There were no windows in the room.
Only stone.
The walls were thick, old, and filled with cracks that had sealed themselves shut. As if this Nest had been struck from within countless times, and had chosen not to collapse. Small fires burned in niches along the walls. Enough to light the faces standing around them. Not enough to provide warmth.
An old man with a long scar running down his cheek stood near the stone table at the center of the room.
He did not sit.
In this place, sitting meant wasted time. And time was a resource that was always in short supply.
"The number who survive is increasing," he said. His voice was low, steady. "But the flow to the Second Nest has declined these past two weeks."
Raimon stood at his right side. Hands clasped behind his back. Posture straight. His face calm, but his eyes moved quickly, weighing every word.
"Many of the recent recruits fail the first trial," Raimon replied. "And those who pass do not all return with a core."
"And only three advanced," the old man added.
"Yes."
There was no regret in the exchange.
Only record keeping.
"That is not failure," the old man said. He shifted his weight slightly. "The First Nest is not a fast track. It is a foundation."
He turned to the large man leaning against the wall. His left shoulder sat lower. His right arm ended at the elbow. The scar was old and clean, like a decision long accepted.
"How was the physical session this morning?"
The man did not answer immediately. He stared at the stone floor for several seconds, as if still seeing bodies falling there.
"Most of them are still moving on leftover adrenaline," he said at last. "Today they can pull stones. Tomorrow, their muscles will start tearing."
The old man nodded slowly.
"What's interesting," the large man continued, "is that the strongest ones are not the first to finish."
Raimon glanced at him.
"The ones who last longer," the man said, "are the ones who do not stop even when they know their bodies are already asking them to."
Raimon smiled faintly. "The boy who fought the monkey pack alone."
"The one whose partner ran?" the old man asked.
"Yes," Raimon said. "His name is Dorde."
The large man snorted softly. "He's smaller than several of the others. But he doesn't stop. Not even after his legs start shaking."
"Zorrilla lost to him," Raimon added. "Even though Zorrilla once grappled with a tusker after his partner died."
"Strength without direction," the old man said, "always loses to resolve."
He turned back to Raimon. "The latest recruit?"
"Unremarkable," Raimon replied. "But there is one. Clive. Not outstanding. But interesting enough."
The large man nodded. "Those types usually exceed expectations," he said, casting a meaningful look at Raimon.
"How many will fall in the first month?" the old man asked.
"One third," the man answered. "If we are gentle."
The old man smiled slightly.
Then he turned toward the shadows at the side of the room.
A woman stood there. Her red hair was tied neatly back. Not a single strand loose. Broad shoulders, a strong waist. An athletic body without any hint of excess. Her face was flat. Her eyes did not blink.
"You begin after the meal?" the old man asked.
She nodded. "Basic training only. No sparring."
Several assistants behind them exchanged glances.
"Until they know how to stand," she added.
"Some will think that is a waste of time," the large man said.
"Those who think that," the woman replied without changing her expression, "will die the fastest."
The old man chuckled softly. Not in amusement. More like acknowledgment.
"Good," he said. "I leave it to you, Sendley."
He turned to the large man. "And you, Odvan. Do not go easy on them."
Odvan nodded once.
"Raimon," the old man said again.
"Two freeblades have not returned," Raimon replied. "One reported the eastern region is drying up. The other has sent nothing."
The old man tapped the stone table once. The dull sound echoed briefly.
"Three days," he said. "If they do not return, their cores become debt."
No one asked what that meant.
"Begin," the old man said.
*******
Rest in the First Nest never meant stopping.
After eating, they were not told to sleep. Nor were they told to stand. They were simply left alone.
Sitting on the stone floor. Backs pressed against the cold wall. Breathing slowly returned to normal, but their bodies still trembled faintly, like machines that had not been fully shut down.
Some closed their eyes. Not to sleep. More like disappearing for a moment.
Those who truly fell asleep were awakened.
With a kick.
Clive kept his back straight. Pain still hung in his muscles, dull and deep. Like a weight that had not been released since morning.
His stomach churned. The nausea did not leave with the food. Images of monster carcasses, gleaming organs, greenish fat, warm liquid running down his arms, kept looping through his mind.
There was no conversation.
No one wanted to speak.
Even breathing too loudly felt like a violation.
Footsteps finally echoed.
Not the assistants.
Slower. Heavier. Unhurried.
Clive raised his head.
Raimon stood at the end of the corridor. Behind him, Odvan. And to the side, the red-haired woman.
She carried no weapon.
No whip.
She simply stood there.
And somehow, that was more oppressive.
"Up," she said.
Her voice was low. Calm.
Bodies rose faster than they ever had under Raimon's orders.
They were herded forward.
This corridor was different. Wider. The air was drier. The smell of iron remained, but without blood or rot. The stone floor was flatter. The walls were clean, old scratch marks darkened and fused into the stone.
