The midday sun was not a source of light; it was a physical, crushing weight. It beat down relentlessly on the packed dirt of the training grounds, baking the air until it rippled with heat.
Madeline felt as though she were inhaling fire. Beneath the heavy, oversized black canvas of Miguel's clothes, her skin was slick with a suffocating layer of sweat. But the heat was nothing compared to the agony tearing through her shoulders.
She was making her second agonizing lap around the massive perimeter of the barracks. Strapped across her back and shoulders was a rough-hewn wooden yoke, and hanging from each end were massive, iron-ringed boulders. It was a punishment designed for a draft horse, not a starving, terrified girl.
With every step, the coarse wood ground into her collarbones. The leather forge mask strapped over her face trapped her panicked, ragged breathing, recycling the hot, exhausted air until black spots danced furiously in the corners of her vision. She felt like she was going to die right here in the dirt.
In the center of the yard, the Sergeant stood perfectly still. His hands were clasped behind his back, his single, slate-grey eye tracking her every trembling movement with the predatory patience of a hawk. He looked as though her suffering was nothing more than a mild, irritating waste of his time.
"Pick up your feet, boy!" the Sergeant's voice cracked across the yard like a physical whip. "You wasted my morning. Now you carry the weight of that time. Move!"
Madeline tried to take another step, but her boot caught on a rut in the dry earth.
The world tilted violently. Her trembling legs finally, completely gave out. She crashed hard into the unforgiving dirt, the massive stones slamming into the ground beside her, pinning the yoke painfully across the back of her neck. Dust bloomed around her in a suffocating cloud.
She couldn't get up. Her muscles were entirely liquefied.
She heard the slow, deliberate crunch of the Sergeant's boots crossing the gravel. The sound stopped just inches from her face.
"Please," Madeline gasped, her voice broken and muffled behind the thick leather, tasting the grit in her teeth. "Please... I can't do it. I can't. I've learned my lesson. I swear on my life, I will never be late again."
She forced her head up, bracing herself for a kick, a blow, or worse.
But the Sergeant didn't strike her. He just stared down at her trembling, pathetic form. His single eye held no anger, and certainly no pity. It held only a profound, chilling disgust.
"So weak. So utterly pathetic," he spat, the venom in his voice colder than ice. "You won't last a week in my yard, little shadow."
He turned his head slightly, snapping his fingers at one of the massive recruits standing at attention nearby. "Get this yoke off him."
The recruit hurried over, hauling the heavy stones and wood off Madeline's back. The sudden absence of weight made her incredibly dizzy, and she slumped forward, gasping for air.
The Sergeant crouched down, his scarred face coming level with hers. "Now listen to me, worm. You will go to the washbins. You will strip, scrub that filth off your skin, and change into your regulation greys." He pulled a silver pocket watch from his vest, the click of the latch echoing loudly. "You have exactly fifteen minutes to be back on this line. If you are one second late... do not expect me to be this merciful."
A slow, terrifying grin stretched across his ruined face. Madeline's blood ran cold.
Madeline scrambled to her feet, her legs shaking so violently she nearly fell again, and bolted.
She ran as fast as her battered body would allow, her heart hammering a frantic, painful rhythm against her ribs. She wanted to collapse in a dark corner and cry until she had nothing left, but she knew the tears wouldn't save her. The clock was ticking.
She blindly followed the signs to the recruits' wash area, slipping through a heavy wooden door at the edge of the compound.
The smell hit her before her eyes adjusted to the gloom—a stomach-turning stench of damp, rotting stone, unwashed wool, and ammonia. The bathhouse was nothing more than a ruined, circular stone enclosure. But the most terrifying detail was above her.
There was no roof.
It was completely open to the sky. High above, she could see the jagged parapets of the watchtowers. If a guard happened to look down at the wrong moment, she was dead.
The walls of the enclosure were slick and black with creeping mold. Old soap scum had dried into crusty, yellowed flakes that clung to the stone, and on one wall, a rusty, dark brown streak of dried blood mapped the path of a shaving accident. In the center of the muddy floor sat a massive, half-sunken stone basin. The water inside looked stagnant, dark, and utterly vile.
