried."
She blinked, pale as milk under the sweat. "That's not true."
"It is. Real sad, too. They spelled his name wrong on the banners."
Loma's lip quivered. "You're lying."
I shrugged. "Maybe. But if you're betting your bloodline on that—bad wager."
She let out a tiny, wounded sound. "You're mean."
A moment of stunned silence. Then a high-pitched, horrified shriek.
"I am Loma of Tanagra!"
"And I'm the Matriarch-General's left tit," I muttered.
Whip-crack.
Back of the thigh. Always the thigh.
I wheezed, nearly dropped the rock.
From ahead: perfect, synchronized pity.
"You shouldn't mock your sisters," said the first twin.
"It stunts your liberation," said the second.
"Oh, I'll stunt something."
Thwack.
Left leg this time. Fresh welt.
"Will you stop that?!" I snapped at the invisible hand behind the whip.
Another thwack. Because of course.
"Soundless discipline!" came the bark from behind — the Shield-Bride's voice, flat and brutal as an iron gate. "Your mouth moves, your body pays!"
"Then just flog my lips, why don't you!" I shouted.
And that was it.
The moment.
The snap.
The rock tumbled from my arms, hit the dirt with a dull thud and a little puff of holy dust.
Loma squeaked.
The twins gasped.
The chant faltered.
And then the princess dropped her own stone and started wailing like the gods themselves had stepped on her foot.
Pandemonium.
A whistle blew somewhere.
The chant broke down into confused muttering.
Someone screamed "Sister of Clarity!" like it was a summoning spell.
One of the zealots began reciting scripture just in case divine fire was incoming.
Loma collapsed on her knees, sobbing.
The whip snapped again, missing everyone, but landing somewhere with the full authority of someone is going to die for this.
And me?
I just stood there.
Sweating.
Burning.
Seething.
Rockless.
And absolutely, cosmically done.