Jord peeled the last potato, his fingers pruned and raw. Hesk tossed him a rag. ‘Cheers for the company. If you’re hungry, there’s slop in the fridge. If not, piss off – shift’s over.’

  By the time Jord left the barracks, the drizzle had ceased. Lampposts lined the street, their flickering glow cutting through the damp air, casting brief halos around wary passersby. Shadows stretched and shrank as people moved beneath the light: shoulders hunched, eyes darting. They walked briskly, hands deep in pockets, as if the darkness pressing at the edges of the light held something best left unseen. Jord barely noticed.

  He trudged home, his steps slow and steady, though it felt as if his body had forgotten how to move on its own, guided only by muscle memory. His shoulders sagged, arms hanging useless at his sides: one curled into a loose fist, the other open, as if they couldn’t agree on what they were meant for.

  The house laid dark: a dead thing; no leftovers waited on the counter, no folded laundry. His room, usually tidied by Elia, remained as he’d left it: clothes strewn, bed unmade. A hollow ache settled in his chest.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the desk. Then he rubbed his face with both hands, sighing into his palms. His fingers smelled of starch and kitchen grease. The backs of his eyes burned. His body needed rest. Sleep would take him soon. It had to. He set his alarm for 6:00 a.m., pushed off his boots, and collapsed onto the mattress, too tired to do anything else.

  He didn’t so much drift into sleep as plummet.

  –––

  The alarm blared. Jord grabbed a coffee – sludge-black and sour. He liked sugar but had forgotten to buy it. Again. Stifling a groan at the aftertaste, he staggered to the shower.

  The boiler shuddered to life, groaned, then died mid-lather.

  ‘Fuck’s sake!’ He hammered the shower valve. ‘Elia! Boiler’s gone!’

  ‘Again?’ Elia’s voice drifted from the kitchen, thick with sarcasm. ‘Shockin’. Maybe if you hadn’t tried to fix it last month with a butter kn–’

  ‘Just restart it!’

  ‘With what? Your charisma?’ Elia stomped down to the boiler (it was down in the cellar), jiggled the fuse box, then slammed it with his palm twice for good measure. The pipes clanked and groaned, sputtered out three seconds of lukewarm water, then died.

  Jord scoffed. ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘You want it fixed? Pay a technician.’

  ‘With what? Past vainglories?’

  Silence.

  Jord rinsed off under the icy water, breath shuddering between clenched teeth. Jord imagined Elia shifting in the hallway, his weight moving from one foot to the other.

  ‘Never mind.’ A moment, as if he gathered thought. ‘Breakfast’s out if you want it.

  Jord didn’t answer. He scrubbed himself down with numb, mechanical movements, trying to ignore the shift in Elia’s voice. He knew something was off, something held back. And he knew it was his fault.

  Jord rubbed himself down with the towel, but it did little to convey warmth. He shivered, pulling a clean shirt over his damp skin.

  He followed the scent of eggs and toast to the kitchen, where Elia sat hunched over a plate, poking at his food with disinterest.

  Elia barely glanced up as Jord sat across from him. His gaze, however, sharpened: bitter sarcasm laced in his tone. ‘So? What happened? Yet to steal a child’s treat?’

  Jord stabbed his fork into his eggs. ‘No. Just a shitload of forms. And I’m not joking – there was so much paperwork even the clerks knew it was bullshit. So far, I still don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Probably training with other newbies, or maybe they’ll throw us straight into duty. No uniforms, no badges, nothing that says I’m even on the team.’

  He paused, remembering the smart key they’d handed him, a tiny thing loaded with all his data. ‘Ah – wait, they gave me a card. ‘And the rulebook’s on my phone.’ He raked a hand through his wet hair. ‘Want a copy?’

  ‘Sure.’ Elia exhaled, his posture loosening. ‘But isn’t that against the rules?’

  Jord met his gaze, deadpan. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Huh. Well, if you can – why not?’ Elia took some bites, then stood. He stretched until his shoulders cracked. The simmering tension in his frame eased, like the motion had wrung the conflict from his body. ‘Just don’t sign anything that sells your soul.’

  Jord snorted. ‘Wouldn’t recognise it if I did.’

  Elia turned toward his room, waving a hand over his shoulder. Jord lingered in the kitchen for a moment, staring at his half-eaten plate before pushing it aside. He changed quickly and left the house.

