Madeline woke before the fortress did.
Her internal clock, honed by years of rising before dawn to tend to her grandmother's hearth, pulled her from the shallow, nightmare-plagued sleep just as the blackness of the cell began to bleed into a bruised, charcoal grey.
She lay perfectly still, listening to the heavy, rhythmic symphony of snoring men around her. Every muscle in her body screamed in protest at the slight movement. The bruised flesh on her shoulders from the Sergeant's wooden yoke felt as though it had been beaten with hammers. But the fear of exposure was stronger than the pain.
Moving with agonizing slowness, she uncurled her stiff limbs. She held her breath as she carefully stepped over the thick, sprawled leg of a recruit, then ducked beneath the heavy arm of another. She was a ghost navigating a graveyard of sleeping monsters.
She slipped out the heavy iron door just as the first sliver of dawn cracked over the eastern parapets.
The air was bone-chillingly cold, but she welcomed the bite. She hurried to the roofless wash enclosure, stripping off her oversized clothes with frantic, trembling hands. She didn't bother with soap. She plunged the wooden bucket into the icy water, poured it over her head, and scrubbed the sleep from her eyes. Within three minutes, her chest was bound, her hair was hidden, the grey uniform was buttoned to her throat, and the leather forge mask was firmly strapped over her face.
She had survived the morning's first, most lethal hurdle.
Just as she was lacing her heavy boots outside the washhouse, a sharp, metallic CLANG echoed through the courtyard. The morning bell.
Instantly, the subterranean barracks erupted into a cacophony of groans, curses, and the heavy thud of boots hitting stone. Madeline shrank back into the shadows of the archway, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The heavy iron door of the cell swung open. The first man to step out into the freezing mist was Michael.
He didn't look tired. He looked exactly as he had the night before—coiled, alert, and terrifyingly calm. As he stepped into the courtyard, he turned his head, his sharp green eyes slicing through the gloom to land directly on the shadows where Madeline was hiding.
Their eyes locked.
The memory of his voice from the mess hall echoed in her mind: I came here for blood. Do not come near me.
Madeline felt a violent shiver run down her spine that had nothing to do with the winter air. She immediately ripped her gaze away, staring fixedly at the frost-covered cobblestones. She pressed herself deeper into the wall, ensuring he had a wide berth to pass. She had to survive, and respecting the boundaries of the most dangerous man in the fortress was the first rule of survival.
When she dared to look up again, he was gone, swallowed by the morning fog.
Since she was fully dressed and the other men were only just beginning to crowd the wash troughs, Madeline had a rare, stolen pocket of time. She didn't want to go back to the barracks, so she walked.
She wandered the perimeter of the inner courtyard, pulling her collar up against the biting wind. The sheer scale of the Royal Garrison was staggering. Colossal stone walls loomed above her, blocking out the horizon. Up on the battlements, heavily armored night-watchmen paced their routes. They looked less like men and more like iron statues brought to life.
She watched them, a creeping sense of claustrophobia tightening her chest. Do they ever sleep? she wondered. If she ever managed to find a way out of this nightmare, she would have to get past them. And looking at their loaded crossbows, she knew she wouldn't make it ten feet.
The morning wind howled through the courtyard, cutting right through the rough grey canvas of her uniform. She wrapped her arms around her torso, shivering violently, and forced herself to head toward the upper training grounds.
By the time she reached the packed dirt of the yard, the sun was just beginning to burn off the fog. She was the first one there.
Within minutes, the rest of the recruits marched up the hill, their faces grim and exhausted. They quickly formed up into their rigid rows. Madeline scrambled into her place at the far edge of the back line, desperately hoping to vanish into the periphery. She looked like a child playing soldier.
They didn't have to wait long.
The crunch of heavy boots on gravel signaled the arrival of the Sergeant. He marched onto the field with his hands clasped behind his back, his single grey eye sweeping over the formation like a lighthouse beam. Walking a step behind him was a younger, slimmer man wearing a stark green uniform, holding a leather-bound ledger. He possessed no rank insignia, looking more like an adjudicator or a medic than a soldier.
The Sergeant stopped dead center, his massive chest expanding as he took in the freezing morning air.
"I see all of you managed to find the yard today," the Sergeant rumbled, his voice deceptively quiet but carrying perfectly over the silence. "Unlike some, who prefer to take their sweet, leisurely time lurking in the shadows."
He didn't turn his head, but his single eye slid sideways, locking directly onto Madeline.
A hot flush of shame and terror burned her cheeks beneath the leather mask. Don't look down. Don't move, she commanded herself.
"To start the day, we will perform a simple warm-up," the Sergeant announced, turning his attention back to the center. "Fifty push-ups. In perfect unison. If a single man's chest does not touch the dirt, or if a single man's arms give out before the fiftieth count... the entire formation will start over from one."
A collective, silent shockwave rippled through the ranks. Fifty? On the first morning?
Low, angry mumbles began to break out behind Madeline.
"Silence!" the Sergeant roared, his voice cracking like thunder. The mumbling died instantly. "If any of you miserable whelps has something to say about my training, step out and say it to my face like a man!"
He paced the front line, glaring at the hulking recruits. "Anyone?"
The yard was deathly quiet.
"That is exactly what I thought," he spat, a cruel smirk twisting his scarred face.
Madeline's mind was spinning into an absolute panic. Fifty. She couldn't even do five. Her arms were practically noodles, and her shoulders were raw meat. If the whole formation had to restart because of her, Derrick and his thugs would murder her in her sleep tonight.
"Now," the Sergeant purred, his voice dropping to a silken, dangerous whisper. He stopped pacing. "Before we begin... who among you is brave enough to join me up here in the front? To set the pace for your brothers?"
A terrifying phenomenon occurred. As if controlled by a single, hive mind, the entire front row of massive, hardened killers took one simultaneous step backward.
Madeline's heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She stared at the dirt, practically trying to will herself into invisibility. Please don't look at me. Please don't see me.
The Sergeant stood in silence, his single eye scanning the sea of grey uniforms. The tension was so thick it was suffocating.
"What about you..." the Sergeant's voice drifted through the cold air. "...little shadow?"
Madeline's blood turned to ice water. She stopped breathing entirely. It's a coincidence. He's looking at someone else. She didn't dare lift her head.
"Madel!" the Sergeant barked, his voice echoing off the stone walls of the fortress.
The recruits parted like the Red Sea, taking several steps away from her until she was left completely exposed, standing alone in a wide circle of empty space.
"Care to join me up here, boy?" the Sergeant asked, his ruined face twisting into a predator's grin. "Or do I need to drag you by your ears?"