The boys laughed. "The King's errand?" another sneered. "Did you hear that?" One of them stepped closer and poked Harry's chest with a finger. Not hard. Just enough.
"You think that makes you important?" Harry shook his head. He took a step back, but his heel caught on a loose stone. The crate slipped slightly in his arms.
"I just need to pass," he said again. "Please." The first blow came suddenly. A fist slammed into his ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs. Harry gasped, the crate falling from his hands as bottles shattered against the ground. Sharp pain bloomed across his side.
He barely had time to cry out before another hit landed, then another. Hands shoved him. Feet kicked. The world tilted and spun as he fell to his knees.
He curled in on himself instinctively, arms over his head, trying to protect something. Anything. Laughter rang in his ears, distant and cruel. A kick caught his stomach. White-hot pain exploded through him. His vision blurred. The street sounds faded, replaced by a dull ringing.
He tasted blood. Another blow struck his back, then his side. His body felt heavy, unresponsive. The stone beneath him was cold against his cheek. His thoughts scattered. The palace. His room. The scrolls. Monica's worried eyes.
The last thing he felt was a final уnар to his ribs, hard enough to send darkness rushing in. Harry's grip loosened. The street disappeared. And the world went black.
Harry woke up in the physician's quarters. The smell hit him first. Bitter herbs, old blood, and smoke from burned roots. His ribs ached with every breath, a deep, grinding pain that made him suck air through his teeth. His eyelids felt heavy, as though opening them required strength he didn't have.
When he finally did, the ceiling above him was unfamiliar. White cloth hung loosely from wooden beams. Bottles clinked somewhere nearby.
He tried to move. Pain answered immediately. A sharp sound escaped his throat before he could stop it. "Easy," a voice said. Harry turned his head slightly. Monica sat beside the bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her eyes were red. She had been crying. On the other side of the room stood his father.
The King Henry of Astania. Tall. Still. His arms were crossed, his face carved into something unreadable. He did not step closer.
"What happened, boy?" the King asked. His voice was calm, but it cut through the room like a blade.
Harry swallowed. His throat burned.
"They.," he stammered. "they blocked my path," he said slowly, each word costing him effort. "They beat me up."
Silence followed. Thick. Uncomfortable. Monica stood abruptly and turned toward the King, dropping into a bow so deep her forehead nearly touched the floor. "Your Grace," she said, her voice trembling despite her effort to steady it, "those boys must be punished if this is to ever to stop."
The King's jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in his cheek. He did not look at Monica. His eyes remained fixed on Harry. "No," he said. The word landed heavily.
"He is a Jones," the King continued. "He must stand up and fight against his enemies." Harry felt something twist inside his chest. Not anger. Not yet. Something smaller. Something colder.
Monica straightened slowly and stepped closer to the King. "Your Grace," she said, carefully, "the lad is weak. How then do you expect him to fight?"
For a moment, the King said nothing. Then his hand curled into a fist. The sound of knuckles tightening echoed faintly in the quiet room. "His days as a weakling are over," the King said. "He either rises to fight, or he dies."
Harry's breath caught. The King stepped closer now. He stood beside the bed, looking down at Harry as though measuring something invisible. Harry forced himself not to look away. His heart thundered painfully against his ribs.
"Prepare yourself, boy," the King growled. "Tomorrow, you will journey to Alabama. You are going to join the Karat Academy."
The words didn't register at first. Then they did. Harry's face crumpled. "No," he cried, the sound breaking out of him like something torn loose. "No, Dad, please. I do not want to go."
Tears streamed down his face uncontrollably. His body shook, pain forgotten in the sudden wave of fear. He had heard the stories. Everyone had. The Karat Academy was not a school. It was a graveyard that taught you how to fight before it buried you. "Monica rushed forward and grabbed the King's arm. "Your Grace," she pleaded, "the lad is not strong enough. Sending him there will be a death sentence.
"There, only the strong survive."
The King tore his arm free. His eyes hardened. "Enough," he said. Monica stumbled back a step, shocked into silence.
That night, the palace was quiet. Too quiet. Harry lay awake in his room, staring at the ceiling as moonlight crept through the window. Every ache in his body reminded him of the morning. Of fists. Of stone. Of laughter.
Monica sat on the edge of his bed, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. Neither of them spoke for a long time. Then Monica's breath hitched. "I am sorry," she whispered. Harry turned his face toward the wall. His lips trembled.
"So am I," he said. They cried together that night. Quietly. As if loud grief might draw the attention of something cruel. By morning, the carriage was waiting. The air was cold. Mist curled along the palace grounds as servants loaded supplies. Horses stamped their hooves impatiently.
Monica knelt in front of Harry and kissed his forehead. Her hands shook as she did. Harry reached beneath his tunic and pulled out a thin necklace. The metal was worn, the pendant scratched from years of handling.
He pressed it into her palm. "If I do not return alive," he said softly, "remember me with this." Monica's breath broke. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks. "Do not say that," she whispered. "Have faith. You will survive it."
Harry nodded, though he wasn't sure he believed her. He climbed into the carriage.
From a high window, the King watched as it pulled away. "If he is a true Jones," he murmured to himself, "he will survive it."
The journey was long. Harry cried until there were no tears left, then sat in silence, his hands clenched tightly in his lap. Each jolt of the carriage reminded him that there was no turning back. Eight hours passed like a slow execution.
When the carriage finally stopped, the air felt different. He stepped down. The Karat Academy rose before him. It was built into the side of a jagged mountain, its walls dark and scarred, as though they had been carved by violence rather than tools. Tall iron gates stood open, bent slightly inward, as if something massive had once forced its way through them.
The sound reached him before the sight fully did. A scream. Short. Sharp. Cut off too suddenly. Harry froze.
Inside the courtyard, dozens of youths trained under the watch of towering instructors. The ground was stained dark in places. Not dirt. Blood. Fresh in some spots. Dry in others.
Two boys were sparring nearby. One slipped. The other didn't hesitate. He struck. A crack echoed as a bone snapped.
The fallen boy screamed, clutching his arm. No one stopped the fight. An instructor kicked the injured boy aside like debris. "Drag him to the healers if he lives," the man barked. "Next pair!"
Harry's stomach churned. As he stepped further in, a shadow fell across him. He looked up. A tall youth stood blocking his path. Broad shoulders. Scarred knuckles. His eyes were sharp and empty at the same time. A cruel smile tugged at his lips.
"New blood," the boy said quietly. "You look like you'll break easily." Behind him, others watched. Waiting. Some smiled. Some looked bored. The boy leaned closer, his voice dropping. "Welcome to Karat Academy," he whispered. "Try not to die today. You must survive one day at a time. Tomorrow is not guaranteed here."
Harry's heart hammered in his chest. And somewhere deep inside him, something old and patient stirred.