Thorne slipped into the back of the group, his entrance deliberate and quiet. He kept his posture relaxed, his movements casual, but his sharp eyes were anything but idle. He scanned the other recruits, noting the ones who looked eager, the ones who seemed terrified, and the ones who carried themselves with false bravado. He caught Lock glaring at him, the man's dark eyes simmering with disdain, but Lock said nothing. Thorne offered the faintest smirk before turning his attention to Talon, who was finishing her speech.

"You are racing a ticking time clock," Talon said, her voice cold and unyielding. "Most of you have less than a year before your core manifests. The harder you train, the more skills you will gain, and the higher those skills will level. Your curriculum is designed so that, by the time your core forms, you will have the tools necessary to survive. Neglect your training, and your fellow cousin will outpace you, stronger, faster, more skilled. Or worse," she added, her piercing gaze sweeping the group, "you'll find yourself on a mission, make a mistake, and cost your entire party their lives."

The weight of her words settled heavily over the recruits, their expressions a mix of apprehension and resolve. Thorne stayed silent, letting the words sink in as he observed the shifting body language of the others.

Talon continued, "Lock will oversee your physical conditioning and weapon training. I will handle stealth techniques and survival skills. For today, we will observe your performance together to assess your abilities and determine the appropriate exercises for each of you." She stepped back with an air of finality, her sharp eyes lingering on Thorne for a moment before turning to Lock.

Lock strode forward, his presence as commanding as ever. His voice cut through the murmurs like a blade. "Physical conditioning is the foundation of everything we do here. Without a strong body, you are nothing but a liability. You will run. You will climb. You will lift. You will strengthen every muscle, every sinew, every bone until your body can endure anything."

Lock began to lay out the regimen with the detached precision of a drillmaster. "We start with a warm-up: ten laps around the training hall. After that, strength training, push-ups, pull-ups, sit-ups, and squats. Then agility drills: hurdles, balance beams, crawling through tight spaces. And finally, endurance. Planks, wall sits, and timed sprints. You will push until you collapse, and then you will push harder."

The recruits exchanged nervous glances, but no one dared to voice a complaint. Lock's sharp whistle broke the moment, jolting them into action. They lined up, a sea of grim determination and nervous energy.

Thorne hung back, watching the others surge forward as Lock barked orders. When the laps began, Thorne fell into an easy rhythm, his movements fluid and controlled. His years of running through the alleys and rooftops of the city, dodging guards and weaving through market crowds, had conditioned his legs well. He didn't push to the front, preferring to keep a steady pace at the rear where he could observe.

He noted the ones who were already struggling, their faces flushed and their steps uneven. Others sprinted ahead, their enthusiasm outpacing their stamina. A lanky boy stumbled, narrowly avoiding a collision, and a wiry girl shoved past him with a look of pure disdain.

Thorne's focus sharpened as he took in every detail. The recruits were revealing themselves, not just their physical strengths and weaknesses, but their personalities, their desperation, their pride. He could see the ones who thrived on competition and the ones who simply hoped to survive unnoticed.

As the laps wore on, Thorne remained steady, his breath even, his gaze darting between Lock and Talon. He knew this was as much a test of their resolve as their stamina. And if there was one thing Thorne had learned, it was that surviving wasn't just about strength. It was about playing the long game.

Thorne noticed the girl with the stoic expression from the day before, her bow still slung across her back as she pushed herself through the laps. Her muscles quivered under the strain, but her face remained unreadable, revealing nothing of the effort she was expending. There was something about her composure that drew Thorne in, an unconscious pull he didn't entirely understand. He quickened his pace, closing the distance until he was running just beside her.

Her fiery red hair clung to her neck and shoulders, damp with sweat, and he couldn't help but admire the effortless grace in her movements despite the exertion. Suddenly, she stumbled, her foot catching on an uneven patch of ground. Without thinking, Thorne reached out, steadying her by the elbow.

Her reaction, or lack of one, was unnerving. No flicker of embarrassment, no acknowledgment of her mistake, no gratitude for his intervention. She simply nodded once and continued forward, her face a mask of stoic determination. Thorne smirked to himself, intrigued by her unshakable demeanor as he fell back into his rhythm.

At the center of the training hall, Talon and Lock stood side by side, their eyes like hawks, scrutinizing each recruit.

