Chapter 28 –

  The henchmen did not rush them.

  They never did.

  They turned without a word and moved back into the palace, and the remaining men followed because there was nowhere else to go. Blood trailed down chins and throats, dripped from ruined eyes, smeared across fingers that kept straying upward before forcing themselves still. The floor accepted it without stain. Dark stone drank everything.

  Inside, the palace was vast—and empty.

  No banners.

  No carvings.

  No statues.

  Just stone pillars rising into shadow, stone floors polished smooth by time, and a stone ceiling so high it swallowed sound. Torches were sparse and utilitarian, placed only where light was strictly necessary. The rest was darkness by design, not neglect.

  Ash felt smaller with every step.

  They were led down a corridor that cut sharply away from the great hall, then another, narrower still. The air grew colder. Not the biting cold of the mountain wind, but a deep, settled chill that lived in the stone itself.

  The corridor opened into a catacomb of rooms.

  Each was identical.

  A stone slab rested in the corner, flat and severe—but atop it lay a thin mattress, clean and unexpectedly soft. A single fur blanket covered each one. Warm. Well-kept. Almost gentle.

  Ash found that detail more unsettling than the blood.

  A small torch burned at the entrance of each chamber. There were no doors. No locks. No privacy to be violated because none was offered in the first place.

  They were told—quietly, without emphasis—that the pegs were to remain where they were.

  No salves.

  No poultices.

  No yewblight.

  Ash had expected at least that much. The Order had always spoken of yewblight as a necessity, a mercy even. Here, it was absent. Deliberately so.

  Pain, it seemed, was meant to be felt cleanly.

  They were not given time to rest.

  The henchmen returned and led them deeper into the palace, into a wide chamber that smelled faintly of smoke and dried herbs. A long stone table stood at its center. An oven glowed dully at the far wall. Bundles of herbs hung from hooks in the ceiling and along the walls—carefully arranged, categorized, purposeful.

  Light filtered in through narrow windows carved deep into the mountain face, casting pale streaks across the floor. This room felt lived in. Used. Functional.

  This, Ash realized, was where they would eat—when eating was permitted.

  Beyond it, another exit led them back outside.

  The clearing was smaller than the one before the gates, ringed by stone and sparse trees bent low by wind. The cold was sharper here. The ground uneven and hard-packed.

  A single henchman waited at the far side.

  He leaned against nothing, simply standing, a thin knife turning lazily between his fingers. Not watching them. Not interested.

  When the group had fully entered the clearing, he raised his arm and pointed toward a cluster of large rocks piled near the edge.

  “Carry all of them to the other side,” he said flatly, gesturing across the clearing. “When they are all there—carry them back.”

  That was all.

  The men looked at one another. Pegs still protruded from ruined eyes. Blood loss had already weakened them. But training was training. They recognized the shape of it even here.

  No one complained.

  They bent, braced, and lifted.

  The rocks were heavier than they appeared. Dense. Awkward. Dead weight that resisted being held. Men strained, rolled them up thighs and hips, grunted as they managed to hoist them onto shoulders already screaming in protest.

  Legs buckled. Teeth clenched. Breath came in ragged pulls as they crossed the clearing and dropped the stones with dull, bone-shaking thuds.

  They were never told to stop.

  When one man paused, hands on knees, vision swimming, the knife was suddenly there—close enough to feel its cold presence.

  He resumed.

  The work blurred into repetition. Lift. Carry. Drop. Turn. Lift again.

  Then one of them was pulled aside.

  A sword was shoved into his hands.

  It was grotesquely heavy—far beyond standard weight. The man barely had time to adjust his grip before three henchmen came at him. Blades, clubs, fists. No rhythm. No mercy.

  He was cut open. Crushed. Driven to the ground in seconds.

  When he could no longer stand, he was forced back to the stones.

  One by one, it happened to all of them.

  When bodies failed entirely—when arms could no longer lift, when legs refused to lock—another group of henchmen stepped in. They worked efficiently. Blades flashed. Skin was taken from arms and thighs in rough strips, pain reignited just enough to force movement again.

  Ash carried stones with blood-slick hands, vision narrowing, breath scraping raw through his chest. The cold had deepened. Wind cut through sweat-soaked clothing, turning it icy against skin.

