Fred didn't remember how they pulled him out of the arena.
He didn't remember the Overseers spitting at him or the recruits sneering as he stumbled through the corridors.
All he remembered was the weight of Lira's tiny, broken body in his arms.
The warmth of her blood soaking into his skin.
And the cold, pitiless laughter of the Hollow.
Something in Fred was gone now.
Something he wasn't sure he could ever get back.
He moved like a ghost through the Hollow's lower levels, dragged by two masked guards.
Not to the dormitories.
Not to the cages.
Somewhere deeper.
Somewhere worse.
---
The stairs spiraled down into darkness.
No torches here.
Only the dripping of water and the groaning of ancient stones.
The guards said nothing.
Fred didn't either.
What was there left to say?
When they finally reached the bottom, a heavy iron door awaited.
Symbols were carved into it — old, angry runes that seemed to writhe when Fred tried to focus on them.
One guard rapped three times with his knuckles.
A voice on the other side snarled.
> "Password."
The guard hissed something in a language Fred didn't know.
The door creaked open.
The guards shoved Fred inside.
Then slammed the door behind him.
He was alone.
Or so he thought.
---
The room was vast and circular, lit only by a single flickering brazier in the center.
Figures emerged from the shadows.
A dozen of them.
Men and women.
Some young.
Some ancient.
All scarred.
All broken in ways that made Fred's own suffering seem small.
Their eyes glowed faintly in the firelight — not with magic, but with a kind of madness born from surviving the unsurvivable.
One stepped forward.
A woman.
Tall.
Muscular.
Face half burned.
One eye missing, the other cold and gray.
She wore a patchwork cloak of stitched-together fabrics — trophies from every recruit she had outlasted.
Her voice was like gravel dragged over glass.
> "Name," she barked.
Fred hesitated.
Then said, voice hoarse,
> "Fred."
The woman sneered.
> "You're no Fred here."
> "You're nothing."
She paced around him slowly, studying him like a butcher sizing up a piece of meat.
> "You want revenge?"
Fred said nothing.
She backhanded him so hard he staggered.
> "Answer."
Fred tasted blood.
Raised his head.
And whispered,
> "Yes."
The woman smiled.
It was not a kind smile.
> "Good."
> "Then you'll bleed for it."
---
She nodded to the others.
They formed a rough circle around Fred.
Someone threw a dagger at his feet.
The same cruel curve as the one Lira had held.
Fred didn't flinch.
The woman spoke again.
> "There's no place for weakness here."
> "No dreams."
> "No hope."
> "Only blood."
She gestured to a scarred man who stepped forward, holding out his hand.
His palm was already slashed open, blood dripping steadily onto the stones.
The woman cut her own palm without hesitation, letting her blood mix with his.
One by one, the others followed.
When they were done, they looked at Fred.
Expectant.
Demanding.
Fred understood.
He picked up the dagger.
Without a word, he slashed his palm.
The blade bit deep.
Pain flared white-hot.
Blood welled up and spilled onto the stones, joining theirs.
The woman's voice thundered through the chamber.
> "Speak the Oath."
Fred waited.
She began, and he repeated each line after her, voice growing stronger with each word.
> "I am broken."
> "I am remade."
> "I am the vengeance of the forgotten."
> "I am the fire in the Hollow's veins."
> "I will tear it down stone by stone."
> "I will bleed, and I will burn, and I will never kneel."
> "Until the Hollow is nothing but ash."
When the final word left his lips, the others roared approval.
The woman clapped a hand on his shoulder, almost knocking him over.
> "Welcome to the Breakers."
> "Now," she said, a wicked grin spreading across her face, "let's see if you live long enough to matter."
--
They didn't give him time to rest.
Or think.
Or mourn.
Pain was their gift.
Pain was their forge.
Fred was thrown into trial after brutal trial.
First, the Pit.
A blackened trench filled with broken glass and burning coals.
He had to crawl through it blindfolded, with the Breakers whipping him if he slowed.
His skin shredded.
His lungs burned.
But he kept moving.
> For Lira.
Then the Gauntlet.
A narrow hallway lined with armed recruits, each allowed one strike as he passed.
Fred staggered through, fists and boots slamming into him from all sides.
Ribs cracked.
Teeth loosened.
He collapsed once.
Twice.
The third time, they warned him.
No more getting up.
Or they would kill him where he lay.
So he rose.
And kept walking.
> For Theo.
Finally, the Crucible.
An underground cage match against three other initiates.
No weapons.
No rules.
Only survival.
Fred had never killed before.
Not really.
But that night, in the Crucible, he learned what it meant to fight with nothing left but fury and despair.
When it was over, Fred stood alone.
Breathing hard.
Bleeding from a dozen wounds.
But alive.
The others didn't move.
Couldn't.
The Breakers dragged the bodies away without ceremony.
The woman — their leader — approached.
> "You lived."
Fred met her gaze.
Something cold and terrible in his eyes.
> "I'm not done."
The woman laughed, deep and genuine.
For the first time, Fred realized what the Breakers were.
Not a rebellion.
Not a hope.
They were a disease.
A rot inside the Hollow.
Spreading.
Waiting.
Biding their time.
And now, Fred was one of them.
A blade hidden in the heart of the beast.
Waiting for the moment to strike.
---