Forged In Blood

We emerged from the blood-soaked training pits as something different; hardened, colder, stripped of illusions. My body ached, my mind felt like a battlefield, and my soul… if it still existed, it had retreated somewhere I couldn't reach.

After cleaning up in the frigid lake, we were given new clothes. The garments were plain; simple gray tunics and black trousers, but after days of wearing blood-soaked rags, they felt like luxury. The guards herded us to the dining hall, and I braced myself for another round of tasteless gruel.

Instead, I walked into a grand hall illuminated by chandeliers dripping with golden light. Long tables stretched across the room, groaning under the weight of food. Roasted meats glistened with juices, baskets of fresh bread steamed invitingly, and bowls of vibrant fruits and vegetables spilled over. The scents; savory, sweet, smoky, were almost enough to make me forget the horrors of the past week.

But the hall, though filled with enough food to feed hundreds, was nearly empty. Only the top two teams from each training pit had been invited to this "feast." Forty of us, at most, sat scattered in a space meant for thousands. The absence of the others was a silence louder than the echoes of our footsteps.

Each empty seat was a testament to the countless who had fallen.

I pushed the thought away. Sentiment was dangerous here. Survival meant focusing on the now, not dwelling on the dead.

But one thing I couldn't ignore was him.

"Not bad, huh? Guess they reward the winners after all," Buck said, his grin as obnoxious as ever.

Of course, he'd found a seat directly across from me. His unrelenting cheer was like an itch I couldn't scratch. Buck had latched onto me during training and seemed determined to stay. I didn't know what annoyed me more: his idiotic optimism or his complete lack of fear.

I ignored him and reached for the nearest platter of roasted meat. My hands shook slightly as I tore into it, the rich, savory flavor almost overwhelming after days of bland gruel.

Buck, undeterred by my silence, kept talking.

"So, Cassian, what's your plan? Y'know, long-term?" he asked, as though we were casually chatting in a coffee shop instead of in the aftermath of a bloodbath.

"Plan?" I said, finally glancing up. "I don't think that far ahead."

He leaned back, chewing thoughtfully. "Fair enough. But you should. You've got talent. Raw, brutal, terrifying talent."

My hands froze mid-motion. Was he serious? Was this some kind of twisted compliment?

"Why do you care?" I asked, my voice low and edged with warning.

Buck shrugged, his grin softening into something almost sincere. "Because people like you survive. And I'd rather stick close to someone who's gonna live longer than a week."

I studied him for a moment, trying to figure out his angle. Was he really just a leech, clinging to strength to avoid his own weakness? Or was there more to him?

Before I could decide, the guards entered, their presence snuffing out the faint flicker of levity in the air.

"First-place teams, this way," one barked.

We were split into two groups: first-place teams and second-place teams. No surprise, Buck and I were among the former.

We were loaded into a wagon, the wheels creaking under its weight as it began a days-long journey. At first, I thought we might be headed to some great city or fortress where humanity made its stand. Instead, we passed through desolate villages and crumbling towns, their people gaunt and hollow-eyed.

The landscapes were bleak: a patchwork of barren fields and skeletal forests. Even the air felt oppressive, heavy with despair. This wasn't the fantastical world I'd once read about in novels. There were no majestic kingdoms or enchanted forests here. Just a dying world clawing at survival.

At night, we stopped to rest in makeshift camps. The first evening, I caught Buck humming softly to himself by the fire. It wasn't loud enough to annoy, but it was loud enough to remind me he existed.

"Why are you always so damn cheerful?" I asked, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice.

He looked up, his grin replaced by something quieter, more reflective. "Cheerful? Nah. I just don't see the point in wallowing. The world's already shit. Might as well laugh when you can."

His answer surprised me. For the first time, I wondered if his optimism wasn't ignorance but a choice. A defiance against the darkness threatening to consume us all.

I didn't respond, and he didn't push.

By the third day, the wagon rolled to a stop before a looming fortress. Its walls were carved from dark stone, their jagged edges catching the dying light of the crimson sky. Guards patrolled the ramparts, their armor glinting dully.

"Out," one of them barked, and we obeyed.

The fortress's shadow swallowed us as we entered, the gates groaning shut behind us. For a moment, I thought this place might offer some semblance of safety. Then the horn sounded.

A low, mournful wail echoed across the courtyard, freezing me in place.

"GNOLLS!"

The shout came from one of the guards, his voice sharp with urgency. The soldiers around us sprang into action, rushing to their posts with practiced efficiency.

Gnolls.

The word was foreign to me, but the tension in the air made its meaning clear. A new threat, and we were in its path.

One of the guards shoved a weapon into my hands. "Earn your keep, rookies!"

So, this was how it began. No rest, no reprieve. Just another fight for survival in a world that didn't care whether I lived or died.

I gripped the sword tightly, the weight of it grounding me. The gnolls were coming.

And this time, there would be no pit, no practice.

This was real.