Morning came far too quickly for Motus, and the traitorous golden light of the sun skipped right through the unblocked gateway of his window without any regard for the boy’s slumber; perhaps it was jealous his eyes had stolen its color. The light struck Motus square in the face, bathing him in a warm, gentle, and entirely unwelcome glow. His eyelids offered little in the way of protection from the invader who’d come to steal his sleep. Motus scrunched his face in discomfort, trying futilely to cling to the fading whisper of sleep, but cracked his eyes open before long; he knew it was a losing battle from the moment the first flickers of radiance peppered his face. Being woken up by the sun was a new experience for Motus. Typically, he was awoken by a harsh barking of his name. It was something of a novel thing; perhaps he could even get used to it if it allowed him the chance to rest. Motus thought he could get used to sleeping in; he let loose a rather hefty yawn and moved to lean back into the softest bed he had ever had the pleasure of resting his head against. It was a special kind of serenity, a hanging peace that felt almost like magic. Unfortunately, that spell was shattered by a sound, crisp, clear, singular—definite.

  Knock.

  One knock, and not one even particularly heavy-handed; yet it carried all the gravitas of a judge’s gavel. A sense of finality accompanied that knock, and Motus could almost physically see his dreams of rest scampering out through the same window that had let the light in. A low groan left Motus’s lips as he rolled from the bed reluctantly, getting to his feet in one quick motion—the longer he delayed, the worse this, whatever it was, would likely be for him. He allowed himself a single small mercy in the form of time to stretch towards the ceiling, delighting in the series of pops the motion elicited from his spine.

  When the final pop drew a sigh of relief from Motus, he knew it was time to go. He got dressed quickly, drawing clothes from the closet nearest his bed—Motus never recalled actually getting clothes to fill it, but it was never empty. Once he was decent, the boy walked towards the door, past the empty beds in the room, which still left him disconcerted; it roused uncomfortable questions to the forefront of his mind. Questions like: Why am I alone here? Where was everyone else? How have I not run into anyone else since that first day?

  Unfortunately, those questions didn’t hurry to give him any answers and only added to his anxious ramblings; so Motus tried to distract himself and focus on something else as quickly as possible. He reached the door as fast as his tired legs could carry him—almost stumbling into the wooden frame nose-first in his haste. Another knock hadn’t come yet, but Motus was still skittish from the first and fumbled the door’s handle for a moment before easing the creaking door open. He came face-to-face with the taller, white-haired boy from the night before. Sieg looked about as friendly as usual, which meant he had all the approachability of a malfunctioning wood-chipper.

  “Good morning, Sieg—” Motus tried, weariness dripping from his words.

  “Outside, training.” Sieg interrupted, turning and stalking down the hall.

  Motus started after him and kept pace rather easily with Sieg, even if he did ensure he stayed a bit behind the older boy, for fear of insulting him and getting stabbed, or some other reprisal. The two traversed the twisting, cavernous halls in silence until they approached a large pair of doors that led outside. Motus was momentarily stunned when they took those first steps into the light; the brightness was a jarring contrast to the dimly lit cavern they had walked through.

  When spots stopped dancing across his vision, the forest before him had all but transformed from the night before. Gone were the twisting roots, thorn-landed vines, and brambles. In its place was an all but paved path, packed dirt smooth and free of debris. The path curved as it stretched out of sight, leading deeper into the forest, but Motus felt he was secure in thinking that the path kept its uniform nature all the way around. Looking at the majesty of the path that had seemingly sprung up overnight, Motus was suddenly struck by a thought. He was not sure where it had come from, perhaps glancing at the nearly humming leaves as they pulsed with life and vitality had brought it on, but the thought was as strong as it was singular.

  Wade. Wade did this.