  Night fell without ceremony.

  By then, no one could lift anymore.

  They stood hunched, broken, shivering—covered in blood, dirt, and frozen sweat. Ash felt hollowed out. Drained to something brittle and thin.

  That was when the master came.

  Dagonious stepped into the clearing as if he had always been there.

  He looked at them the way one looked at weather—without judgment, without urgency. After a long moment, he spoke.

  “No one is doing what they are told, it would seem,” he said mildly. “Perhaps they don’t have use of their right arms for the evening.”

  A different henchman stepped forward.

  This one carried a hammer.

  Ash’s stomach tightened as memory stirred—Urdh, the weight of iron, the sound of impact.

  One by one, the men were dragged forward. Right arms were pinned against stone. Held steady.

  The hammer fell.

  Bone crunched wetly.

  Screams were swallowed, crushed behind bitten tongues and shattered teeth. They remembered the earlier lesson well enough. The iron. The burns. The promise of what came after the fourth scream.

  Ash exhaled sharply when it was his turn.

  The impact sent white fire through his body. His vision dimmed. The world tilted.

  He breathed in.

  He stayed standing.

  He would not give the old man that satisfaction.

  Dagonious watched it all with idle interest. Then, as if remembering something trivial, he spoke again.

  “Well,” he said softly, “those rocks aren’t going to carry themselves.”

  And the night continued.

  What followed could almost be mistaken for mercy.

  When their bodies finally failed—when legs folded and they collapsed into the dirt, gasping, shaking—the henchmen did not strike them again. No knives. No clubs. No deliberate cruelty.

  They simply lifted them.

  Hands took shoulders, arms, backs of necks. Matter-of-fact. Efficient. The men were hauled upright and set back beside the stones as if they were tools that had tipped over.

  “Continue.”

  That was all.

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  No one could lift a stone anymore.

  Not truly.

  Men strained with one arm, faces contorted, veins standing out in necks and temples. Rocks shifted an inch, sometimes two, then settled back into the dirt with dull finality.

  Ash came closest.

  He wedged his boot beneath one of the stones and tried to lever it upward, dragging it along his shin with his leg while his left arm clawed for purchase. For a moment—just a moment—it rose to his hips.

  Then his strength vanished.

  The stone slipped. Ash fell forward with it, chest striking rock, breath bursting from him in a thin, useless sound. He lay there for a heartbeat that felt long and empty.

  Then he pushed himself up.

  He tried again.

  Nothing.

  The dark moon climbed higher, swallowing what little color remained in the world. At its height—when night felt thick and absolute—the henchmen called them forward.

  Swords were placed into their left hands.

  They felt impossibly heavy now. Heavier than before. As if the metal itself had grown denser in the night air. Fingers trembled around hilts slick with blood and sweat.

  Everyone waited for the beating to begin.

  One man had tears spilling from his remaining eye. He didn’t bother wiping them away.

  Instead, the henchman spoke.

  “Whoever drops their weapon first will be beaten hard.”

  He gestured toward thick, club-headed sticks leaning against a stone.

  “Whoever drops their weapon last,” he continued evenly, “will be allowed to go to bed first.”

  Something changed.

  Not relief. Not joy.

  Hope.

  Small. Flickering. Ugly.

  They raised their swords.

  Left arms shook violently as blades lifted overhead. Shoulders screamed. Wrists buckled. Breath came in sharp, desperate bursts.

  It ended quickly.

  One man dropped his sword after only a few heartbeats. It struck the ground with a dull clang.

  A henchman was on him instantly.

  The beating was efficient and thorough. When it ended, the man did not move.

  Blades continued to fall.

  One by one, swords slipped from fingers that could no longer obey. Men sobbed, cursed, whispered prayers through broken teeth.

  Ash still held his.

  His arm burned. His shoulder felt torn loose from its socket. His vision tunneled, pulsing with his heartbeat. He did not lift the blade higher—he only refused to let it fall.

  He was the last.

  When the sword finally slipped from his hand, he did not react. It landed somewhere near his feet.

  A henchman stepped forward.

  “Well done,” the man said.

