Thorne and Vance navigated the twisting tunnels of the base, their eyes scanning every shadowed corner and recessed doorway for something—anything—to eat. The passageways all seemed to blend together, a never-ending labyrinth of rough stone and packed earth. They dared not venture too far, the fear of getting hopelessly lost gnawing at them almost as much as their empty stomachs.

Their search led them to a series of narrow side tunnels. The air grew colder, and the walls seemed more ancient, cobbled together with rough stone and tangled roots. They found a few small, empty rooms along the way, their hopes briefly rising only to be dashed when nothing of value turned up. Still, their hunger spurred them onward, though their stomachs growled louder with each step.

Eventually, they stumbled into a particularly old tunnel. The damp air smelled faintly of moss and decay. The walls, mostly earthen, were laced with vines and cracks where a thin trickle of water dripped down to pool on the floor. Both boys stopped, taking the opportunity to scrub themselves clean. The icy water stung, but the sensation of washing away the grime, blood, and sweat was invigorating. For a few fleeting moments, they smiled at each other, feeling almost human again. Their stomachs still ached, but at least they felt refreshed.

When they returned to the main training area, they found most of the recruits sprawled on the ground, their faces drawn and pale from exhaustion. The air was heavy with quiet groans and the occasional muttered complaint. Thorne and Vance kept to themselves, sitting among the others but maintaining a distance.

Lock's sharp voice shattered the quiet like a blade cutting through cloth. "Alright, recruits, line up!"

The recruits scrambled to their feet, groaning as they formed a disorganized line. Lock led the group out of the training hall, with Talon close behind, her sharp eyes scanning the recruits for any sign of defiance or hesitation. As they moved, a group of older recruits filed into the room they had just vacated, their practiced movements and confident expressions a stark contrast to the new recruits' disheveled state.

The group followed the main tunnel for a while before taking a sharp turn down a narrower passage. The air grew colder, the light dimmer. Ahead, a steep staircase carved from uneven stones descended into the earth. Each step was irregular in size, forcing the recruits to tread carefully. Deep alcoves lined the walls, each one holding a hanging brazier with green flames that burned without producing heat. The flames leapt and danced unnaturally whenever a recruit passed, eliciting gasps and startled jumps. Thorne noticed the flames reacted just as strongly when he passed, but he felt no warmth from their eerie glow.

The stairs emptied into a sprawling chamber with a low ceiling supported by thick stone pillars. The room was alive with potential, part armory and part training ground. Along the far walls, racks of weapons stretched from floor to ceiling. The variety was staggering—swords, daggers, spears, and bows were arranged neatly alongside more exotic instruments of death, some of which looked more like cruel experiments than actual tools of combat.

In the center of the room, several enclosed sand pits awaited, clearly designated for sparring. The air hummed with the energy of countless battles that had taken place here before. Recruits craned their necks, their eyes wide as they took in the spectacle. Whispers broke out among them, hushed murmurs of anticipation and dread.

Lock turned to face the group, his expression equal parts cruel and calculating. "This is where you learn to fight. Where you learn to kill. Each of you will choose a weapon that speaks to you. You will train until every bone in your body screams for mercy—and then you will train harder. By the time we're done with you, you won't just hold weapons. You will be weapons."

Talon stepped forward, her voice calm yet commanding, cutting through the tension with precision. "Today, we'll be testing your familiarity with different weapons. You'll spar with each other and rotate through the arsenal. We're here to assess your strengths, weaknesses, and adaptability. Remember: this is not a game. Your ability to wield these weapons properly will determine whether you live or die out there."

The recruits exchanged glances, a mix of apprehension and excitement. Thorne, however, kept his focus on the racks of weapons. He scanned them critically, his mind already evaluating which ones he could use most effectively. Daggers and short swords called to him, their familiarity comforting amid the overwhelming array of choices. Yet his thoughts drifted to Sid, whose nagging words echoed in his mind: "A true fighter is versatile, Thorne. You never know what weapon will save your life."