  It just seemed right; it meshed with what he had seen the older boy do some days prior now. Sieg wasted no time in marching down the path like someone had stolen from him, and as Motus was forced to jog to keep pace, he couldn’t help the smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. Wade hadn’t gone up in smoke after all; it was a buoying thought that roused his spirits, an uplifting feeling he clung to even as he followed Sieg into parts unknown. Yet, as warm as the thought that the people who had saved him were still around was, it was tempered by a single question—Where were they?

  The journey was not a long one, fifteen minutes at a pace that approached marching but stopped just short of a jog, and at the end of it all, Motus was not anywhere near winded. But what he saw next took his breath away. It was the forest clearing he had run off to when Sieg had used his gift on him, and he had panicked, but it had been transformed. It was nearly unrecognizable: The large obsidian-barked trees had been cleared for nearly one hundred feet in all directions, forming a ring—a natural boundary. Within that boundary was—Motus struggled to rationalize it as anything but an obstacle course, an obstacle course from hell.

  Large pits were interspersed by moving parts, swinging trees, and vines that moved as if alive. At the end of a large runway was something that reminded Motus of the rock walls he had seen on TV ads growing up: made up of vines, wood, and something else that Motus could not name. Except, in those ads, there were wires and pulleys to ensure no one broke something if—or when—they fell. There was no such safety precaution here, though. As Motus stared up at the climbing wall, he noted in awe and no small amount of trepidation that it nearly reached the colossal dark tree tops. Dread began to pool in Motus’s belly as a realization dawned on him; he knew what Sieg expected from him. Training, the Commander had called it, training that he placed Sieg in charge of. Sieg definitely wanted him to run this course. He wanted him to climb this nearly thirty-foot wall with nary a rope to secure him, and he most likely wanted him to do it often. He had a question—a few if he were honest with himself—as was quickly becoming the norm, Sieg was quick to speak before he could finish organizing his thoughts.

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  “Two weeks.”

  It was a simple, if ominous statement, one that Sieg didn’t seem initially keen to expand upon, but some measure of Motus’s confusion must have shown on his face because the white-haired boy continued.

  “There are two weeks until your first hunt. I have two weeks to make sure you don’t become dinner for some falion beast that gets lucky your first night, so I’m going to put you through your paces—I have to.”

  Sieg walked closer to the ‘obstacle course’ with purpose. When he was but a few feet from the starting runway, a twisting mass of gnarled roots rose from the ground to greet him; Motus turned at the sight, whipping around to try and spot Wade, but came up empty. The slight tinkling of mischievous laughter that bubbled up somewhere in the distance did soothe the pang of hurt somewhat. Unperturbed by Motus’s actions, Sieg merely reached out a gloved hand for the mass of roots that Motus noted was something akin to a plant-podium. When he touched it, the entire course seemed to pulse and come alive: the swinging pendulums of massive logs began moving faster, shifting platforms grew less forgiving in their attempts to shake off those who would dare tread. Motus was fairly certain he saw spikes somewhere in the distance and could only gulp.

  “I understand. When should I start?” Motus asked, eyeing the course with a level of trepidation usually reserved for shark-infested waters—or public speaking.

  “Now,” Sieg responded casually, the next words spoken as though they were afterthoughts. “Don’t use your gift.”

  His own personal safety net had just been cut, and anxiety started to take root. Golden eyes glanced back at icy blue orbs in uncertainty and found that they held no compassion; only an ironclad determination was reflected in those eyes. Motus nodded and set his footing before rushing forward at a full sprint, his shoes crunching on the drier leaves that clung to the path. Motus immediately disliked this exercise. Trying not to use his gift while pushing himself to run as fast as he could felt almost like running with his arms tied behind his back. It was almost as if now that he knew what his body could do, not doing so was somehow doing it a disservice. He yearned to run freely, and even though he was moving unimpeded, Motus felt like he was running in a cage.

  The bronze-skinned young man sprinted up the slight incline of the opening ramp and came across the thick platformed path that led to the climbing wall. It was an unassuming pathway that seemed to stretch further than it had any right to.