"That one," Talon said under her breath, gesturing subtly toward a lanky boy who was clearly struggling to maintain the pace. "He's got heart, but his stamina is pitiful. Endurance drills for him."

Lock gave a grunt of agreement. "And her," he added, nodding toward a wiry girl darting through the crowd. "Good agility, but look at those arms, she'll buckle the moment she has to lift a blade for more than five seconds. Upper-body strength is her priority."

The transition to strength training was swift, Lock's whistle driving them to drop into their first exercise. Thorne hit the ground, his body moving with mechanical precision as he powered through push-ups. His arms burned with effort, his chest brushing the ground with each descent, but he embraced the discomfort. Pain was a familiar companion. It fueled him, reminded him of what he had endured to get here.

Pull-ups came next, and Thorne leapt to grab the wooden bar, his fingers curling around it as he hoisted himself up in a steady rhythm. Sweat dripped down his face, but he pushed through, his muscles straining as he worked. He caught Lock watching him, the man's sharp eyes picking apart his form with a critical gaze.

By the time squats were finished, Thorne's body felt like a live wire, every muscle alight with strain and effort. But he didn't stop. He wouldn't. Not when he could feel both trainers' eyes lingering on him.

The agility drills followed, a series of hurdles, balance beams, and tight crawl spaces laid out in a daunting sequence. Thorne approached with cautious excitement, his focus narrowing as he sized up the course. When the whistle blew, he launched himself forward.

He vaulted over the hurdles with practiced ease, his body moving in perfect synchronization. Each leap carried him forward with the grace of someone who had spent years navigating the narrow alleys and rooftops of the city. The balance beams were a test of poise, requiring him to shift his weight carefully, every step calculated to maintain stability.

As he ducked into the crawl spaces, Thorne's movements became serpentine, his body twisting and turning to navigate the confined paths. Behind him, a recruit miscalculated, slamming into a low-hanging bar with a sickening thud. The boy crumpled to the ground, groaning in pain, but Thorne didn't falter. He kept moving, his focus razor-sharp.

From the center of the hall, Talon observed with her arms crossed. "Thorne's performance is solid," she remarked, her voice low but audible enough for him to catch as he landed lightly from the final hurdle.

Lock didn't hide his displeasure. "He's passable," he muttered grudgingly.

Talon tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. "I think he's holding back," she mused, a faint trace of confusion in her tone. "We may need to move him to a more advanced group."

Lock's face soured, but he didn't contradict her.

The final trial was endurance. Planks, wall sits, and sprints pushed the recruits to their absolute limits. Thorne dropped into a plank, his body trembling with the effort to hold himself steady. Each second felt like an eternity as the burn spread through his shoulders and core, but he gritted his teeth and held on.

Wall sits were next, and his legs screamed in protest as he pressed his back against the cold stone wall, sinking into a seated position. The strain was almost unbearable, but he refused to falter.

The sprints came last, and by then, Thorne was running on sheer willpower. Each step felt heavier than the last, his lungs burning with every gasp of air. But he pushed forward, his legs churning as he forced himself to complete each timed sprint.

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Finally, Lock blew his whistle, signaling the end of the session. Thorne straightened slowly, his body aching but his spirit unbowed. As he wiped the sweat from his brow, he caught Talon and Lock watching him. Their expressions were inscrutable, but he knew they were assessing him, judging his every move.

Thorne didn't care. He had survived the first round.

As Thorne caught his breath, he noticed Talon and Lock exchanging a few brief glances. Their faces betrayed nothing, and he couldn't decide if their silence was good or bad. What they already figured out he had already formed his core and he was holding back? Were they truly considering moving him to a different group? If they were, he didn't know whether to feel relieved or uneasy. Being singled out had its risks, he had learned that much already.

Nearby, Vance leaned against a wooden post, panting heavily. His face was drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead. Despite his exhaustion, he managed a weak smile. "Not bad for a first day, eh?"

Thorne gave him a short nod, not in the mood for small talk. Camaraderie didn't come easily here; everyone was either a rival or a potential threat. His mind wandered back to his friends, Darius, Jonah, Ben, and Eliza. He pictured Darius swinging a practice blade, Jonah bartering for prices, Ben's quiet intensity as he worked with herbs, and Eliza's infectious laughter. Thorne's chest tightened. He missed them more than he'd realized. Here, he was just another faceless recruit, trapped in Uncle's relentless machine. There was no space for old connections, not in this place.

