The night passed slowly.
Too slowly.
Despite the exhaustion weighing on their bodies, sleep refused to come easily.
The barracks stretched endlessly beneath the dim lanternlight.
Rows upon rows of beds.
Hundreds of candidates.
Thousands more scattered throughout Varkas.
Yet silence ruled the room.
Not peaceful silence.
The silence of people trying not to think.
Trying not to remember.
The road.
The forest.
The scream.
The severed hand.
Zeven stared at the wooden ceiling above him.
Sleep wouldn't come.
Every time he closed his eyes, fragments of the ancient battlefield returned.
Fire.
Blood.
Endless war.
A sky split apart by forces beyond imagination.
The memories faded quickly whenever he tried to focus on them.
Like smoke slipping through his fingers.
Only the feeling remained.
The feeling that what he had witnessed was real.
Not a dream.
Not an illusion.
Something far older.
Far more important.
Beside him, Dak suddenly rolled over.
"This bed is terrible."
Nobody answered.
A few moments later:
"It really is."
Still silence.
A boot flew through the darkness.
Dak barely avoided it.
"HEY!"
"Sleep."
Ozias' voice came from somewhere nearby.
"I can't."
"Then suffer quietly."
Dak grumbled.
Matthew laughed.
A genuine laugh.
Small.
Brief.
Yet somehow comforting.
For a moment, the tension eased.
Only for a moment.
Outside the barracks, a horn echoed through the city.
Deep.
Powerful.
Ancient.
The sound rolled across Varkas like distant thunder.
Every candidate immediately became silent.
Another horn followed.
Then another.
Then nothing.
The city returned to silence.
Nobody slept after that.
Morning arrived cold.
Much colder than anyone expected.
The candidates were awakened before sunrise.
Soldiers marched through the barracks.
"Move."
Nobody argued.
Within minutes thousands of candidates flooded the streets of Varkas.
For the first time they saw the city in daylight.
And it felt even less welcoming.
The massive black walls towered overhead.
Soldiers filled every street.
Mercenaries moved through the crowds.
Armor clattered.
Weapons gleamed.
Nobody looked relaxed.
Nobody looked safe.
The city felt like a fortress preparing for war.
Not a place where people lived.
A place where people survived.
The candidates were eventually gathered once more inside the massive central square.
Thousands stood shoulder to shoulder.
Waiting.
Watching.
Then soldiers arrived.
Dozens of them.
Behind them rolled large wooden carts.
The crowd stirred immediately.
The white-haired woman stepped forward.
Instant silence followed.
"Everything you receive today belongs to the Institution."
Her voice carried across the square effortlessly.
"If you lose it."
"If you destroy it."
"If you sell it."
Her cold eyes swept across the crowd.
"You will regret it."
Nobody doubted her.
The distribution began.
Hours passed.
The lines moved slowly.
When Zeven and the others finally reached the front, a tired-looking quartermaster sat behind a long wooden table.
Without even looking up, he shoved several bundles toward them.
"Next."
Dak frowned.
"That's all?"
The quartermaster slowly lifted his eyes.
"Would you prefer a personal servant?"
Dak immediately shut up.
The man nodded.
"Thought so."
The bundles contained:
A sleeveless black battle tunic.
Reinforced black combat trousers.
Leather forearm guards.
A utility belt.
A dark travel cloak.
A backpack.
A bedroll.
A waterskin.
Preserved rations.
Simple.
Practical.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Zeven examined the tunic.
The fabric felt unusual.
Light.
Yet strangely durable.
Thin silver-gray lines ran through the material.
"What is this?"
The quartermaster glanced at him.
"Umbrium-threaded cloth."
Several nearby candidates immediately paid attention.
"The metal?"
Matthew asked.
The man nodded.
"Not enough to make armor."
His finger tapped one of the gray threads.
"But enough to reinforce the fabric."
Dak immediately looked impressed.
"So it's valuable?"
The quartermaster snorted.
"Compared to dirt? Yes."
The candidates around them laughed nervously.
The quartermaster continued.
"Don't get excited."
"You aren't important enough for real Umbrium."
That ended the excitement immediately.
The boys changed into their uniforms.
The sleeveless tunics fit surprisingly well.
The exposed arms allowed unrestricted movement.
The high collars gave the clothing a military appearance.
For the first time since arriving in Nythara, they looked like actual candidates of the Institution.
Not ordinary teenagers.
Something else.
Dak examined himself proudly.
"I look dangerous."
"You look stupid."
Ozias answered instantly.
Matthew laughed.
Even Kael smirked.
Dak looked offended.
"Why is nobody supporting me?"
"Because you're Dak."
The answer came from all three.
Zeven glanced at a polished piece of metal resting against one of the carts.
For a brief moment, he saw his reflection.
Sapphire-blue eyes.
Dark hair tied back into a loose man bun.
Strands falling across his forehead.
Broader shoulders.
Lean muscle replacing the softness of his old life.
The black uniform fit him as if it had been made for him.
He barely recognized the boy staring back.
Several hours later the distribution finally ended.
Thousands of candidates now stood dressed in identical black uniforms.
A sea of dark cloth stretched across the square.
The white-haired woman stepped forward one final time.
The crowd immediately became silent.
Her gaze moved across them.
Judging.
Measuring.
Waiting.
Then she spoke.
"Enjoy the comfort of Varkas."
Nobody liked where this was going.
"Because it ends today."
The massive northern gates slowly began opening.
Stone grinding against stone echoed throughout the city.
Beyond them stretched a road.
Long.
Ancient.
Disappearing into distant mountains.
A road leading toward the Eclipsera Conclave.
Toward the Institution.
Toward whatever waited beyond.
"The journey continues."
Her voice remained calm.
Cold.
Unforgiving.
"Many of you will never reach your destination."
No one spoke.
"The weak will fail."
"The foolish will die."
"The arrogant will die first."
Fear spread through the crowd.
Not panic.
Something worse.
Acceptance.
The woman pointed north.
"The road awaits."
Silence consumed the square.
Then the soldiers began moving.
The candidates followed.
Thousands leaving Varkas together.
Marching toward the unknown.
Toward the Institution.
Toward the Bridge of Death.
And as Zeven crossed the northern gate, he couldn't shake the feeling growing inside his chest.
The feeling that Nythara had only shown them a tiny fraction of its true face.
And that the darkness ahead would make the road behind seem merciful.
The endless line of candidates disappeared into the northern horizon.
Some walked with excitement.
Some with ambition.
Some with dreams of glory.
None of them understood what truly awaited them.
The road ahead would strip away names.
Friendships.
Pride.
Illusions.
Many would never see Varkas again.
Many would never even reach the Institution.
The mountains watched in silence.
Unmoving.
Ancient.
As they had watched countless generations before.
As they had watched countless candidates walk north.
And countless bodies return south.