Supper was as miserable as always– a bowl of lukewarm stew that hardly filled the cracks of our hunger. Cyrus sat across from me, his spoon scraping the bottom of his bowl with a sound that grated on my nerves. I was already on edge, my thoughts tangled with the events of the last few weeks: the brutal training sessions, the King’s constant tightening grip, the void where hope used to be in me, and our marriage. It was all incredibly suffocating.

The camp felt different today, though. Tension hung in the air and I could feel it pressing down on my chest. The soldiers were more irritable, their boots pounding into the ground with more purpose as they moved through the camp, eyes ever-watchful, as if waiting for something else to go wrong.

Across the mess hall, I saw two King’s Guards standing near the entrance, their heads bent close together. They weren’t watching us, at least not directly. Their conversation, low and conspiratorial, caught my attention, and I instinctively leaned closer, straining to hear. I attempted to hide my interest in their conversation by keeping my eyes locked on my dirty glass as I put the water to my lips.

“Seraphiel… fifteen lashes…” one guard muttered, barely audible over the clatter of dishes. 

I froze. Seraphiel? My heart dropped to my stomach as I turned my head slightly toward the guards, listening with a sharp intensity. Cyrus continued eating, unaware of the conversation unraveling across from us.

“...punished for treason,” the guard continued, his voice low and amused, “Speaking out against the King’s orders… said ‘children shouldn’t be used for war’.”

I inhaled sharply, my stomach twisting into knots. Serf Seraphiel had been punished– fifteen lashes. It didn’t sound like Serf Serahpiel to speak out like that because he always told us how careful we had to be. But, deep down, I know that there are lines he doesn’t allow anyone to cross– one of those lines being children.

“They think he is trying to stir up a revolt,” the second guard snickered, “If he’s not careful, he’ll get more than just a flogging.”

I couldn’t bear to listen anymore. My heart was already in my throat. My eyes darted to Cyrus, who had now caught on to the shift in my demeanor. He set his spoon down, his face pale as his eyes locked onto mine.

“What is it, Nemmi?” he asked, his voice low. 

I couldn’t find the words. How could I tell him? How could I make him understand that the man he looked up to, his own father, had been brutally punished for trying to protect the children in this camp?

But before I could answer, the guards' voices grew louder in their laughter, and Cyrus heard it too.

“Fifteen lashes… should have been fifty…” one of them said, chuckling darkly.

“They’re talking about your father,’ I whispered, my throat tightening as I said the words. “H-he was punished.”

Cyrus froze. His face drained of color, and for a moment, I thought he might pass out. His breathing grew louder, and his fists clenched tightly around the edge of the table. The horror in his eyes was unmistakable. 

“He tried to speak out,” I continued softly. “They said he was defending the children being forced into King Varek’s army...”

Cyrus stared at me, his mouth slightly open as if he was trying to speak but couldn’t find his voice. His hands began to tremble, and I could see the storm of emotions raging inside him– emotions I was all too familiar with: fear, anger, helplessness.

“They… They think he is trying to start a revolt,” I finished.

The silence that followed was deafening. I watched as Cyrus’s eyes darted from me to the guards and back again, his mind racing to comprehend the news. His father– his brave, defiant father– had been punished for doing what is right. 

We overheard the guards laughing one last time. “...missed and deformed his face…” he cackled.

Cyrus suddenly stood, the movement so abrupt it knocked his bowl over. The mess of stew spilled onto the table, but he didn’t seem to care. His entire body shook with barely restrained fury. I reached out, grabbing his wrist before he could storm off and do something reckless.

“Cy, don’t,” I urged, my voice trembling. “Please, don’t.”

He shook his head, his chest heaving. For a long, tense moment, Cyrus stood there, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His fists were clenched tightly to his sides as if he were on the verge of hitting something– anything. His face was flushed with anger, the storm brewing in his blue eyes fierce and wild.

“They’re– They will kill him, Nemmi,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “They are going to kill my Dad!”
“But they didn’t,” I said. Even though I said it with so much confidence, doubt still gnawed at me. “They didn’t this time. He is strong. He will survive.”

Cyrus swayed on his feet, his hands shaking. I could see the tears building in his eyes, the pain etched so deeply that it cut me to my core. Slowly, as if his strength was leaving him, he collapsed back down onto the bench, burying his face in his hands. His face grew red, his shoulders shook, and I knew that he was fighting back tears.

“I should’ve fought back…” he muttered, his voice hoarse with guilt. “Back in the Veil, I should’ve fought back. M-maybe I could be there now to heal him.”

“Cy,” I said softly, pulling one of his hands into my own. His tears were on the verge of falling. “This isn’t your fault. Your father spoke out because he knew it was the right thing to do, not because of anything we did or didn’t do.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke. I didn’t know how to help Cy, how to ease the pain he was feeling. My shoulders felt heavy as I watched him tremble and wondered how much longer we would have to deal with this kind of news. Surely, somebody would eventually fight back. 

