As the line moved forward, the pattern became clear. Those who didn't scream, those who didn't convulse, and those who walked away with their skin intact almost always heard the same disappointing verdict: Grade F. A lucky few managed to squeeze out an E, but they were the exceptions.
"Damn," Thomas whispered, his hand going instinctively to his own smooth cheek. "Should I be praying for a scar?"
The thought made his skin crawl. He didn't want to be tortured, and he certainly didn't want a cherry-red callus on his face for the rest of his life. But as more youths stepped up, the stakes rose.
Two recruits—a boy and a girl—suffered even more than the redhead. Their bodies were suspended for twice as long, and when they landed, the pink fire had carved scars not just onto their faces, but across their chests, visible even through their scorched tunics.