  His parents bid him a half-hearted farewell, too engrossed in their morning ritual to look up.

  –––

  The morning air clung thick with brine and diesel fumes. Jord walked – past bus stops slumped in disrepair, past the morning traffic – until the compound’s outer fence loomed ahead, barbed wire snarling against a blue sky.

  A checkpoint guard, not the same man as yesterday, squinted at Jord, then jabbed a thumb toward a side gate. ‘Recruits queue at the east kiosk.’

  Jord flashed Mara’s message on his phone, its screen glowing:

  PROCEED TO TRACK 3 VIA SOUTH GATE. – OFFICER MARA V.

  The guard approached, read the message, and, satisfied, waved him through.

  Jord stepped through the compound’s outer gates, his eyes drawn to the imposing structure ahead.

  Yesterday, exhaustion and rain had robbed him of perception, but now, now he could take it in: how the main building loomed, how its architecture balanced splendor with a sense of physical weight, almost as if Jord felt stared down. If he had any thoughts on the matter, he would call the building a neoclassical beast of granite and glass.

  A pair of thick columns lined its entrance, more decorative than functional. But that was the aim, to give the impression of an institution rooted in something older than it really was.

  A memory surfaced. A photograph his brother had given him once, of some government building abroad: the kind where autocrats stood stiff-backed in front, as if the architecture itself proved their right to rule. That’s what his brother had said. But here, the scale was smaller, more contained, and yet still, it worked as a statement of the city's relevance on the national stage.

  But westward, the imposing aesthetic crumbled. The imposing aura gone, only utilitarian function remained: Racing tracks stretched in the distance, some paved by cement, some by packed dirt. Nearby, a collection of playing fields stood: some enclosed, some yawning open to the elements.

  Then, there was a squat, mid-sized building that sat at the heart of it all, featureless and grey. Yet, in the stark contrast of the boorish building, the illusion of leisure was held everywhere: benches lined the walkways, and trees and neatly trimmed hedges gave the visage a sense of order, of a curated style.

  But Jord doubted anyone truly at ease. The security presence wasn’t overwhelming, but it didn’t need to be. Cameras were scattered almost carelessly, but more in afterthought rather than a statement – because who would question their presence?

  Jord lingered at the perimeter. His gaze snagged on a cluster of figures in unmarked fatigues drilling near the gray building. They moved with a silent, lethal precision that clashed with what Jord recalled the Guardsman were able to do.

  ‘Who’re they?’ Jord muttered to a passing officer, nodding toward the figures in unmarked fatigues. (No insignia on their collars; that was a problem. The only time he’d seen men without them, they’d been hauling a strike leader into an unmarked van.)

  The officer adjusted his cap, gaze sliding past Jord as if he were air. His boots threaded on cobblestone, pace unbroken, until he vanished into the main building.

  Jord stared after the officer, jaw tightening. Arsehole. He turned to another passing man, this one, at least, stopped to listen. The man gave him clear directions but spoke of the group in the vaguest terms, answering without truly revealing anything. Not enough for Jord to get a real picture, but enough to give him an inkling of an idea. Still, he thanked him and left.

  He checked his phone – 07:43. Still early. He reached the track, but it stretched empty. No guardsmen, no officers, not even a stray dog. Did they reserve the entire track for us? Or are they just that understaffed? The thought curdled into a scoff. Jord didn’t care either way.

  He glanced at his phone again, checking Mara’s new message:

  AWAIT OFFICER JORY AT TRACK 3. HE WILL SHEPHERD YOUR GROUP.

  No explanation and no timeline. Jord scowled. Shepherd. As if they were sheep to be corralled, not recruits.

  He sought shelter from the chill air, slumping against a fence post. The sun-warmed metal seeped heat into his back as his phone buzzed again: a notification.

  OFFICER JORY DELAYED.

  Jord’s irritation flared, then died. What was the point? His first impression of the guard’s inner workings was proving to be as reliable as the boiler back home.

  Time oozed past. Jord thumbed his phone, then shoved it away, better to avoid looking unprofessional. He stretched, joints cracking, and surveyed the grounds: frost-stiffened grass, a weathered wooden hurdle slumped mid-track.

  On impulse, he sprinted. His lungs burned instantly, legs turning leaden, but he reached the hurdle and hauled himself over with a grunt. Clumsy, but committed. There it was. Years of hard labour had forged raw, utilitarian strength, but not the lithe endurance he currently needed.