Fifteen minutes.
Madeline's stomach churned violently. "It's better than nothing," she whispered to herself, her voice shaking. "Just do it. Get it over with."
Her hands flew to her clothing, her fingers clumsy and frantic with terror.
Every rustle of fabric sounded as loud as a scream. She kept throwing terrified glances up at the open sky, waiting for an alarm to sound, waiting for a crossbow bolt to strike the stone beside her.
She ripped off Miguel's oversized shirt and trousers. She untied the black scarf, her hair tumbling down her shoulders. Finally, with trembling hands, she unbuckled the thick leather forge mask and tossed it onto the dry stones.
The cool air hit her bare face, but there was no relief, only a crippling sense of exposure.
She reached behind her back, wincing as her bruised shoulders protested, and began unwinding the tight linen bandages she had used to bind her chest. As the fabric fell away, she caught sight of her skin. The heavy wooden yoke had left brutal, dark purple contusions across her collarbones and shoulders, the skin scraped raw and bleeding in places.
She grabbed a small, splintering wooden bucket from the mud, dunked it into the foul water of the basin, and hoisted it up.
She closed her eyes and poured it over her head.
The water was paralyzingly cold. Madeline gasped sharply, a violent shiver racking her small frame as the freezing, gritty water washed away the sweat and the dirt of the road. It stung her raw shoulders like liquid fire.
She didn't take a second breath. She frantically scrubbed her skin, the fear of the open sky acting as a relentless whip. Within seconds, she was reaching for the folded bundle of her regulation uniform.
She wrapped the linen bindings tightly around her chest once more, pulling the rough grey canvas shirt over her head and buttoning it to the throat. She shoved her legs into the stiff grey trousers, tightening the belt as far as it would go to keep them up on her slim hips. She bound her hair back up in the black scarf, and finally, mercifully, strapped the leather mask back over her face.
Hidden once more, she grabbed her boots and ran.
She burst out of the wash enclosure, the heavy grey wool of the uniform scratching uncomfortably against her damp skin.
As she rounded the corner of the stables, heading back toward the training yard, a sharp cramp twisted her stomach so violently she stumbled. She hadn't eaten since the previous morning. She was running on pure adrenaline, and the tank was completely empty.
Near the hay bales, she spotted a familiar, stooped figure. It was the old woman from earlier, still methodically sweeping the cobblestones.
Madeline didn't care about the risk anymore. Survival instinct completely overrode her caution. She darted into the shadow of the stables and approached the woman.
"Excuse me," Madeline rasped, her voice muffled but desperate.
The old woman jumped, clutching her broom tightly.
"Please," Madeline begged, her hands shaking as she gestured to her stomach. "Do you know where I can get something, anything, to eat? I haven't eaten in two days. I'm going to pass out on the field."
The old woman's eyes darted frantically around the courtyard, terrified of being seen speaking to a recruit. Seeing the coast was momentarily clear, she grabbed Madeline's sleeve and yanked her deeper into the shadows between the stable walls.
With trembling, age-spotted hands, the woman reached deep into the pocket of her heavy apron. She pulled out a thick, mangled slice of dark rye bread. It was covered in lint and looked days old.
She shoved it into Madeline's chest. "Take it and go, boy. Fast!"
"Thank you," Madeline breathed, her eyes welling with unshed tears.
Hygiene, pride, and disgust no longer existed in Madeline's world. She shoved the bottom of her leather mask up just enough to expose her mouth and bit down.
The bread was as hard as a river stone. It tasted of ash, stale yeast, and pocket lint, and she had to use her molars to crack the crust. But as she chewed frantically, forcing the dry lump down her throat, it felt like the greatest feast she had ever tasted.
She swallowed the last bite, pulled the mask firmly back into place, and sprinted toward the sunlit expanse of the training yard, racing against the Sergeant's ticking silver watch