  How in the world did Sieg and Wade put this together in a day?

  The thought came to Motus unprompted, but it was one he couldn’t seem to shake. It was a distracting one, so much so that Motus nearly missed it when the floor split and spikes suddenly erupted from within the gaps. Motus panicked but was urged on by the desire to keep running. When he did his patented ‘panic leap,’ Motus sprang forward, not back. The jump made him sail well above the sudden obstruction in his path. He covered a surprising amount of distance with the move, but when he touched the platform again, Motus landed poorly, twisting as he did so and turning his leap into a rough tumble. He was sent sprawling, and after fighting back to his feet, Motus felt a shooting pain race through his body. It started in his shoulder and throbbed angrily as if in protest every time he moved.

  If he wasn’t preoccupied trying to figure out how to climb one-handed, Motus likely would have gone green at the ugly purple color his shoulder was. As it was, the pain was already fading to a very uncomfortable numbness, and Motus leapt towards the climbing wall. When he raised both arms to begin his ascent and catch onto one of the rocky handholds, agony flared in his shoulder, but it was pain Motus could ignore. Through a careful gritting of teeth spurred on by the fact that creatures like what had nearly killed him in the woods wanted to eat him, Motus began to climb the wall.

  It took him an amount of time he was less than proud of, but when he eventually swung himself to the top of the wall, Motus saw something that hadn’t been quite visible from the ground. The wall was either connected to, or simply continued as, a long, narrow walkway. And swinging precariously over that walkway were colossal dark colored logs wrapped in suspiciously sturdy vines and suspended from the towering trees around the clearing. The logs were large enough to dwarf some cars Motus had seen, and his only saving grace was that they were comparatively narrow. The way they swung past the walkway disturbed the air as they moved—these were heavy, that much was clear to Motus. Taking a deep breath that hitched in fear, Motus realized that if he thought too hard about the size and magnitude of the logs, he would never move. So he closed his golden eyes to steady himself, and for once in his life, Motus didn’t think; he just ran.

  The first of the logs had swung past just before he started his sprint, and was far too slow on the return trip to catch him as he sprinted across the narrow path at a breakneck pace. It was a strange thing for Motus, even as narrow as the strip of platform he was running across was, and as fast as he was moving, not once did he feel as though he was going to fall. It was as if every footfall was placed perfectly; Motus had not been a clumsy child growing up, but ever since awakening to his true nature, he couldn’t recall tripping over his own feet. He had tripped since sure, but those moments were due to outside forces acting on him, and even then, they were rare. Motus narrowly ducked under the second log, which had started its return moments before the first, and had nearly gotten him. He rose back to his full height and had a brief moment of unease that he couldn’t place before pressure at his side exploded in sudden and bright pain.

  The third log was not in rhythm with its kin and had slammed into him hard enough that he was fairly certain he had heard a few dull pops nearly drowned out by the rush of breath that was driven from his lungs. One moment, Motus was running with the wind in his hair and excitement starting to peak through the fog of fear that had been clinging to him since Sieg knocked on his door; the next, he was airborne with his side screaming at him in pain. For the briefest of moments, nothing moved. Motus hung in the air, feeling almost weightless, before gravity seemed to remember he existed—or perhaps the pain had driven his gift to spark itself. As it pulled him down in a rolling spiral towards the clearing ground, all Motus could think was that he had fumbled, and Sieg would not be pleased.

  The ground seemed to rush up to greet him with the haste at which he fell, and when he struck the packed earth, it was with another set of dull pops and one uncomfortably wet crunch. Stars went off behind his eyes as his vision blurred from the pain that washed through his left arm like fire in his veins. The world around him was spinning, and he was breathing hard; he couldn’t take a deep breath. Air was a struggle to get down, and as the sound of boots crunching on dry leaves reached his ears, Motus was once again filled with dread for his immediate future.