  Hope they don’t make us run all day. I’ll either faint or puke. He took a moment to think of the matter – maybe both? But can’t have that. Otherwise, they will kick my arse out? Probably?

  Jord paced the track, unease coiling tight in his gut. His thumbnail found his teeth, and he chewed absently. What if this was a joke at his expense? A drawn-out farce to humiliate him before showing him the door? He shook the thought off and walked a lap to pass the time, then jogged another, sweat prickling his neck despite the cold. The rhythm of his footsteps, gravel crunching and breath laboured, eased the tension in his shoulders, if only slightly. And, fortuitously, that dull, twisting ache in the gut – the one that locked up first-time runners – had yet to creep in.

  By his third lap, a man approached. Short and wiry, with hair the colour of stale tea and a uniform frayed at the cuffs, his collar bore two thick green stripes on a white background. He stood at the track’s edge, arms crossed behind his back. It reminded Jord of old people that sat staring at construction sites.

  ‘Whittaker?’ The man’s voice was gravelly, like he’d smoked his way through a decade of bureaucracy. ‘Jory’s presence was required outside. You’re with me now. Let’s see if you can climb.’

  Jord slowed mid-stride and stepped towards the man, wiping sweat from his brow. ‘Sorry, sir. And you are?’ He squinted at the stranger.

  ‘Jory’s partner.’ The man tapped his chest with two fingers. ‘Name’s Lapo. Now quit yappin’ and keep up.’ He turned on his heel and strode toward the obstacle course – a mess of frayed ropes and sun-bleached walls – without a backward glance.

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  At the base of a timber wall, Lapo jerked his chin upward. ‘Over. Twice.’ Then, almost offhandedly, as if it were just an observation that should have sprouted pride in the participant: ‘Most don’t manage.’

  Jord eyed the splintered wood, then gripped the rope. His shoulders burned on the first haul, and his palms felt raw by the second. He dropped to the dirt, heart thundering, breath ragged as if he were sawing a mighty tree.

  Lapo gave a short nod. ‘Functional.’ A pause, then almost as an afterthought: ‘It is not elegant, but it works.’ He began to circle Jord, slow and deliberate.

  ‘I’ve seen you run. Form’s decent, could be better. Your endurance is abysmal, but that’s life.’ He stopped short, jabbing a finger at Jord’s chest. ‘Worse yet, you don’t carry yourself like a man. That’s unacceptable.’ His voice became flat, eluciding in a matter-of-fact. ‘You need to loom. Be solid, Whittaker. Like a brick wall. If someone runs into you, they don’t get back up.’

  Lapo took a breath. ‘Most of this job is theatre. Look the part, project professionalism – and half your problems will take care of themselves.’

  Jord’s posture stiffened. ‘What about the other half?’

  Lapo stared into Jord’s eyes. ‘You call for help. Those who try to do everything alone don’t get far. Understood?’

  Jord nodded. ‘What do you suggest, sir?’

  Lapo leaned closer still, his breath sharp with coffee. ‘Hard to say. I’ve seen what your body can do. But the mind?’ He tapped Jord’s temple with a calloused finger. ‘That’s still a locked box. And boxes get pried open here, one way or another.’

  ‘Now, you’ve got two choices. Grow a spine–’ His voice became cold and clinical. ‘–or craft a mask. Doesn’t matter if it’s real. Long as it holds. You hold.’

  ‘Even this,’ Lapo continued, now circling a finger between them. ‘The closeness. It puts you on edge, doesn’t it?’

  Jord nodded. Lapo took three deliberate steps back. The tightness in Jord’s chest loosened, but his shoulders held tension.

  Lapo’s gaze raked over Jord. ‘I’ve seen lads before. Think they’ve got all of what it takes. But they didn’t. Their bodies were ready. Their minds weren’t.’

  Jord frowned, flexing his fingers as if testing his own readiness. ‘I don’t get it. If the job’s about presence, why not just… bulk up? Get intimidating?’

  Lapo huffed a laugh. ‘I teach what works. But if you’d rather stumble through, suit yourself.’ He spat into the dirt; whether out of habit or to emphasise the point, Jord couldn’t tell.

  ‘So,’ Jord said, crossing his arms, ‘you’ll make me a training schedule? Follow me around?’