Despite Sid's constant prodding during training, Thorne had stubbornly stuck to daggers, valuing speed and precision over brute force. Now, staring at the vast array of deadly tools, he wondered if Sid had been right all along.

Lock and Talon ordered them to pick up the training swords, which were carefully placed at one side of the wall. The recruits surged forward in a chaotic rush. Elbows jabbed, feet stomped, and the clang of metal echoed as the group surged toward the wall like a desperate tide.

Thorne hung back, his eyes narrowing as he observed the chaos. There was no point in rushing into the fray; his experience had taught him that patience often paid off. But as he waited, a shadow of doubt crept into his mind. A sword was unfamiliar territory for him—a cumbersome weapon compared to the nimble daggers he was used to.

When the crush of bodies finally thinned, Thorne stepped forward and picked up one of the swords. It was heavier than he expected, the balance foreign and unwieldy. He swung it experimentally, the motion awkward and jerky. The blade, dull and unassuming, bore none of the elegance he associated with weapons.

Memories stirred unbidden in his mind—visions of soldiers in gleaming armor, their swords cutting arcs of deadly precision. He clenched his jaw, forcing the images away. This wasn't the time for the past to haunt him.

Lock and Talon moved through the group like predators, their sharp eyes assessing the recruits. They began assigning pairs, pointing to the pits at the center of the room. The recruits lined up in tense anticipation, the atmosphere charged with nervous energy.

Thorne's partner was a tall, lean girl with blond hair pulled back into a messy braid. Her posture was stiff, her grip on the sword white-knuckled and clumsy. But her eyes—sharp and resolute—hinted at some level of familiarity with the weapon. Thorne sized her up quickly, noting the potential weaknesses he could exploit. He noticed the slight tremble in her arms and the way her stance left her exposed. She was scared but determined.

As he adjusted his grip, his attention drifted briefly to the other group under Talon's watch. Vance was paired with the red-haired girl, who remained as impassive as ever. Despite the tension, Vance's nerves manifested in a rapid-fire stream of chatter, his hands gesturing wildly as if to emphasize his words. The girl gave no reaction, her bow still slung across her back like an extension of her being. Her composure was striking, even intimidating.

Some recruits had parted with their familiar weapons reluctantly, but others clung to them like lifelines. Thorne couldn't help but feel a flicker of respect for the red-haired girl as she ignored Vance's nervous chatter.

"Form up!" Lock's voice cut through the noise like a whip, his tone brooking no disobedience. The recruits scrambled to attention, the clatter of swords and shuffling feet echoing in the chamber. Talon stood in the center of her group, her gaze calm but piercing.

"This is an assessment," Lock barked, pacing in front of the recruits like a drill sergeant. "Show us what you've got, or show us how little you're worth."

"On my mark," Talon added, her voice smooth but commanding. "Begin."

The pit erupted into chaos the moment the command was given, the air filling with the clang of metal and grunts of effort. Thorne's opponent lunged at him almost immediately, her attack uncoordinated and easy to read. He sidestepped effortlessly, his instincts kicking in. His body moved fluidly, but the sword in his hand felt like a lead weight, throwing off his rhythm. He compensated with quick footwork, darting around her wild swings.

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She came at him again, her blade swinging in a wide arc. Thorne ducked and countered with a strike of his own, the sword cutting through the air awkwardly. The balance was all wrong, and the impact against her blade jarred his arm unpleasantly. His frustration mounted as he tried to adapt to the weapon's unfamiliarity.

Lock's voice rang out from the sidelines, dripping with disdain. "Pathetic," he sneered, his words aimed directly at Thorne. "Is that the best you can do?"

The taunt stung, but Thorne didn't let it shake him. He narrowed his eyes, focusing on his opponent. If the sword wouldn't bend to him, he would make it work. Adjusting his grip, he feinted left and then darted right, his movements calculated and precise. He needed to finish this quickly, not just to silence Lock's jeering but to remind himself of his own capability.