The room opened like a hall.
Weapons hung on the walls.
Swords. Spears. Axes. Bows.
No decoration.
No carvings.
Everything looked used far too often.
The woman stepped to the center of the room.
"You will learn to fight," she said. "Not today."
Several faces shifted.
"Today," she continued, "you will learn how not to die stupidly."
She took a sword from the rack.
It was simple. Straight blade. Single edge. The grip wrapped in rough, worn leather.
"This," she said, "is the most common weapon you will ever hold."
She raised it slightly.
"And the weapon that most often kills its own user."
Silence pressed down.
"You all have an image of the sword," she said. "Forget it."
She planted the tip of the sword into the stone floor.
"A sword is not about strength," she continued. "Not courage. Not good intentions."
She released her grip.
The sword remained standing, trembling slightly.
"A sword is about position," she said. "And mistakes."
She pointed at Clive.
"You. Forward."
Clive stepped ahead.
He took a sword from the nearest rack. As soon as he gripped it, old instincts kicked in. Fingers clenched tight, thumb pressed down, wrist tensed.
"Stop," she said.
Sendley stepped closer. Very close.
"Too tight," she said quietly. She tapped Clive's wrist with two fingers. "You haven't swung yet, and you are already tired."
She adjusted his grip.
"Hold the sword like you are holding something that can fall," she said. "Not something you want to break."
She let go.
The sword felt lighter. Less stable.
More alive.
Sendley walked away without looking back.
Her slow steps faded into the corridor, leaving them standing with swords still in hand.
Some hesitated. Some lowered their blades half an inch. Others stayed rigid, waiting for further instruction.
There was none.
The air in the hall felt heavier now. Not from exhaustion, but from uncertainty.
Clive held his position. Left foot forward. Knees slightly bent. Hips angled. He noticed something strange. When he stopped thinking, his body felt more stable.
His hands began to tremble.
Not from the sword's weight.
From constantly checking himself.
Are my heels aligned.
Are my knees locked.
Is my grip too tight.
Each small question was like a thorn.
In the line beside him, Ted shifted his foot slightly. Too little. But enough to disturb his balance.
His sword wavered.
He corrected it quickly.
Sendley returned.
Her steps were unheard until she was already standing in the middle of the hall.
"You are still standing," she said.
There was no praise in her voice.
"Hm."
She turned to a recruit at the end of the line. A man with massive arms, breathing heavily from the start.
"You," she said. "Swing."
Zorrilla hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then swung downward from above. Too strong. Too full of intent.
Sendley did not move.
The swing stopped in midair, the blade trembling from lost balance.
"Again," Sendley said.
Zorrilla repeated it. This time slower. But his shoulders rose. His hips stiffened.
Sendley walked closer.
She touched Zorrilla's shoulder.
Not a push. Not a strike. Just a touch.
Zorrilla lost his balance. His foot slipped half a step.
His sword almost fell.
"If I were your enemy," Sendley said quietly, "you would already be dead before that swing finished."
She stepped away.
"Ten times," she said. "Without sound."
Zorrilla nodded quickly. Sweat poured down his face.
Sendley turned back to the line.
"This exercise," she said, "is not about being strong."
She looked at them one by one.
"And it is not about being fast."
She stopped in front of Clive.
"This is about removing the things that get you killed."
She stepped behind Clive.
He felt her presence like pressure along his spine.
"Now," Sendley said, "step."
Clive stepped forward. Slowly. The sword followed.
"Stop."
Sendley lightly kicked Clive's right heel.
"Heel too close," she said. "Do you want to run or fight?"
Clive adjusted his foot.
"Again."
He stepped forward once more. This time steadier.
"Good."
It was the first time that word had come from Sendley's mouth.
Clive did not feel proud.
He felt relieved.
"Now swing," Sendley said.
Clive drew the blade to the side. He remembered the word.
Pull.
Not push.
The swing was smoother. Not perfect. But it did not collapse.
Sendley did not stop him.
She moved to Ted.
Ted stood stiff. Shoulders tense. His breathing heavy and uneven.
"You," Sendley said. "Step."
Ted stepped. Too large.
Sendley touched his chest with two fingers.
Ted stumbled back half a step, almost falling.
"If your step is bigger than your intent," Sendley said, "you are lying to your own body."
Ted swallowed.
"Again."
He tried again. This time smaller. Too small.
Sendley did not correct him.
She simply stood there.
The pressure made Ted sweat harder.
"Swing," Sendley said.
Ted swung.
The blade shook. His wrist was stiff. The muscles in his arm bulged with tension.
Sendley lightly tapped his wrist.
The sword nearly slipped free.
Ted startled. He caught the grip again.
"Stop," Sendley said.
She stared at Ted for a long moment.
"You are afraid of dropping it," she said.
Ted did not answer.