  Lapo’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Indeed, I’ll give you standards. But miss them, and we’ll have words. Miss them again…’ He let the implication hang in the air between them before continuing. ‘But hit my marks? And I’ll put in a word with the brass. Better assignments. Better pay. Maybe you could even skip a rank or two, who knows?’

  The words lingered, heavy as a gauntlet thrown at Jord’s feet.

  Lapo continued. ‘Right now, you’re slow, you’re sloppy, and you’re about as sturdy as wet cardboard. That changes now.’ He checked his watch, then flicked his gaze back to Jord. ‘Every morning, 8 kilometres. Full gear. You fall behind? You start crawling. No shortcuts.’ Then, almost in afterthought. ‘Do this and your mind will command your body, not the other way around.’

  Lapo didn’t wait for a response. ‘Let’s start.’ He broke into a slow jog.

  Jord pushed forward, keeping pace at first. But before he’d cleared three kilometres, his legs turned to stone, his breath became inconsistent, and sweat started burning his eyes. He slowed to a miserable trudge, boots dragging through the track. Lapo passed him without stopping, his stride unfazed. ‘Pick it up,’ he said. ‘Or we’re doing this all day.’

  Spitting and gasping for breath, Jord finally made it, though not entirely by running. Along the way, the thought of begging and crawling crossed his mind, but he resisted the sweet temptation.

  Lapo eyed Jord’s resting position with a look of pure boredom, as if the run hadn’t drained him in the slightest. ‘Now, combat drills. Twice a day. Mornings, striking – precision over power. You’ll train until you can feel each muscle apart. Evenings, grappling.’ He rolled his shoulders, stretching as if warming up for another round. ‘Get up. We start now.’

  Lapo demonstrated the basic martial stances but then, to Jord's puzzlement, made him strike a worn-out sandbag. Jord’s fists throbbed, knuckles raw from the relentless hits. His shoulders screamed with every movement, his form began to slip as his punches grew slower and sloppier. When Lapo, with a casual shove, sent him sprawling, Jord barely managed to catch himself before crashing face-first into the ground.

  Lapo nudged a steel balance beam with his boot. ‘Your footwork is a joke. That ends today. You’ll stand on this beam until your legs stop shaking and achieve a parvense of equilibrium. Those are stability drills, and we will do them on stairs, gravel, wet surfaces, you name it. A fighter who can’t stand isn’t a fighter, he’s a target. Remember: The fastest way to deny an opponent their advantage in height or weight is by making them fall.’

  Jord climbed onto the beam, knees locked stiff, arms flailing as he tried to balance. He initially succeeded, but soon enough, the beam started to wobble. He managed for halfway a minute, but a fumble of his arms was all it took to make him fall.

  Lapo sighed. ‘Again.’

  Jord repeated the exercise over and over until, at last, he reached the full minute mark.

  ‘Congratulations.’ A slow, knowing smirk plastered on Lapo’s face. ‘Now, strength training: Weighted carries, sledgehammer swings, resistance work. You’ll lift till your arms shake, and then you’ll lift some more. You will be faster, stronger, and meaner by the time I’m done with you.’

  Jord’s first swing shattered the stillness – a clumsy arc that sent the sledgehammer’s head thudding into the tractor tyre. Lapo watched, arms folded, as Jord repeated the motion. By the fifteenth repetition, he heaved for breath. By the twentieth, his strength started failing him. ‘Faster,’ Lapo barked. ‘You’re not dead yet.’

  Jord’s arms locked mid-swing, grip slack, the sledgehammer slipped from his grip to crash into the rubber ball. It bounced wildly, skittering through the dirt. He bent double, hands on his knees, breath sawing in and out. He felt bile rising.

  Lapo crouched beside him, his voice low, mocking. 'Is that all you’ve got?'

  Jord looked up, hands trembling. ‘No, sir… but – can I have something to drink? Please?’

  Lapo snorted but tossed him a water bottle.

  Jord reached for it, but his limbs felt like lead. The bottle thudded to the ground. Seriously? He shot Lapo a glare, then dragged himself forward, snatched it up, and drained it dry.

  ‘How much longer till the others get here? We’ve been here for–’ He checked the sun, ‘–hours.’

