The training ground beneath the Silverbell Guild felt more like a dungeon than a place of learning. The air was damp, echoing with the deep sound of impact and the occasional groan of pain. A web of torchlight crawled across the stone walls, catching on metal studs of shields and rusted blades. This is where the guild hardened its seasoned vets—out of sight and far from mercy.
Above ground, the rookie yard was almost peaceful by comparison—open air, sunlight filtering down on the training ground through the courtyard tree, and the faint smell of iron from dull practice swords. Rookies shouted, clanged their withered weapons, and stumbled in harmless mistakes, a world away from the grueling discipline below. Down here, in the veterans' training ground, there were no such comforts. Only cold stone, busted lips, and the stark truth: not everyone survived long enough to end up here. This was where those who had endured came when they wanted to be reborn, remolded into something more.
"You have to be tougher than, if you want to survive in this life," Fennel, the veteran training instructor, rasped through yellowed teeth as he took a swig of wine from his pouch. "Again," he said, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt.
Two broad tree branches arced toward August's torso with perfect impact. He winced at each blow but kept his mouth shut, arms stretched in front of him, a heavy stone in each hand. His shoulders quivered, and sweat stung his eyes. Time thinned to a steady rhythm of strain and breath—he'd lost count of minutes and swings, but still, he refused to drop the stones.
Each strike brought a flicker of memory—a child's face smeared in blood and soot, two blurred faces buried by rubble—images he'd pushed down and used to kindle his flame.
"I hate it when you do that. Tougher than what? Finish your sentences, old man."
Fennel leaned in, face-to-face with him. "That's the point. The sentence isn't for me to finish; it's for you to apply. And I'm only forty springs, for your information, but I'll take that as a compliment. Besides, you do know what they say about the old warrior, don't you?" He smirked, waiting for August to finish the saying.
"No. I don't."
Fennel's lips flattened like a sigh; his smug look faded. "Regardless—I feel like I've got a good ten years left in me… followed by five ugly ones." He smiled to himself. "Again!"
The branches found their mark on the young veteran's core, garnering a grunt. His arms and legs held firm, his grip tightening on the stones as sweat threatened to let them slip loose. Despite the dull ache settling deep in his shoulders and the fire burning through his forearms, he still willed his body to stay rigid.
Another memory flickered—the crunch of bone and hiss of metal as his bladed cestus punched through a Huskborn's skull. He remembered the first time he'd driven the blade home, the shudder that ran up his arm, and the way the creature flailed, almost taking his eye out before its body went limp as he struggled to pull his blade free. He tightened his fists.
"Your breath smells almost as bad as the Huskborn," August muttered, his nose twitching.
Fennel slung an arm over August's shoulder, leaning close with a taunting grin. "Aw, come on, August. Don't be like that. We don't all have a pretty woman taking care of us like you do."
"She is not my–"
"Again!"
This time, the branches forced a cough through his lips; his core loosened for a moment before he snapped it back tight with a sharp intake of the mossy, dungeon-like air.
"Ah ah ah—steel yourself, young August. Let those emotions steer, and you'll lose focus. Breath control takes you far when you're in a pinch. The longer you can go without breathing through your mouth, the more energy you'll save. Efficiency is key in every aspect of survival, so don't go gasping for air just because you got flustered. If you want to withstand the test of time, you'll have to temper both mind and body."
August gritted his teeth as Fennel circled him like a predator, eyes sharp and critical. He knew August was good—possibly the best. No one hated the Huskborn like he did; no exterminator was as dedicated to eradicating them as he was.
"Don't get cocky, boy. One slip, one second of hesitation, and you're dead. That's just the world we live in. Again!"
Crack!
Both branches splintered, their broken halves clattering across the stone floor.
"Well, would you look at that," Fennel said, tapping August on the shoulder with a grin. "I guess you are tougher than."
He turned to the two rookies who'd been a part of the exercise. "That's it for the day. Head back up to the main floor."
The rookies gave quick nods and retreated, leaving only August and the echo of their footsteps.
August's arms trembled as he slowly lowered the stones, wiping the sweat from his face and forearms. "Thanks for the session."
"Sure." Fennel tilted his head back, letting the last drops of wine roll onto his tongue. "You know, arena fighting's been getting really popular lately. How come you don't take your skill there? Give those showboats a real fight. You'd make a killing."
Arena fighting had become the world's favorite form of entertainment. Gladiators' names spread across the land, gathering fame and wealth in equal measure. Most were slaves forced into the bloodsport—those who survived earned scraps, their winnings swallowed by their masters. But the few who fought by choice, turning brutality into spectacle—those were the ones people cheered for. The ones who made names for themselves in the dirt.
Fennel leaned against the wall with a sigh, rolling around the empty pouch in his hand. "If it had been this popular when I was twenty-five… well, no need in wondering about 'what if.'"
"Arena fights are a waste of precious lives," August replied, his tone steady but firm. "Those same people could die much more worthy deaths exterminating the Huskborn."
Fennel gave a raspy chuckle. "How idealistic of you. You'll burn yourself out with that kind of thinking."
"Better to burn out doing something that matters than be extinguished for entertainment." August removed his cesti and placed them carefully in his satchel.
Fennel nodded in agreement but remained silent. He sensed a hatred in August—one bordering on obsession. But who was he to tell him that his hatred was a disease, one that could rot a man from the inside out? Who was he to tell him to let it go?
"Until next time," August said, waving a hand as he began climbing the spiral staircase to the main floor.
That was until he stopped in his tracks, turning back to reach in his satchel. From within, he pulled a small glass vial.
"Oh right, here," he said, tossing it to Fennel. "For your teeth. It's a paste you scrub them with, using licorice root. Leona makes it, and I've got more than I need thanks to her."
Fennel blinked, turning the vial slowly in his hand, as if unsure whether it was meant to be used or admired.
"Thanks," he replied hesitantly, unsure of how to respond before peering up again—only to find August already gone.