"And because of that," Sendley continued, "you grip too hard."
She stepped closer.
"Do you know what happens if your sword falls on the battlefield?"
Ted shook his head.
"You bend down," Sendley said. "Or you run. Both will kill you."
She tapped Ted's chest.
"But stiff hands," she said, "will kill you faster."
She stepped back.
"Again."
Ted repeated the motion.
His hands trembled. His breathing worsened.
Clive glanced at him briefly. He saw the veins in Ted's neck strain. His jaw locked.
Ted did not look back.
The training continued.
Sendley began to break them apart.
No longer a line.
Two stepped forward. The others waited. One swing. One step. Correction. Repeat.
Time lost its shape.
Sweat soaked the stone floor.
Some recruits began repeating the same mistakes again and again.
Sendley did not get angry.
She let them repeat.
And repeat.
And repeat.
Until their hands shook not from fatigue, but because their minds could no longer hold all the instructions.
Clive began to understand something.
This was not physical training.
It was dismantling.
Every old habit was dragged out. Twisted. Exposed. Then allowed to collapse.
He saw a recruit at the far end drop his sword.
The sound of metal striking stone echoed through the hall.
Every head turned.
Dorde froze. His face pale.
Sendley looked at him.
"Pick it up," she said.
Dorde bent down quickly. His hand shook as he grabbed the sword.
"Stand."
Dorde stood.
Sendley kicked his leg.
Not hard. But precise.
Dorde fell.
His sword slipped free again.
"You died twice," Sendley said flatly.
No one laughed.
No one commented.
"Again," she said.
Dorde rose. His face red. His eyes burning.
The training continued.
Ted began to fall behind.
Not because his technique was the worst.
But because he kept trying to be correct.
He thought about everything.
Foot position. Grip. Breathing. Swing. Step.
All at once.
His hands went numb again.
He loosened his grip. The sword nearly fell. He caught it.
Sendley saw.
She said nothing.
Ted bit his lip.
Sweat dripped from his chin onto the floor.
"Swing," Sendley said.
Ted swung.
The blade drifted slightly. Not much. But enough.
Sendley lightly kicked his knee.
Ted dropped to one knee.
His sword fell.
He froze.
For a moment, the hall was silent.
Ted stared at the sword on the floor.
His hand trembled as he reached for it.
He did not stand immediately.
Sendley approached.
"Why are you slow?" she asked.
Ted opened his mouth.
No sound came out.
"Do you want to answer," Sendley said, "or do you want to stand?"
Ted swallowed.
He stood.
"I…" he said, then stopped.
Sendley waited.
"I am trying not to make mistakes," Ted finally said.
Sendley looked at him for a long time.
"Mistakes," she said quietly, "are the foundation."
Ted lifted his head.
"Without mistakes," Sendley continued, "you do not know what needs to be stripped away."
She pointed at Ted's sword.
"You want your sword to be perfect," she said. "But what you need to destroy first is the way you stand."
She stepped back.
"Again," she said.
Ted repeated the movement.
His hands still trembled.
But this time, he let the sword fall.
Metal struck stone.
The sound was louder than before.
Ted froze.
Sendley gave a small nod.
"Good," she said.
Ted stared at her, confused.
"You were finally honest," Sendley said. "With your body."
She pointed at the sword on the floor.
"Pick it up," she said. "And continue."
The training ended when hands could no longer tell pain from exhaustion.
When thoughts emptied.
When bodies moved without permission.
Sendley raised her hand.
"Enough."
This time, several truly dropped their swords.
Not from relief.
But because they could no longer hold them.
Sendley walked to the rack. She returned her sword to its place.
She turned.
"This," she said, "is the foundation."
She looked at them one by one.
"And a foundation," she continued, "does not feel like progress."
She walked toward the door.
"You will hate this," she said without looking back. "And that is good."
She stopped at the threshold.
"Tomorrow," she said, "we begin tearing down the rest."
She left.
Silence filled the hall.
Some sat down. Some leaned against the wall.
Ted sat on the floor. His hands shook violently now. He stared at his palms as if they no longer belonged to him.
Clive stood.
He looked at the sword in his hand.
For the first time, he did not feel the urge to swing it.
He felt the urge to understand.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor.
Not Sendley.
Not Odvan.
Raimon appeared in the doorway.
His gaze swept the hall. The exhausted faces. The scattered swords.
He smiled faintly.
"Good," he said.
Some turned to look.
"If you think this is training," Raimon continued, "you are wrong."
He stepped inside.
"This is selection," he said.
Silence.
"And it has only just begun."
The door behind him opened.
Nest assistants entered, carrying a large stone board.
On it, rows of names were carved.
Some of them had already been crossed out.
With chisel marks.
Raimon pointed at the board.
"Tomorrow," he said, "the next names will be erased."
Clive stared at the list.
He saw his name.
Still intact.
For now.