  Lapo smiled. ‘Time naps when we’re having fun, eh? As for the others.’ He jerked a thumb toward the northern track. ‘Jory’s herding them over there. Do you wish to meet with your fellow guardsmen?’

  Jord nodded, seizing the chance to grasp a moment of reprieve.

  They walked – though walked felt too generous for the leaden struggle Jord endured, which made their pace slow down to almost a crawl. But Lapo, if he didn't like that, didn't show it.

  The track that they finally reached teemed with figures, his group, he assumed. Six of them, but only five were hunched and sweat-soaked; their exhaustion was clear. But even through his haze of fatigue, Jord could tell. They hadn't been pushed as hard. And that, to Jord, smelt of injustice.

  Lapo’s voice cut through his thoughts. ‘Keep moving.’

  Jord licked his parched lip. ‘Sir, I don’t even–’ he swallowed, stomach churning, ‘–know if I can keep down breakfast.’

  Lapo clapped Jord on the shoulder, firm but not hard. The world tilted, his vision swimming for a moment.

  ‘You should get used to it.’

  Jord shot him a look, then nodded toward the others. ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘Waiting.’ Lapo stretched, rolling his shoulders. ‘Jory’s been running them through warm-ups, but now that you’re here, we can really start.’

  Jord groaned, rubbing his face. ‘Fantastic.’

  Lapo clapped his hands together, his grin all teeth. ‘Good. Now go tell them what you learned so far.’

  Jord blinked. ‘Learned what? I’m barely surviving.’

  Lapo shrugged. ‘Don’t we all? Tell them that.’

  Jord finally reached the group. He noted that he wasn’t the tallest, nor the leanest, and certainly not the most striking.

  ‘This,’ an officer – his collar marked with the same twin stripes that Lapo also sported – gestured toward Jord with an open palm, ‘is your new colleague. Partner, if he lasts the week.’ He gave Jord a once-over, lips curling in faint amusement. ‘Looks like Polazit’s already put you through the wringer. How are you holding up?’

  Jord barely heard him. His gaze swept the group. A woman watched him with pity. A man with worry. Two others barely spared him a glance, more focused on their own business.

  None of them concerned him.

  What did was the small man standing apart from the rest: lean, sharp-featured, glasses perched on his nose, his short crop of black hair neat and controlled. He wasn’t just looking at Jord. He was staring, his gaze heavy with something unreadable.

  ‘Badly, sir.’

  ‘Take a moment. No point in forcing yourself upright if you’ll just end up on your knees.’ He offered a small, almost sympathetic smile before glancing at one of the indifferent men from before: a tall, broad-shouldered guy with a heavy build and a shock of crimson hair.

  ‘Like I said earlier,’ Jory addressed the group, ‘this job is about presence. You hesitate, you second-guess, and suddenly, you’re stuck in a mess you could’ve done away with in seconds. If you have to act: Seize the initiative, be decisive, and be quick. The rest tends to sort itself out.’

  Jory crossed his arms. ‘Alright, let’s see if any of you have a brain between your ears. A drunk swings at someone, fists start flying, and there’s the concrete threat of a stampede forming. What’s your move?’

  One of them, a wiry man with a sharp look, his face oddly squirrel-like in Jord’s mind, spoke up. ‘If we go by the manual, we de-escalate, escort the suspect, or suspects, to jail to cool off, then fine him for public nuisance.’

  ‘In theory, yes,’ Jory said, his tone thick with dry amusement. ‘But reality is of the mind? “De-escalate” is an awful generic term: Do you have the parvence of mind to think that a man, in a drunk stupor, riled by the group he is in, will not hit back? That this will not escalate? So, if force gets the job done cleanly, then you use it. And if you ever find yourself dithering over whether it’s necessary, ask yourself this: does mercy put you in control or them? Hesitation drags things out, and that seldom turns things right for you, not after the taint this institution still carries.’

  The man who had watched Jory with concern earlier – a wiry fellow with deep-set eyes and a nervous energy – finally spoke, tone hesitant but firm. ‘Sorry, but… shouldn’t we be protecting people, talking to them? Not hitting and tossing them aside like rabble?’

  Jory turned to him, expression unreadable. ‘And what gave you the impression that we do not?’ He let the question settle, watching as the man shifted from foot to foot under his gaze. Then he spoke again. ‘We are wardens that hold the city abay from chaos and anarchy. But understand this: order is protection. Stability is protection. We do not dispone of infinite personnel. So choices to whom we must offer our services must be made.’

