r the distant roar of the city. It arose out of a tight, nameless street, a bl

th iron bands, stood vigil, appearing less like

ror, and something more metallic and slightly delicious, like dried blood

ner courtyard was a lonely stretch of packed earth, ringed by high walls that seemed to push in from all sides. A few

silence of this new purgatory, pierced only by the distant clang

m the deeper shadows of an arched doorway. This was Atticu

hut out the light. His head was shorn, displaying a panorama of old scars that criss cr

oid of warmth or uncertainty. A whip, thick and coiled like a sleeping serpent, rested careless

, seeking only vulnerability. When his eyes rested on Marcus, they halted flicker of something

ravel, pausing directly before Marcus. His glare was

rning with that calm, banked fire. He woul

icus muttered, his voice a gravelly r

g across Marcus's face. Still got the f

y, scrutinizing the brand on his shoulder. Ah, 'The Dog.' A fitting name

ttle more than a trough and frigid water, where aggressive hands violently s

mbling to the unclean floor like discarded snakes. The long hair, a mark of his Ashani origin, of his f

color, indistinguishable from any other recruit. No robes,

rrior. He was just another glad

scent of unwashed humans, stale straw, and raw timber. Rows upon rows of rough wooden bunks li

s, the coughs of the sick, and the gentle, guttural soun

me tiny sense of isolation. He laid down the hardwoo

the, to quiet the screaming in his ears. He

He would not become me

d to

to demolish every scrap of individual will. Atticus was omnipre

rk, and rudimentary swordplay. Not the fluid, instinctive motions of a triba

hing. Marcus's body, though strong, shouted in protest at the unfamiliar strain. His muscle

n him, seeking the weakness,

red for a fraction of a second. Atticus was there instantaneous

tasted blood. He staggered, but forced himse

ink you're a warrior, 'Dog'? Here, you're nothing. Less than nothing

his eyes met Atticus's, a wordless vow of resist

us's eyes suddenly, something beyond p

ould study their ways. He would withstand their anguish. He would

aunt, older man, his face carved with anguish, who whistled a mournful, foreign tune. A

sharpening a crude piece of wood into a shiv. He was slim, an

ration, the restrained wrath. Th

sword, beginning to be fashioned by its ruthless t

rena, the movements of the blade, an

for

would restore his n