I suddenly realized I was just as upset as Cyrus at hearing of his father’s flogging. Serf Seraphiel had been a father to me since he rescued me from mine. A tear rolled down my cheek and I let myself daydream about getting out of this place– dream of being with Serf Seraphiel and Cy in No Man’s Land as we trained by our cave.

My thoughts were interrupted by the guard’s screaming at us to clean up and get out of the mess hall.

That night, the barracks were unusually quieter. As Cy and I laid on our cots, the other Mongrels huddled together, whispering about the day’s events. There had been rumors of unrest in the camp for weeks now, whispers of rebellion and resistance from those who weren’t completely brainwashed, but nothing had come of it. Still, after hearing what happened to Serf Seraphiel, I could feel a shift in the air. Fear and tension were growing, and it was only a matter of time.

Cyrus was staring up at the ceiling with a vacant expression. He hadn’t said much since dinner, and I didn’t press him. The news about his father weighed heavily on both of us, and I didn’t have the energy to say anything that might make it worse.

Across the room, the other Spearhead’s were huddled, their voices low but urgent. I caught bits and pieces of their conversation, enough to know that they were discussing something dangerous.

“We can’t stay here forever,” Spearhead Koy said, his tone serious. He was a tall brunette who I had occasionally sparred with in hand-to-hand combat. Even though he towered over me in height, his thin, frail frame spoke of malnourishment and exhaustion. “This camp is a death sentence. Too many other Mongrels have died here due to either training or illness. We need to get out before it’s too late.”

“Get out?” Xia, a petite blonde girl, scoffed. “And how do you suggest we do that, Koy? The guards are everywhere. You saw what happened to William? They used the brand against him and let the wolves maul his face. I don’t know about you, but I’m too pretty to be that seriously deformed.”

I rolled my eyes.

Koy’s frustration was obvious. “There has to be a way past them,” he insisted. “We could sneak out at night, map the security postings. If we time it right, we might be able to make it past the guards. Once we are in the woods, we can–”

“Wander around until we freeze or starve to death?” someone interrupted with a cynical laugh. It was Del, a scarred veteran of the camp, from demonic descent. His dark eyes glittered with skepticism. “We don’t even know where we are, genius. They blindfolded us on the way here. For all we know, we could be days away from civilization.”

The group fell silent for a moment, the weight of reality settling in. No one knew exactly how far the camp was from any kind of civilization. Even if they did manage to escape, there was no telling what dangers lay beyond the walls.

Cyrus shifted beside me, his body tense. I could tell he was listening just as closely as I was. The idea of escape was tempting, but it was also reckless. We’d seen what happened to those who tried to defy the King’s Guards. The punishment was brutal– and too often fatal.

I couldn’t stay quiet any longer. I sat up in my cot and leaned forward, my voice low but firm. “There’s no way out,” I said, cutting through the whispers. The group turned to look at me, their expressions a mix of curiosity, and frustration. “Even if you made it past the guards, you wouldn’t make it far outside the camps. You don’t know where to go, and even if you did, the King’s patrols are everywhere. You’d be dead before you found any safety.”

Koy narrowed his eyes on me. “And what’s your plan, then? Just sit here and wait to die?”

“No,” I replied, my voice steady. “But rushing into something without a plan will get us all killed. We need to be smart about this.”

The group started whispering incoherently, some of them panicking and mentioning just killing themselves so it wouldn’t hurt as much when the inevitable came.

A girl’s voice interrupted, silencing the chaos. “Noemi, you were taken directly to the King’s palace. You must know something about how far we are, right?” Xia asked, looking at me.

“I don’t remember much,” I admitted, feeling the weight of their expectations pressing on me. “It was all a blur. I was barely conscious for most of it, and by the time I realized where I was, I had no sense of direction.”

I could see the disappointment in their faces, but I had to be honest. There was no point in giving them a false hope.

Another Mongrel spoke up. She was a younger, angelic girl, who couldn’t have been more than fifteen. “But how long can we wait? There are bound to be more deaths in the camp– even if we waited only a few more months.”

I didn’t have an answer for her. I knew she was right. Every day in this camp was another day of losing more of ourselves. But without a solid plan, escape was suicide.

We either die in the camps of injury and illness, or we die trying to leave.

“We wait until we have a real chance,” I said finally, my voice quiet but resolute. “And when that chance comes, we take it.”

After a moment, the group fell silent and crawled into their cots in defeat. I looked at Cyrus one more time as he slowly shut his eyes, a hint of resignation, and I could have sworn I saw a tear roll down his face in the dim lighting. 

My heart shattered. I deeply wished that I could say something to ease his pain, but the only thing I could do was scoot my cot closer to his, and lightly hold his fingers in my hand.

For now, I hoped that was enough.