  He glanced around the group, weighing his next words. ‘The ones with property, influence, and standing? They matter. Their businesses, their homes, their comfort – that’s what keeps the city running, and most importantly, our coffers. When things turn ugly, and they seldom do not, you are the first and last line of defense.’

  Jory exhaled a slow breath through his nose. ‘You’ll learn soon enough. We protect. Just not in the way you might have imagined.’

  He took a moment so his words could settle. Then, he motioned sharply toward the group. ‘Pair up. Simulate a pub brawl. I want to see how you handle yourselves. You too, Whittaker.’

  Jord paired with the sharp-featured man in glasses, whose nameplate read V. Krane. Up close, Krane’s gaze felt surgical, judging Jord’s every twitch.

  ‘Rules?’ Jord asked.

  'No rules,’ Lapo called out. 'Just results.’

  Krane seized the initiative and stuck first. It connected with his mouth, and Jord staggered.

  Jord swung in retaliation, wild and unfocused. He hit nothing as Krane easily leaned backward, avoiding the strike.

  Krane barely looked impressed. ‘You hit like a dockworker.’

  Jord licked his lip, tasting the tang of iron. I am a dockworker. He lunged again, this time locking his arms around Krane’s waist. They crashed into the dirt, Jord’s knuckles scraping against pebles.

  Krane twisted free, quick as a viper, and was on his feet before Jord could react.

  ‘Whittaker, you’re dead. Krane, you win.’

  The rounds blurred together, sweat stung Jord’s eyes. Krane was relentless, precise, and efficient. He never faltered, not even once. Every time Jord thought he had an opening, Krane slipped away with ease, countering with sharp, controlled strikes that sent him stumbling to the ground.

  By the fourth bout, Jord could barely keep his fists up. His breaths came in labored sequences, his muscles refused to enact movement. When Krane knocked him down again, swift and effortless, Jord did not rise immediately. He just lay there, staring at the bright sky, exhaustion pinning him down.

  Lapo’s voice cut through Jord’s mental haze. ‘Enough.’

  His shadow fell over Jord as he stood above him, offering no hand, only a critical stare. ‘Whittaker, with me.’

  Jord forced himself upright, his legs trembling under him. ‘Sir, but I can still-’

  ‘No, you obviously can’t.’ There was no cruelty in Lapo’s tone. ‘You’re done playing soldier. Now we make you one.’

  Jord swallowed his pride and nodded.

  Then, the day slipped away. What started as a conscious effort on Jord’s part soon transformed into a bizarre scene: He felt a mere spectator in a buratine play. He saw his body going through the motions, performing them, but not once questioning them.

  But then, a question arose, unbidden. It sat there for a long time, burning in his throat, threatening to sear its way out. Jord, fearing it might scald him if he held it back any longer, let it slip free. ‘Sir… why are you pushing me so hard?’

  Lapo stood, thinking on the matter. He was still, like sculpted stone, a lighthouse in a fogged world.

  He started slow, but his voice built, gaining weight with every word. ‘Because you need this. Because the moment you feel lost, the moment you feel nothing – that is the moment that matters most. That is when you have to sink your teeth into life and never let go. Because that moment, my boy, is when you teeter on the edge of bleakness. And that…’ His stare bore through Jord. ‘That is a dangerous fall. A fall many never come back from.’

  Lapo took a step closer. ‘And when that day comes – and it might not be far off – pray that someone is watching, pray that someone is coming to save you. But if there is no such kind soul, you have do it yourself.’

  Jord let out a slow breath, the frustration curling in his chest. He wanted to argue, to yell, to tell Lapo this was madness, that nothing ever happens, that he could barely think, barely stand. But the words never left his tongue. He nodded instead, swallowing anew his thoughts, and once again detaching himself from reality.

  —

  ‘Good work today.’

  The words struck like a blow, dragging his attention back to the present. He sheepishly blinked, taking in the dimming sky, the cooling air. The day was already over.

  A cold bulking thought settled on Jord’s mind: Was this what he wanted? To be broken down and rebuilt anew? Was he truly this eager to throw himself into the grinder? Was his ego so feeble and brittle that he simply became something so easily shaped that all it took was a single command?

  Jord mussed over the questions but his answers drew up blank. He didn’t know, and that scared him the most.