Ravian had long since lost track of the seasons. Winter would come, biting at his skin with icy teeth, only for the warmth of summer to return, briefly melting the frost that clung to his bones. Spring would follow, but none of it mattered. Not anymore. The endless days of training had blurred into a cycle of unrelenting pain, and time had ceased to exist in any meaningful way. The seasons changed, but inside the cold walls of the facility, nothing ever did.
It had been years, he knew that much, but whether three or five or ten, he couldn't say. His body had changed—he was no longer the thin, fragile boy who had first arrived. His shoulders had broadened, his arms and legs thickened with muscle. His hands, once soft and childlike, were now rough and calloused, hardened by years of gripping weapons and enduring endless punishment.
But despite his growth, Ravian felt no pride. His body, though stronger, felt alien to him, like a machine built for a purpose he didn't understand. He could wield any weapon placed in his hands, shoot arrows with deadly precision, and endure physical pain that would break a normal man. And yet, the strength felt hollow, as if it wasn't his own. It was something that had been forced upon him, a tool crafted through years of brutality.
The lessons had started simply enough, or at least as simple as they could be in such a place. They had been handed weapons—swords, bows, knives—and told to learn. But learning was not the calm, instructive process Ravian had imagined. There was no patient teacher guiding them through the basics, no practice sessions to hone their skills. The overseers didn't care if they failed. They only cared about one thing: results.
The first time he had been handed a sword, it had felt impossibly heavy in his hands. His arms, still small and weak, had trembled as he tried to lift it. The overseer had watched him with cold, emotionless eyes before gesturing to a thick tree at the edge of the training yard.
"Cut it down," the man had said, his voice devoid of any hint of encouragement or empathy.
Ravian had stared at the tree, the sword wobbling in his grip, unsure of how to even begin. But hesitation had no place here. The overseer's eyes had narrowed, and before Ravian could brace himself, the man's fist slammed into his gut, doubling him over in pain. He had fallen to the ground, gasping for air, but the overseer had only given him a single, brutal command: "Stand up."
And so he had. Over and over again.
Each time his arms gave out, each time he failed to land a solid blow, the overseers would be there, fists and boots crashing into his ribs, his back, his legs. The bruises had faded over time, but the lessons remained etched into his body. Failure was not an option. It was a lesson he had learned early on, and one that had been repeated with every weapon they were taught to use.
Archery was no different. They were made to shoot in the worst conditions imaginable—cold, torrential rain that soaked through their clothes and made their fingers numb, blistering heat that baked the ground beneath their feet, winds that whipped against their faces and made aiming near impossible. They would stand in a line, arrows drawn, their arms shaking from exhaustion, as they tried to hit targets that seemed to shift with the elements. Ravian had missed, many times. But each miss had come with a price—another bruise, another cut, another punishment.
Over time, his body had adapted. He learned to shoot through the pain, to block out the cold, the heat, the wind. His hands, once trembling, had become steady, able to draw the bowstring with precision and force. The targets no longer seemed so far away.
But the cost of that precision was more than just physical pain. It was the breaking of his mind.
There had been no room for kindness, no time for rest. The overseers had kept them under constant pressure, always pushing them to the brink of collapse, always ready to punish the smallest mistake. Ravian had learned to be silent, to endure. His cries of pain had stopped long ago, as had the words he once exchanged with the other children.
No one spoke anymore. It had been years since he'd heard a single word from anyone other than the overseers. The silence had become a part of them, as much a part of the training as the weapons in their hands. Speaking had become a luxury they could no longer afford. Any sound, any whisper, drew the attention of the overseers, and attention brought punishment.
So they had learned to communicate through glances, through the smallest movements. A shift of the eyes, a slight nod—these were the only conversations they had now. There was no camaraderie, no sense of brotherhood among the children, now grown into teenagers. They were survivors, nothing more. And survival required distance.
The weapons were only a part of it. They were taught other things—darker things.
