The days blurred together, each marked by relentless training. At dawn, they were hauled from their ragged tents to the yard, where soldiers drilled them in swordplay, pushing their endurance to the brink. Eric loathed every moment, his mind constantly probing for an escape, yet the threat of a swift execution kept him in line.

  Their numbers had dwindled from fifty to a mere fifteen. Most were around his age—a tight-knit group of four boys, perhaps seventeen to nineteen, who clung to each other, remnants of their previous world. Among them were five middle-aged men, their faces etched with despair. Then there was the girl, Leah, whom Eric had spoken to; she seemed about nineteen. The rest were a mix of ages and genders, all bound by shared misery.

  Eric, nineteen, stood tall at six foot three, his white skin stretched over a lean frame. Once athletic from sports back home, he had withered to a survivor's physique, ribs jutting from constant hunger. Brown eyes, an angular yet boyish face, and unkempt brown hair completed the picture of a young man thrust into a brutal existence. The purpose behind their captivity eluded him. Some possessed strange, supernatural abilities, but none seemed particularly useful. If their captors truly valued these powers, why treat them like refuse instead of nurturing them into capable soldiers?

  Eric's own "power" was the presence of Bjorn, the hulking barbarian specter who shadowed his every move. He recalled a night when, seeking a moment's solace, Bjorn's gruff voice had interrupted, "Having a little wank? Out here? You might actually have some stones on you after all, lad." The memory made him shudder.

  Lined up for training, Eric glanced at Leah beside him. She stood about five foot nine, her dark skin smeared with dirt, yet he sensed a beauty beneath the grime. She caught his eye, offering a curious look before turning back to the Colonel, who was preparing to speak.

  "Well, good fucking morning to you all," the Colonel sneered. "You lot could stand to give me a smile, I reckon. It's depressing teaching a bunch of sorry bitches like you." His gaze swept over the fifteen disheveled captives. "We're gonna begin today with some drills. I'm gonna turn you all into some fine fucking troops." He flashed a grin, revealing yellowed, crooked teeth, then barked orders at his guards, who tossed out training irons.

  The weapons hit the ground with dull thuds, and the prisoners scrambled to pick them up. Eric's fingers closed around the cold iron of a practice sword, its weight unfamiliar and unwelcome. He glanced at Leah again, noting the determination in her eyes as she hefted her own weapon. Now that he noticed her looks, he found himself looking over at her more frequently, unable to help himself, his eyes drawn to the slight curve around her waist.

  "What are you looking at?" she muttered, not unkindly.

  He glanced away and blushed. "Sorry," he muttered under his breath. "Just wondering how you're gonna use that thing."

  She narrowed her eyes at him. "Why don’t you mind your own business, okay?"

  "Stay focused, brat," Bjorn's voice growled in his ear.

  "Jesus fuck!" Eric jumped back, others looking at him confused. His eyes moved to the ground, embarrassed.

  The guards, noticing the commotion, wasted no time. One, a burly man with a jagged scar across his cheek, stomped over and slammed the butt of his spear into Eric's stomach.

  "Eyes front, maggot," he snarled as Eric doubled over, gasping for breath.

  "Discipline," the Colonel barked from the front, his voice dripping with disdain. "Without it, you're less than useless."

  The guards began their brutal instruction, demonstrating basic stances and strikes with a mechanical precision that spoke of years on the battlefield.

  "Feet apart, knees bent," one guard barked, shoving a prisoner into position. "Grip the hilt like your life depends on it—because it does."

  Eric struggled to mimic the stance, his muscles protesting the unfamiliar movements. The weight of the sword dragged at his arms, and sweat trickled down his back despite the morning chill.

  "Pathetic," a guard sneered, slapping the flat of his blade against Eric's thigh. "Put some strength into it, or you'll be dead before you can blink."

  Beside him, Leah fared no better. Her hands trembled as she tried to hold the sword steady, her knuckles white with the effort.

  "This is pointless," she muttered under her breath.

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  "No," Eric replied quietly, his eyes fixed on the guard pacing before them. "This is survival."

  Hours bled together as they drilled the same movements over and over, the guards' insults and blows raining down on any perceived mistake. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, Eric's body was a tapestry of bruises, his muscles quivering with exhaustion.

  That night, as the camp settled into an uneasy quiet, Eric lay on the cold ground, staring up at the stars.

  "You did better today," Bjorn's voice rumbled beside him.

  "Felt like I was being beaten to death," Eric muttered.

  "Aye," Bjorn chuckled. "That's the point. Break you down to build you up. But you're not broken yet, boy."

