The fort barracks were warmer than anything Varik had ever stepped into.
Not just less cold—warm, like the air itself was breathing against his skin. It made the thin steam rising from the vents shimmer lightly against the metal walls, casting a soft amber glaze across the rows of stacked bunks.
He stood in the doorway for a long second, unsure if he was meant to walk in or wait for someone to shove him.
No shove came.
Junia brushed past him, lavender hair bouncing. "Pick a bed before someone tall steals it."
Rhem chuckled behind her. "She means me. Wait why are you here, aren't you supposed to be in the female barracks?"
Junia shrugged, "It felt akward hearing them shed tears of joy so I snuck over here."
She threw herself on a bed then said teasingly, " Don't be so uptight, it's not like anything scandalous gonna happen."
A mischievous grin crept on her face.
Then sighed, "You're such a handful sometimes, I swear."
Varik ignored their banter and climbed onto his top bunk. It dipped beneath his weight—soft in a way he'd only heard about from drifters telling tall stories around burnt-out trash fires. The blanket was thick, stitched tightly, and smelled faintly of soap. Real soap.
Everything felt… unreal.
Dinner only made it stranger.
Thick stew. Warm bread. Steam rising from a cup of broth.
Varik stared at the bowl until Junia jabbed him with her spoon.
"You're acting like it's poison."
"It's hot," Varik said quietly. "That's all."
Rhem shrugged. "Well yeah, it's soup. Eat."
Varik did. Slow, cautious bites at first—waiting for the taste to vanish halfway through. But it didn't. His dull gray eyes lingered on the steam curling above his spoon, something in him tightening and loosening at the same time.
Warm food.
He'd never had any.
Warmth almost felt wrong.
The hygiene rotation was next.
He stood under the pipe shower, warm water pouring over him, and froze.
Not from cold—just shock.
Water had rarely been more than a trickle in the Slums, and certainly never warm.
He stayed still until Junia called from the next stall, "You planning to drown standing up?"
"…No."
He forced himself to move, scrubbing carefully, watching grime swirl away in faint brown spirals.
When he stepped out, there was a mirror above the sink.
He didn't recognize himself at first.
His frame was small—lean, yes, but thin in a way that childhood starvation etched permanently. His shoulders were narrow, collarbones sharp. His face… he frowned. Now that a the dirt and grime were done he realized that his face looked oddly off. Something was too soft about it, too angular. His dull gray eyes looked almost silver under the barracks light. Even the frost tips of his hair were now slightly more visuals now.
Then he saw the rest.
The scars.
Thin lines crisscrossing his arms.
A thicker one beneath his ribs.
And the fresh lattice of welts across his back—already turning from purple to a raw, angry red. The metal whip had left deep grooves. Even with Elara's bandaging, they'd scar.
His reflection stared back quietly.
Then smile found itself on his face.
It wasn't a normal smile, it had an eeriness to it a mix of sadness and reluctant relief.
It was because Varik could barely stop himself from laughing. It was so funny to him. He had achieved what everyone who grew up in the slums couldn't even dream of. Actual warm food, running water and even an actual bed. His body was grateful for the experience of course, but inside he still felt terrible. He felt no different than back at the camp.
He felt this way because here he was enjoying these amenities while Gavin's dead body was being consumed by the cold and Lux has been dragged off to hell knows where.
To Varik it felt like he sold their souls to have this small moment of respite.
The dark smile faded from his face now replaced by a look of contempt.
He pulled his shirt on and left the mirror behind.
The night passed with a warmth he didn't trust.
Sleep found him so quickly it almost frightened him.
And then—
A horn sounded at dawn.
Not harsh. Just firm.
Junia groaned below him. "I haven't even started training and I'm already dying."
Rhem murmured, "You wake up dramatic."
Varik dropped from his bunk, stretched once, and followed the others outside.
The air outside was crisp—cold enough that their breaths fogged, but nowhere near the biting Slum frost. They marched to a long hall the soldiers called the briefing chamber, where metal benches lined the room and a display board illuminated the front.
Captain Roen stood waiting, posture sharp enough to cut the silence.
"Sit."
They sat.
The doors sealed behind them.
Roen touched the display, and three symbols appeared—patterns Varik didn't understand.
"This," Roen said, "is your orientation. Your schedule and purpose for the next two months."
He pointed to the first symbol, shaped like a swirling current.
1. "Understanding Hlyr ."
The room shifted with quiet confusion.
Varik's pulse skipped once.
He remembered the word.
The fight between that monstrous man and the officer in the black mask—Foyd—echoed in his memory. But he still didn't understand it.
Roen continued.
"Most of you know nothing. That is expected. Hlyr is the energy that shapes our world—our storms, our beasts, our winters. You will learn about it. Not to use it. To understand it. And understand those who can."
Someone in the back whispered, "Those who can…?"
Roen ignored it.
He pointed to the second symbol: the human figure.
2. "To prepare your bodies and minds."
He glanced across the crowd, eyes flicking over faces of every age—teenagers like Varik, hardened men twice his size, gaunt older women whose bodies had long begun to break.
"Others train for years before attempting the preliminary trial. You will have two months. Which means your regimen will be accelerated. Demanding. Dangerous if taken lightly."
Junia muttered, "Sounds delightful."
Varik didn't smile.
But he breathed slower, grounding himself.
Roen tapped the final symbol—the enclosed flame.
Varik felt a prickle beneath his skin.
3. "To evaluate potential."
He said it simply.
Without emphasis.
But something about the room tightened.
Junia tilted her head. "Potential for what?"
Roen didn't clarify.
He moved on as though the question didn't matter.
"If you pass the preliminary trial, you will be considered for entry into Verum Academy—the Pathfinder training academy. If you succeed there, you will earn full sponsorship, citizenship, and status."
Someone raised a hand. "And if we fail?"
"You will be reassigned," Roen said simply.
Reassigned could mean anything.
Their schedules were passed around. Varik traced the glowing lines on his metal slate:
Training from dawn to dusk.
Theory.
Combat.
Conditioning.
Study.
An entire life mapped out in glowing lines.
Junia groaned, "They're trying to kill us."
Rhem corrected her: "They're trying to kill the weak parts of us."
Varik didn't say anything.
He wasn't sure which parts of him were weak and which parts were already dead.
Roen dismissed them shortly after.
And as they stepped into the brisk morning air, Junia nudged Varik's shoulder, red eyes bright.
"You all right?"
Varik looked at the training schedule again.
"I don't know," he said. "But I think I'm finally doing something."
Junia smirked. "So you were just slacking off on all that work before? Teach me your ways wise one."
Rhem added, "Just keep moving forward. Everything else comes after."
Varik breathed out slowly.
The cold stung his lungs—sharp, clean, nothing like Slum frost.
Everything was new.
Everything was overwhelming.
Everything was uncertain.
But he walked anyway.
One step.
Then another.
Toward whatever waited next