"Alright, recruits," Lock's bark cut through Thorne's thoughts, jolting him back to the present. "Form a line! Time to assess your performance. Each of you will run the obstacle gauntlet. Show us what you're made of."

The recruits shuffled into line, nerves buzzing in the air like static. Thorne naturally gravitated toward the back, his sharp eyes scanning the scene ahead. The gauntlet sprawled before them like a battlefield: rope climbs, balance beams, narrow tunnels, and a maddening puzzle lock at the end. Above it all hovered an enchanted hourglass, glowing faintly as its sand trickled down, marking each recruit's time. The steady hiss of sand falling into the bottom chamber seemed to amplify the pressure hanging over them all.

Vance was the first to step forward. Despite his earlier fatigue, he approached the course with renewed determination. His strength shone as he tackled the rope climb, pulling himself up with surprising speed. The wall climb, however, proved to be his downfall; he struggled for footing, slipping twice before finally hauling himself over the edge. On the balance beam, a misstep nearly sent him tumbling, but he regained his footing at the last second.

"Not bad," Talon commented with a cool nod. "But your balance needs work."

Lock smirked, adding, "At least you didn't kiss the floor. That's something."

Next was a burly recruit whose sheer size seemed more of a hindrance than an advantage. He bulldozed through the physical elements but froze in front of the puzzle lock. His face reddened as he fumbled clumsily with the pieces, his frustration mounting.

"Think before you act," Talon advised, her tone even.

Lock snorted. "Or maybe try thinking at all. Just once."

Thorne watched carefully, taking mental notes. Some recruits surprised him with their skill, like the red-haired girl. She approached the gauntlet with a calm confidence, her bow still slung across her back. Her movements were fluid, her balance perfect as she breezed across the beams. She solved the puzzle lock in seconds, her hands working quickly and decisively. Thorne couldn't help but feel a twinge of respect.

Most of the others, however, fared far worse. A wiry boy froze at the rope climb, too paralyzed by fear to move. A smaller girl managed to make it halfway through before falling from a beam and retreating, tears streaming down her face. Those who finished were few, and even they looked dejected as they glanced at the hourglass and saw their times. Disappointment hung over them like a dark cloud, the weight of inadequacy settling in as they shuffled away.

Thorne's gaze lingered on the red-haired girl and on Vance, who had shown flashes of promise despite his struggles. He wasn't sure yet who would rise to the top of this brutal hierarchy, but he knew one thing, if he wanted to survive, he'd need to stay sharp, keep observing, and make sure his name was at the top of their lists.

Finally, it was Thorne's turn. He stepped forward, his heart pounding a steady rhythm in his chest, but his face was a mask of calm indifference. Lock's cold eyes tracked him, arms crossed tightly over his chest. The room grew quieter as the recruits turned their attention to him, curiosity and skepticism etched on their faces.

"Begin," Lock commanded sharply, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade.

Thorne approached the high wall first, its surface marked by sparse, jagged footholds. He narrowed his eyes, gauging the angles and calculating his approach. With a deep breath, he launched himself upward, his fingers latching onto the first ledge. His muscles strained as he pulled himself higher, each movement deliberate and smooth. Reaching the top, he swung his legs over and vaulted down, landing in a crouch. His breaths came steady and controlled, his years of training with Sid evident in his every move.

Talon tilted her head, a faint glimmer of approval crossing her sharp features. "Good form," she remarked, her voice low.

Ahead loomed a pit spanned by a single dangling rope. Thorne didn't hesitate. He sprinted forward, gripping the rope and swinging across with practiced ease. His timing was flawless, and he landed lightly on the other side, his momentum carrying him smoothly into the next obstacle.

A narrow balance beam stretched over another pit, its wooden surface worn smooth from countless attempts. Thorne stepped onto it, his arms outstretched for balance, his movements deliberate and steady. The beam wobbled beneath him, but his Acrobatics skill kicked in, his instincts guiding him. His gaze remained locked forward as he traversed the length of the beam without a single misstep.

Talon's eyes followed his movements closely. She whispered something to Lock, whose expression remained impassive, though his jaw tightened slightly.

