I stood on one foot.
On a splintery tree stump.
In the wind.
A dented iron pot — full to the brim with lukewarm water and poor life choices — balanced precariously on top of my head. Every muscle in my leg trembled like a deer about to bolt.
This, apparently, was what happened to mouthy conscripts.
"Discipline through stillness," the Sisters called it.
I called it bullshit yoga with added humiliation.
To my left, another stump. Another victim.
Loma — sobbing quietly, arms flailing like a drunk crane — wobbling under her own pot.
"This is your fault," she hissed at me through clenched teeth. "I told them I was innocent. That I was just caught in your wave of insubordination!"
I didn't respond.
I was too busy focusing on not breathing. My foot cramped. My spine screamed. The pot shifted with every gust of wind like it had personal beef with my dignity.
But then came the twins.
Because of course.
Pillar-of-Dawn and Echo-of-Flame had planted themselves a few feet away, standing in identical poses, hands behind backs, eyes shining with doctrinal rapture.
"Pain is the furnace of unity!" chirped one.
"Stillness is surrender to the Sister within!" intoned the other.
"I swear to all the screaming whores in the underworld," I growled through gritted teeth, "if one of you so much as breathes too loud—"
Splash.
Loma's pot sloshed. A fat droplet rolled down her forehead. She gasped like she'd been shot.
"I hate this place," she whimpered. "I want a bath. I want a soft bed. I want a diplomatic envoy. I want you dead."
"Join the queue," I muttered.
"You're a bad influence, Saya!"
"Not wrong."
One of the twins clapped. "Sisterly accountability! Excellent!"
"Ten more minutes!" called a voice from somewhere behind us. Probably that same Sister of Clarity who took notes while smiling like a tax auditor on lust suppressants.
I flexed my toes. Dug in.
Ten more minutes.
I could do ten more minutes.
Then I was going to shove this pot somewhere anatomically improbable. Starting with whoever came up with this drill.
And all this came after the morning penance.
Gods.
The penance.
Before I earned my stump-and-pot punishment, I had been dragged — quite literally, by one arm — to a "corrective enlightenment session." Which is Sisterhood-speak for kneeling in the dirt for an hour while reciting slogans until your soul either breaks or submits. Still not sure which mine did.
We were in a circle.
Knees bruised. Backs straight.
The dirt was cold and gritty and absolutely teeming with ants. I now have bites in places that shouldn't have exposure to fauna.
A drum beat slow and steady, like a death march with branding potential.
Boom.
"Steel is sister."
Boom.
"Flesh is duty."
Boom.
"Doubt is treason."
Over and over and over.
The chant never stopped. The rhythm crawled into my skull, nested there, and now throbbed like a parasite laying eggs in my frontal lobe.
We weren't allowed to shift. Weren't allowed to speak unless we were chanting.
One girl — some poor thing with a stammer — hesitated on "treason," and got a mouthful of red dirt courtesy of the nearest Sister of Clarity's boot.
Me?
I mouthed the words like curses. Didn't dare stop. Not after what happened yesterday. But I didn't mean them. Not even a little.
Boom.
"Steel is sister."
Boom.
"Flesh is duty."
Boom.
I hate all of you. Every last one.
Then came the pot. And the stump. And Loma. And the twins.
And now I was here, arms out slightly, one foot cramping, pot wobbling dangerously atop my head while the indoctrinated cheerleaders of the apocalypse shouted slogans like they were throwing holy water.
"Balance is the virtue of still hearts!" cried Pillar-of-Dawn.
"Discipline is freedom from the flesh!" added Echo-of-Flame, eyes wild with spiritual orgasm.
Loma whimpered beside me. "Why is this happening to meeee…"
I didn't answer.
Mostly because I was concentrating on keeping my rage from boiling over and tipping the damn pot.
Also because I was fantasizing about setting fire to their drum.