The walk to the front of the formation felt like a march to the executioner's block. Every step Madeline took felt heavy, as if her boots were cast in solid iron. She stood alone in the empty circle of dirt, exposed to the glaring sun and the murderous stares of fifty hardened men behind her.
"Drop," the Sergeant commanded, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it sliced through the morning air like a blade.
Madeline dropped. Her palms hit the cold, packed dirt first. She kicked her feet back, locking her knees and setting her spine perfectly straight. That was the easy part. The real terror was what came next. She inhaled sharply, the air tasting of dry dust and her own metallic fear through the leather of her mask.
She initiated the first descent.
Instantly, the brutalized flesh of her shoulders—still raw and deeply bruised from yesterday's wooden yoke—screamed in pure, unadulterated agony. It felt as though hot knives were being driven directly into her joints. A single, hot tear escaped her eye, tracking down her cheek and soaking into the linen wrappings beneath her mask.
Breathe, she begged herself internally. Just breathe.
But the pain was paralyzing. Beside her trembling fingers, the Sergeant's polished black boot stepped into her peripheral vision. He was standing right over her. Even without looking up, she could feel the crushing weight of his singular, slate-grey eye watching her like a vulture waiting for a wounded fawn to die.
Behind her, the rhythmic, heavy grunts of fifty men filled the yard. They had already completed ten perfect repetitions. Madeline was still suspended inches above the ground, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. She was frozen, trapped between the agony of her shoulders and the terror of the dirt.
You can do this, Madeline, she tried to lie to her own mind. Push.
Summoning every microscopic ounce of willpower she possessed, she forced her arms to straighten. Her muscles spasmed violently. Her elbows shook so hard she thought the bones might snap. Agonizingly, inch by inch, she pulled her small frame back up.
"One," the Sergeant purred. The cruelty in his voice was thick enough to choke on. "Forty-nine more to go, little shadow."
Madeline braced herself and went for the second descent. The moment her elbows bent, her shoulders simply surrendered. Her arms liquefied. She collapsed hard onto her stomach, her chest slamming into the cold dirt, kicking up a small cloud of brown dust into her mask.
The yard went deathly still. The grunting stopped.
The Sergeant looked out over the sea of men currently holding themselves in the plank position. A vicious, satisfied smile stretched his scarred face.
"All of you," the Sergeant commanded loudly. "Start over from one."
A collective, guttural groan of absolute fury rippled through the ranks.
Madeline could feel the heat of their glares burning into her back. If looks could draw blood, she would have been sliced to ribbons where she lay. She kept her face pressed toward the dirt, absolutely terrified to make eye contact with Derrick or any of the other mercenaries. She was making enemies of the most dangerous men in the realm, and she hadn't even survived the first hour of the day.
Minutes began to bleed into an agonizing eternity.
Time lost all meaning. There was only the dirt, the burning fire in her veins, and the relentless, echoing bark of the Sergeant.
"Again."
Every time Madeline's stomach grazed the earth, the word cracked like a whip. "Again." Every time her shaking arms gave out before she could reach the top. "Again."
She was entirely exposed at the front of the formation, a tiny, fragile anchor dragging fifty massive men down into the abyss with her. The recruits were sweating profusely now, their breathing turning into ragged, wet gasps. Madeline was sure she had forced them to complete over a hundred push-ups by now, all while she had only successfully managed four.
She turned her head slightly, gasping for air. Through the haze of her exhaustion, she caught sight of Michael in the front row.
While the other men were trembling, their faces flushed dark purple with strain, the ginger-haired giant was a machine. Up. Down. Up. Down. His massive arms pumped with a terrifying, effortless rhythm. There was no sweat on his brow. His green eyes were fixed dead ahead, completely unbothered by the torture breaking the men around him. Madeline stared in sheer disbelief. How was that physically possible?
A boot suddenly kicked the dirt right beside her face, spraying grit into her eyes.
"Did you come here to stare at your betters, boy?" the Sergeant spat, his voice vibrating with rage. "Or did you come here to train? Again!"
This time, it wasn't Madeline who failed.
A heavy, wet thud echoed from the third row. One of the massive recruits—a man twice Madeline's size—had completely collapsed, his chest heaving as he gasped desperately for oxygen. His arms had finally given out.
The punishment was spreading. It was breaking the giants now. And it was all her fault.
Just as the Sergeant opened his mouth to order another reset, a sharp whistle cut across the yard.
Another guard, dressed in the standard blue uniform, jogged up onto the training grounds. He approached the Sergeant, his face pale, and leaned in to whisper something urgently into his ear.
The Sergeant's single eye narrowed into a dangerous slit. He gave a curt, stiff nod, turning his back on the recruits. Without a single word, he marched off the field, following the guard back toward the inner keep.
He left the yard in the hands of the slim man in the green uniform.
The green-clad man stepped forward, looking down at his leather-bound ledger, and then out at the sea of broken, heaving men lying in the dirt. He sighed.
"Five minutes," the man announced, his voice surprisingly mild. "Fall out."
Those were the most magical words Madeline had ever heard in her life.
Before the other recruits could even roll onto their backs, Madeline scrambled to her feet. She didn't walk; she bolted. Pure, unfiltered adrenaline flooded her exhausted veins. She knew exactly what was going to happen the moment those men caught their breath. They were going to look for the boy who had just tortured them for an hour.
She ran toward the shadow of the armory, ducking behind a stack of heavy wooden supply crates. She pressed her back against the rough wood, sliding down until she was sitting in the dirt, clutching her knees to her chest.
She had five minutes to hide before the wolves came looking for her.