Poisons, for one. Ravian remembered the first lesson in poisons clearly. The overseers had brought in vials of strange liquids, each one labeled with symbols Ravian had never seen before. They were told to sniff the contents, to memorize the scents. Some of the children had hesitated, fearing the toxins might seep into their lungs and kill them on the spot. Ravian had been one of them.
But hesitation, as always, had brought punishment. He had been grabbed by the collar, his nose shoved into the vial of poison, forced to inhale the sharp, acrid fumes until his head spun and his stomach churned. It hadn't killed him, but the memory of that first bitter scent never left his mind.
The lessons had grown darker after that. They were taught how to create poisons, how to mix them with precision, how to deliver them without being detected. The overseers would demonstrate the effects on small animals—rats, birds, even stray dogs. Ravian had watched as the animals convulsed, their bodies writhing in agony before they stilled, their eyes wide and glassy with death. At first, he had felt horror. But with time, that horror had faded into numbness.
It was the same with everything else they learned. The knowledge they absorbed was vast—books on politics, warfare, assassination techniques, espionage. But the lessons weren't given in classrooms with desks and chairs. They were taught through sleepless nights, with overseers looming over them, waiting for any sign of weakness. Failure to memorize the texts meant pain. Failure to understand them meant more pain.
The world they were being shaped to understand felt distant and unreal. Ravian read about kings and queens, about warlords and empires, about lies and betrayal, but none of it felt like it applied to him. They were being taught how to infiltrate, how to destabilize, how to kill. But for what purpose? What mission awaited them at the end of this brutal education?
The overseers never said. They were tools, that much was clear. But for what? That question gnawed at Ravian, even as his mind grew increasingly numb to the endless cycle of pain and learning.
There were days—weeks, perhaps—where Ravian thought he might break. His mind would blur, and the constant pressure to survive would become too much. But then the numbness would take over again, pushing the thoughts of collapse to the back of his mind, replacing them with a hollow determination to keep going.
It wasn't strength. It was survival, nothing more.
Years had passed, and Ravian had become something else entirely. He no longer flinched when his skin was cut, when his bones were bruised. The pain was there, but it was background noise, a constant hum that he had learned to ignore. His body had become a weapon—one that could wield a sword with precision, that could shoot an arrow through a storm, that could kill with a knife as easily as he could breathe.
But despite the years of training, despite the endless lessons in warfare and death, the overseers had never once told them what they were being prepared for.
Were they soldiers? Assassins? Tools for a war that hadn't yet begun? The word "killer" didn't mean much to Ravian anymore. He knew how to kill. But beyond that, he knew nothing of the life that awaited him. There was no mission, no purpose.
The only thing that remained was the training, the endless cultivation of skills meant to shape them into something deadly. But deadly for what?
Ravian had stopped asking those questions long ago. There was no point in wondering. There was only the next lesson, the next day, the next weapon to master. His life had become a cycle of pain, silence, and survival, with no end in sight.
The seasons changed outside the walls of the facility, but inside, the world remained the same. There was no sun, no moon, no stars—just the cold, unfeeling walls of the place that had become his prison. The snow would fall in winter, covering the ground outside in a blanket of white, but Ravian barely noticed. The leaves would turn red and gold in the autumn, but the colors meant nothing to him.
His only markers of time were the changes in his body. He had grown taller, his muscles thicker and stronger, his reflexes sharper. He could feel the power coursing through him, but it felt detached, like it belonged to someone else. He had become what the overseers wanted, but he still didn't know what that was.
He hadn't spoken a word in years. None of them had.
And yet, there was no rebellion, no desire to escape. The thought of life outside the facility seemed absurd. There was no world for them beyond these walls. They had been shaped into something that existed only to survive, nothing more.
The lessons continued. The weapons changed, but the brutality remained. There were days where Ravian wondered if he would ever feel anything again. His mind, once filled with questions and doubts, had become a blank slate, a vessel for the knowledge they forced upon him.
He had become deadly. But deadly for what? That question lingered in the back of his mind, even as the numbness grew.
The overseers watched, always silent, always waiting. But for what?
Ravian no longer cared.