Talon remained a silent observer, her piercing green eyes flitting between the recruits, absorbing every movement. Her face betrayed nothing—no approval, no disapproval, just a cool detachment that somehow felt more intimidating than Lock's barbed comments. Thorne felt her gaze linger on him and the others, a quiet pressure that made the air heavier. She wasn't there to encourage; she was there to assess.

Across the pit, Vance's fight with the red-haired girl unfolded with surprising intensity. Despite her usual composure, the girl was struggling. Her inexperience with the sword was evident in her tentative swings and uneven stance. For the first time, her impassive facade cracked slightly, a faint frown marring her face. Vance, with his unpredictable, almost chaotic style, capitalized on her discomfort. His erratic movements kept her on edge, forcing her to react rather than attack.

Thorne tore his attention back to his own fight, determined not to let Lock's derisive voice distract him. His opponent lunged, her blade coming down in an obvious arc. Thorne parried with precision, the clang of steel reverberating through the training hall. He activated his Critical Eye skill experimentally, but the blond girl's numerous weak points illuminated her as if she were a glowing target. Her poor form left her completely exposed, and Thorne sighed inwardly at the almost comical effectiveness of his skill in this situation.

He spotted an opening and moved swiftly, his sword striking her wrist with just enough force to disarm her. The blade fell to the ground with a clatter, and the girl winced, clutching her hand. Despite her inexperience, she met his gaze and nodded, a flicker of respect passing between them. Thorne returned the nod, appreciating her resolve. When she bent to retrieve her weapon, he allowed it, resetting their sparring with an unspoken agreement to push harder.

Around them, the room buzzed with raw, unfiltered aggression. Some recruits fought as if their very survival depended on it, their swings wild but fierce. Others crumpled under the pressure, their bodies sprawled in the sand, unconscious or too bruised to continue. The intensity in the air was palpable—every clash of metal echoed the high stakes of their training. Thorne glimpsed one recruit being carried off, his face bloodied and swollen, a grim reminder of what failure could look like here.

His opponent came at him again, her strikes more desperate but no more refined. Thorne sidestepped and parried with ease, the sword beginning to feel slightly more natural in his grip. He wasn't anywhere near mastering the weapon, but his agility and instincts compensated for his lack of skill. Each block, each dodge, felt more deliberate, his confidence growing with every movement.

"Pathetic!" Lock's grating voice barked at another recruit, his scowl deepening. "That's not a swing—it's a slap! Hit like you mean it!"

Thorne tightened his grip on his sword, shutting out the distractions. He spotted another opening—a lapse in the girl's defense—and struck decisively. The force of his attack sent her reeling, her blade slipping from her grasp once more. This time, Thorne didn't wait for her to retrieve it. He stepped back, lowering his sword and signaling the end of their bout with a curt nod.

Lock stalked over, his dark eyes fixed on Thorne. He said nothing, but the tension in his gaze carried weight. Thorne met his stare head-on, refusing to show any sign of weakness. Lock's silence wasn't approval, but it wasn't outright disdain either—a small victory in Thorne's book.

Turning his head, Thorne saw Vance standing over the red-haired girl, her sword lying in the sand. For once, her stoic mask showed cracks—her lips pressed into a tight line, her frustration evident. Vance, however, looked thrilled with himself, his face lit up with a triumphant grin. Despite his cocky demeanor, Thorne could see the strain in his movements, the way his chest heaved with exhaustion.

As the session wore on, Thorne found himself studying the other recruits, noting their strengths and weaknesses. Few showed any natural aptitude, their movements clumsy and uncertain. However, one boy stood out—a scrappy, wiry kid who fought with such ferocity that his opponent was left massaging his bruised hands by the end of their bout. Lock was uncharacteristically effusive, showering the proud recruit with praise that bordered on favoritism, his gruff voice carrying over the clang of weapons. "That's how it's done!" he barked, a rare note of approval in his tone.

By the time Lock blew his whistle to end the sword training, the recruits were battered, bruised, and visibly drained. The clatter of swords hitting the ground was a chorus of relief as they dropped their weapons and sagged with exhaustion. But there was no reprieve. Talon immediately ordered them to line up for the next round of assessments.