The next challenge was a complex lock mechanism embedded in a heavy metal door. Kneeling before it, Thorne studied the intricate puzzle. His fingers moved deftly, manipulating the pieces as his mind worked through the patterns. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, but he stayed calm, each turn and shift of the pieces bringing him closer to the solution. Finally, with a satisfying click, the lock disengaged. Thorne pushed the door open and strode through.

At the final station, a target loomed at the far end of the course. A weighted ball rested on a pedestal nearby. Thorne picked it up, feeling its heft as he calculated the distance. He steadied his breathing, narrowing his eyes as he focused. With a controlled exhale, he hurled the ball. It sailed through the air in a perfect arc, striking the target dead center with a resounding thud.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of Thorne's lips as he straightened, catching his breath.

"Perfect aim," Talon acknowledged, her tone betraying a sliver of genuine praise.

Lock blew the whistle sharply, signaling the end of the run. Thorne glanced up at the enchanted hourglass hovering above, its shimmering grains of sand trickling away. Eleven grains remained, a time far faster than any recruit who had completed the gauntlet.

A surge of satisfaction coursed through him, but he kept his expression neutral as he turned and rejoined the group. His steps were slow and deliberate, his gaze fixed ahead, ignoring the stares that burned into him from the other recruits. The air buzzed with their unspoken reactions: envy, awe, suspicion. They had seen his performance and knew he had set himself apart, and the weight of that distinction hung heavy around him.

"You have half an hour to rest before your next training," Lock announced, his voice slicing through the low murmurs of the recruits. His dark eyes scanned the group, daring anyone to challenge him. "If any of you wander off and don't return in time, you'll be used as practice dummies during weapon training. Consider that your only warning."

The recruits stiffened at his words, their fatigue momentarily forgotten.

Thorne walked to the side of the hall, seeking a moment of solitude to gather his thoughts. The gazes of the other recruits still prickled at his back, a constant reminder that he had painted a target on himself with his performance. But his quiet escape didn't last long. Moments later, Vance plopped down beside him, a bundle of sweat and unrelenting energy. The boy was panting heavily, yet his words poured out in a relentless stream.

"You know," Vance began, his tone animated despite his breathlessness, "I'd heard of you way before I even met you. You're like this... tale. The whisper among the cousins. You're the hope, you know? The one they say Uncle actually notices. A living legend or something." He paused briefly to suck in more air, then barreled on. "I mean, at first, I thought it was just a load of crap. Some cousin spinning fantasies to make the rest of us feel better. 'Oh, yeah, there's this guy out there killing magical beasts in the forest, going on dangerous missions for Uncle,' they'd say. And I'd think, 'No way, that's just daydreams.' But now..." He glanced sideways at Thorne, his eyes wide with near reverence. "Now, after watching you today, I believe it."

Thorne kept his expression neutral, his gaze fixed on some indistinct point in the distance. Inside, however, his thoughts churned. How does he know so much? And if he does, who else knows? He fought to keep any trace of curiosity—or irritation—out of his voice as he asked, "Where did you hear all these... rumors?"

Vance smirked and raised an eyebrow. "Rumors? After what I just saw, I wouldn't call them that anymore." He leaned back, tilting his head as if recalling a distant memory. "I heard bits and pieces from this girl—she was in some group you apparently saved? And she heard it from some boy who, I don't know, does business with you or something? Honestly, it's a mess. Cousins live off gossip; it's like currency down here."

Thorne's jaw tightened, his teeth grinding as understanding dawned. Jonah. Fucking Jonah. His so-called "friend" had always been quick to name-drop and exaggerate their exploits whenever it benefited his business. Ever since Jonah had decided to open a shop, he'd used every trick in the book to close deals, including boasting about Thorne's kills in the forest. When Thorne got out of this hellhole, Jonah was going to get an earful and possibly a few bruises.

Lost in his seething thoughts, Thorne barely noticed Vance watching him expectantly. When it became clear no reply was coming, the boy's grin faltered, and he coughed awkwardly. "So, uh," Vance ventured, scratching the back of his neck, "what do you say? Should we go scrounge up some food or something?"

Thorne turned his gaze to Vance, studying him for a long, uncomfortable moment. The boy shifted under the scrutiny, his earlier confidence slipping. Finally, Thorne gave a curt nod. "Sure," he said, his voice measured.

If he was going to survive in this place, he'd need allies. For now, Vance would do.

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