  Then he began to beat him.

  They lied, led him to false hope.

  Fists. Boots. The flat of a club. No rhythm. No restraint.

  Ash refused to collapse.

  He sat up when he was knocked down. Again. Again. His remaining eye swelled shut. Ribs cracked beneath heavy strikes. His ears rang, then whistled, sound thinning to a distant hum.

  Still, he stayed conscious.

  Still, he rose.

  The final kick caught him at the side of the head.

  The world went black.

  This segment works because it introduces reward as a weapon—and Ash already misunderstands it, which is perfect.

  Dagonious finally spoke. His voice was soft, almost conversational, yet it carried over the frozen clearing with absolute clarity.

  “Strength,” he said, “is not measured in muscle. It is not counted in victories or the blood you spill. Strength is the will to endure what others cannot. To push when pain screams for surrender. To move when every instinct demands you stop. It is forged in fire, frost, and the sharp bite of despair. To be strong, you must chase it endlessly, shape your mind to crave it, force your soul to embrace it, and never—ever—allow weakness a single foothold.”

  He paused, letting the words settle like ice over them. They weighed heavier than any sword.

  Then, without another word, he turned. The men followed. Dark henchmen flanked them silently. They exited the palace through yet another doorway. Ash’s boots crunched over frost as they reached the edge of the mountain.

  Streams of frozen water cascaded down jagged cliffs, halted in motion by the bitter cold. Large sheets of ice coated the ground, shining and treacherous. Dagonious waved a hand.

  Seven heavy swords appeared, carried by the henchmen. The same massive blades from the day before.

  Each of the freshly renewed men grasped one. Astonishment and awe lingered in their eyes. Yewblight had made them capable. They lifted the blades with effort, but they could lift them. They smiled—small, brief—but it was there.

  Dagonious waved again.

  One dark henchman stepped forward, shoving them toward the ice. The edge of the mountain yawned below them, a frozen drop of countless cubits. One misstep would mean death.

  The men turned, waiting for orders.

  Then, without warning, an arrow whistled from the forest. It struck the man beside Ash in the leg. He fell, then staggered upright, face pale, teeth gritted. The master and his henchmen did not flinch. This was part of the lesson.

  The injured man yanked the arrow free. The tip was blunt but sharp enough to pierce flesh and muscle. Another arrow followed. Someone narrowly dodged it.

  Then another.

  Soon it became a torrent. Arrows fell like rain.

  All they had were the heavy swords in their hands. Broad enough to block some, but not all. They swung, hacked, parried—but the arrows never ceased.

  At first, most strikes glanced off. A few grazed them. But as exhaustion set in, their swings slowed. Arrows found purchase. Flesh was pierced half a digit deep, jagged and sticking out like the quills of some monstrous porcupine.

  Cheeks, shoulders, chest, stomach—pierced. Blood ran freely. Pain was everywhere, gnawing, relentless.

  Their legs slipped over ice, causing arrows to sink deeper with each fall. Each misstep pushed them closer to the mountain’s edge without their noticing.

  The onslaught was unending.

  Some men gave up. They sank to their knees, letting arrows pierce them further. They whimpered through gritted teeth, unable to lift their swords, yet still conscious enough to feel every puncture, every cut, every shred of agony.

  Ash remained the last standing. Every swing was agony. His eye throbbed. His arms ached beyond reason. His muscles screamed. Yet he continued.

  No pause. No hesitation.

  By noon, vials of Yewblight were tossed to them, and they drank as arrows continued to fall. The substance surged through them, knitting torn flesh, strengthening shattered bones, stoking raw endurance, and yet they did not falter.

  This was their day.

  And the next.

  It began with a meal and more Yewblight. Then excruciating training resumed. New exercises. New dances with death. Fewer men continued as weakness culled them silently.

  Muscles grew. Reflexes sharpened. Resilience hardened. Pain became a companion.

  And above it all, Dagonious watched. He did not intervene. He did not shout. He simply allowed the crucible to unfold, keeping the torment unbroken, shaping the men, one brutal repetition at a time.

  Ash clenched his fists. He tasted fire and ice, pain and triumph. And he knew—this was only the beginning.