Today was the most brutal day I've ever lived through. My muscles are screaming, my hands are raw with blisters, and I'm pretty sure I've sweated out half my body weight. Before I could even ask what being a recruit meant, I met Dean Malkiron—a beast of a man with a face like carved granite and eyes that could freeze hell itself. "Time to dance with death," he growled, tossing me a spear that nearly took my nose off when I fumbled the catch.
For three excruciating hours, he drilled me through what they call "the Pattern"—a deadly choreography of one hundred-eleven precise movements. Of course it had to be one hundred-eleven. Thrust, parry, sidestep, roll, stab, block. Over and over and over. By movement fifty, my lungs were on fire. By seventy-five, my arms felt like lead weights. By ninety, I was seeing spots. When I finally collapsed at the end, Malkiron just stood over me, not even breathing hard, and said, "Again."
The Pattern isn't just exercise—it's the Company's heartbeat. Every single member practices it daily with these identical two-meter spears they all carry. The weapons themselves are masterpieces—polished ash wood with strange symbols carved along the shaft, and a detachable head that transforms into a hooked dagger with a twist and click. Mine still feels awkward and heavy in my hands, but watching the veterans move through the Pattern is like witnessing deadly poetry.
"Lose this spear," warned the quartermaster, a one-eyed man with fingers missing on both hands, "and you'll wish you'd died in the gutter where we found you." I almost laughed. What would I pay him with? The lint in my pockets? The dried blood under my fingernails? Still, the way he looked at me made it clear: in the Hundred-eleven , that spear is now worth more than my life.
I am totally useless with a spear by the way. All day was just me stumbling around, nearly stabbing myself twice and almost taking off another recruit's ear. My hands kept sliding on the shaft, and the balance felt all wrong. I couldn't even hold the stance without wobbling like a drunk sailor.
After wolfing down a bowl warm stew that tasted heavenly, we went right back at it for three more brutal hours. By the end, tears were streaming down my face. I couldn't stop them. My palms were raw and bleeding, and my shoulders felt like they'd been pulled from their sockets. When Malkiron saw me wiping my eyes, he just laughed and called it "basic novice initiation." I hate him with every fiber of my being.
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The strange thing is, I should be dead. The old me from only two days ago—the street rat from Tullanon—would have collapsed hours ago. But somehow I'm still standing, though my legs feel like jelly. Magnar, the burly guy from my squad with the scar , explained it while we were catching our breath.
"It's the Grimoire," he whispered, glancing around suspiciously. "Once you're bound to it, you get tougher. Heal faster too. Some say you can even shrug off magic attacks, though I've never seen it myself."
I tried asking the others about the Grimoire—what it wants, why we serve it—but most just turned away. The few who didn't were as clueless as me. Only Malkiron gave me anything useful, and that was just a grunt about how "the battlefield reveals all secrets."
One thing is clear though: I'm stuck with this deal until I die. Forever bound to a book made of skin and filled with blood-inked pages. Sometimes I feel something stirring inside me when I think about it—like a hunger that isn't mine. Or maybe it's just that stew churning in my gut. Either way, I'm starting to wonder if death in a random alley might have been kinder than whatever fate the Grimoire has in store for me.
Anyway, I heard we've got a few days before we leave Tullanon. Most people call it the "Floating City" because half of it sits on wooden pillars above the murky water. I was born here, in the eastern slums where the pillars rot and houses tilt like drunks about to fall over. The stink of fish guts and clam shells is in every breath you take. That's where the money is—the clam industry. Rich merchants get fat while guys like me had to steal just to eat.
The history books in the company library (yes, killers can read too) say Tullanon is one of the biggest trading ports in the kingdom. But they don't mention how the fog rolls in so thick some mornings that you can't see your own feet, or how the constant dampness makes everything smell like mold and decay.
Sometimes I stand at the edge of the training yard and stare at the road leading out of the city. I've never been beyond those gates. What's out there? Forests where trees grow taller than buildings? Mountains that scrape the sky? Deserts where the sun bakes the ground until it cracks? The thought makes my heart race, but then my stomach knots up too. What if the rest of the world is even worse than here?
Yesterday, I overheard some veterans calling us "the Split Ends." When I asked why, they just laughed and walked away. Malkiron saw me asking and smacked me upside the head. "Focus on staying alive first, questions later," he barked. Just another mystery to add to my growing list. I might be recruit one hundred-eleven for now, but I won't always be at the bottom.