First up was archery. Thorne handled the bow well enough, his arrows consistently finding the target. But he paled in comparison to the red-haired girl. Each of her shots landed dead center, her precision almost unnerving. Despite her usual stoic demeanor, a faint glint of satisfaction shone in her eyes, though her expression remained as impassive as ever. Even Lock had to acknowledge her skill with a rare nod of approval, while Talon's piercing gaze lingered on her longer than anyone else.

Next was dagger fighting, and here, Thorne came alive. The daggers felt like an extension of his hands, their weight and balance familiar and comforting. His movements were swift and precise, his footwork keeping him one step ahead of his opponent at all times. By the end of the match, Thorne had disarmed the boy opposite him so many times that the poor recruit looked dazed, his disorientation almost comical.

Lock raised an eyebrow at the display, and Talon's lips curved into the faintest semblance of a smile. "Efficient," she murmured to Lock, who grunted in reluctant agreement.

The spears, however, proved to be a different story. Thorne felt clumsy wielding the long, unwieldy weapon, its weight and length a challenge to control. His opponent, a tall boy with dark skin and a glare that could cut steel, was determined to best him. The boy's aggressive strikes forced Thorne onto the defensive, and he found himself dodging and parrying frantically to avoid serious injury.

A particularly vicious thrust missed Thorne's ribs by mere inches, the spear's tip slicing the air with a deadly whistle. Seizing the opportunity when his opponent overextended, Thorne countered, ramming the butt of his spear into the boy's temple with a sharp, controlled strike. The boy crumpled to the ground in an unconscious heap.

Thorne stood over him, chest heaving, a flicker of anger and frustration coursing through him. For a moment, the temptation to kick the boy while he was down until he heard his ribs crack flared within him, but he shoved it aside, masking his emotions with a blank expression as he walked away.

Staff fighting, surprisingly, was far more enjoyable. The staff's versatility suited Thorne's natural agility, and he quickly found a rhythm. He danced around his opponent, using quick strikes and clever footwork to keep the stocky, shaved-headed boy off balance. The solid thwack of the staff connecting with its target was deeply satisfying, and by the time the boy finally yielded, Thorne had a newfound appreciation for the weapon.

Finally, the recruits were handed maces. The heavy, unwieldy weapons were a challenge for everyone. Thorne struggled to adapt to the mace's cumbersome weight, his swings slower and less precise than he would have liked. His opponent, a wiry girl with wild, darting eyes, proved more tenacious than he expected, her feral strikes forcing him to rely on brute strength rather than skill. In the end, his superior endurance carried him through, but he walked away from the bout feeling less confident than he had with other weapons.

As the session wound down, Talon stepped forward, her calm voice cutting through the room. "The assessment is over," she announced. "You are free to explore the den for now. Rest while you can—nightfall will bring the second part of your training."

Thorne frowned, rolling his shoulders to ease the lingering tension from the brutal training session. He couldn't fathom how anyone could track time this deep underground—there were no windows, no natural light, nothing but the flickering green glow of the sconces. Shrugging, he stretched until his spine popped, trying to shake off the creeping chill that seemed to settle into his bones. The damp, oppressive air clung to his skin like a second layer, and his threadbare clothes offered little protection against it.

Before he could dwell further on his discomfort, Vance trotted up to him, his ever-present grin lighting up his face. "Ready for an adventure?" he asked, his tone brimming with energy.

Thorne shot him a sidelong glance, the corners of his mouth twitching in faint amusement. "Not really," he admitted. "But we need food. And clothes. I'm starting to feel like I'll freeze solid before the night's training."

Vance laughed, clapping him on the back. "That's the spirit! Let's go raid the pantry—or whatever passes for one in this maze."

The pair had just stepped toward the exit when a low chuckle echoed behind them. The sound made Thorne pause, his instincts sharpening.

"Well, well," a voice drawled, smooth and mocking. "If it isn't Shortie here, trying to become the baddest assassin in all of Alvar."

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