The training field became a relentless, mechanized inferno—a place designed not to teach but to break. Every obstacle course pushed recruits beyond their limits, demanding endurance most didn’t know they had. Neon-drenched signs flickered above the training grounds, casting jagged shadows over the muddy trenches and sparking wires below. Each buzz of light, each ominous crackle of electricity, felt like a taunt, daring them to falter.

  Hrafn’s augmented spine throbbed with a low, persistent ache, a constant reminder of the debt he carried—etched into his flesh as much as his soul. Ahead lay the trench run, a gauntlet of slick ditches lined with sparking electrical wires. The stench of ozone clung thick in the air, mingling with the earthy tang of churned mud.

  Hrafn sprinted forward, each step sinking into the mire, his boots slipping against shifting earth as he fought to stay upright. The wires snapped perilously close to his arms and tail, the heat of their charge tingling at the edges of his fur like an unseen predator, waiting to strike. His heart thundered in his chest, pounding in time with the rhythmic hum of the wires overhead. Every step was a battle, each hard-won inch a testament to grit.

  Halfway through, he caught a flicker of movement—a Nivren recruit, half-buried in the mud, twitching in instinctive fear. Their whiskers stiffened, their limbs tense but useless against the weight of the muck. Hrafn saw them—saw the struggle, the desperation. He should keep moving. He knew that. The trench didn’t care who fell behind.

  But something about the way their claws scraped uselessly against the earth made his chest tighten.

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  The Nivren lurched forward, trying to pull themselves free, but the mud dragged them back, sucking at their limbs. A spark snapped dangerously close to their shoulder, lighting their wide-eyed panic with a flickering glow.

  Hrafn gritted his teeth.

  "Move!" he barked, lunging forward and grabbing the recruit’s arm with a firm grip.

  For a heartbeat, the recruit froze, their claws scrabbling helplessly against the mud. Then, as Hrafn pulled, they began to climb free, their thin legs trembling but pushing forward. Together, they surged toward the exit, the sparks snapping and hissing like living embers, chasing them out of the trench.

  The moment Hrafn emerged, the acrid stench of burnt fabric and ozone slammed into him. His uniform clung to him, charred and tattered, the melted sleeve fused to his skin, dragging painfully with every movement. Pain seared through his nerves like molten iron, but his focus remained unbroken. His mother’s face flashed in his mind, her fiery determination igniting something deep within him, and he pressed on.

  Beside him, the Nivren recruit collapsed, panting, their small chest rising and falling in sharp gasps. For a long moment, they sat in silence, mud streaking their fur, fear lingering in their eyes. But then, a grim smile tugged at the corners of their mouth.

  "Guess you’re not so bad for a lunar rat," they muttered, their voice trembling slightly but carrying a faint hint of gratitude.

  Before Hrafn could respond, heavy footsteps signaled the approach of Drill Sergeant Rykhar. The weight of his presence settled over them, thick as smoke, his towering frame blotting out the dim light. His glowing cyber-eye flickered as it scanned the destruction around them.