  Eric turned his head to see the ghostly figure of the barbarian sitting cross-legged beside him, sharpening a spectral axe.

  "Why are you here?" Eric asked, the question burning in his mind.

  Bjorn paused, his gaze distant. "Im as lost as you are, but i reckon ill help you not die cause i got nothim’ better ta dol" He spoke in his distinctive almost scottish accent.

  Before Eric could press further, a soft rustling caught his attention. Leah approached, her silhouette outlined by the faint glow of the campfires.

  "Couldn't sleep," she said softly, sitting beside him.

  "Me neither," Eric replied, glancing at Bjorn, who had faded into the shadows.

  They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their situation hanging heavy between them.

  "This is so fucked, I wish we could just get out of this place.” She said, her voice hoarse and strained from the harsh training. She leaned back against the ground, her elbows resting on the dirt.

  “Yeah, it doesnt make any sense at all. You were in that airport too?” he asked her.

  She looked down, a distant look on her face and shifted uncofrtably, “I was, but I dont wanna think about that anymore.”

  Eric understood that all too well, remembering his friends pleading cries as they turned blacked from the fire.He put his head into his hands, weeping and sobbing quietly, overcome with sudden emotion as it burst forth like a dam suddenly unblocked. Leah placed her hand on his back, perhaps unsure of how to handle the situation. (AI here)

  The next morning, Eric awoke to more training. More fucking training. Would they ever be done? How about when they actually went to battle, if they survived that long. Would he have to kill men? Men he knew nothing about or cared nothing for why he was fighting, killing just to kill because his captors had forced him to? He pushed those thoughts away, focusing on the brutal training that was coming his way.

  The training was much the same as the day before, nad the days before that. Hours spent swinging steels, miles ran and stamina pushed to the absolute limit every day.

  Eric stood next to leah, training irons in hand, swinging relentlessly at imingary foes when he noticed a commotion down the line.

  “Fucking useless! You’ve been training for two weeks now and still your form is shit. You can barely lift the damn thing.” He backhanded the boy of 17 across the face, sending him sprawling. Surprisingly, he never hit the ground. He hovered a few inches off the ground before taking off into the air, flying. What the fuck.

  “Fuck youuu” He yelled as he soared into the distance his voice growing faint.

  The air hung heavy with the metallic tang of blood and sweat, the oppressive weight of despair pressing down on the camp. Eric's eyes widened, disbelief etched across his grime-streaked face as the boy ascended, defying the very laws of nature. The guards, momentarily stunned, exchanged uneasy glances, their authority challenged by this inexplicable phenomenon.

  "What in the hells...?" the scarred guard muttered, his grip tightening on his spear as if seeking reassurance from its solid heft.

  The Colonel's eyes narrowed, a predatory gleam flickering within them. "Bring him down," he ordered, voice cold as the grave.

  Archers scrambled, their movements frantic, bows creaking as arrows were nocked and drawn. The boy's ascent slowed, his expression a twisted mask of fear and defiance. A volley of arrows sliced through the air, dark streaks against the dimming sky.

  One found its mark, piercing the boy's leg. He cried out, the sound a raw, primal wail that echoed through the camp. His flight faltered, body convulsing as he plummeted back to the unforgiving earth, landing with a sickening thud.

  Silence, thick and suffocating, enveloped the scene. The guards approached the crumpled form cautiously, prodding with the tips of their weapons. The boy's eyes, wide and unseeing, stared up at the encroaching night, chest heaving with ragged, shallow breaths.

  The Colonel knelt beside the boy, studying him with a detached curiosity, as one might observe a pinned insect. "No," he said softly, a cruel smile tugging at his lips. "This is an opportunity."

  He rose, turning to address the assembled prisoners, his voice carrying the weight of authority and menace. "You see what happens when discipline falters, when order is defied." His gaze swept over them, eyes cold and unyielding. "Let this be a lesson."

  Eric's stomach churned, bile rising in his throat. Beside him, Leah's face was ashen, eyes fixed on the boy's broken form. The camp seemed to close in around them, the weight of their captivity a suffocating shroud. Bjorn watched from behind him, his ghostly figure standing ominous.

  As darkness settled, the guards dragged the boy's limp body away, leaving a dark stain upon the trampled ground. The prisoners were herded back to their tents, the promise of more brutal training looming over them like a death sentence.

  That night, sleep was a distant, elusive specter. Eric lay awake, the image of the boy's lifeless eyes burned into his mind. The stars above offered no comfort, cold and indifferent to the suffering below.