Motus was right, and he had never hated being right so much before. The golden-eyed boy lay on his back, the warm sun providing no relief from the pool of sweat; he was doing an exceptional job at creating. Today marked the fourteenth day of what could only be called a punishment befitting a demon. Motus had lost count of how many times he had to duck oversized logs swinging from trees, and jump like a cat at the sound of a “whistle,” which was in truth the sound of an arrow flying through the air. Yet still Sieg seemed particularly intent on showing him the limits of his stamina. That wasn’t even counting for the blades and repeated activation and deactivation of his gift, which still had an old mare’s temperament about it—in a word, stubborn.

  The fourteenth day, at least according to Sieg and The Commander; as someone whose perception of time often shifted—usually in ways still beyond his control—it felt more like six weeks. Motus had made the lovely discovery that fear served as a fantastic trigger for speeding up, which in turn made the world seem slower for him. Slowing down had proven itself to be far more difficult when he was scared into activating his gift. At times, Motus would spend over fifteen minutes observing a single minute of events because he had been startled by a bird, who, in fairness, he had probably also spooked. It served as wonderful motivation to master his powers as soon as physically possible.

  Today was the end of his ‘crash course’ in survival training, which probably should have brought him some level of elation. It was finally over; he was done. Yet all Motus could think about was that he was marching into a place filled with monsters; monsters that wanted him dead and eaten.

  It was all overwhelming in a way he hadn’t thought possible, but before the spiral could claim him once more, a gruff and familiarly icy voice broke the silence.

  “On your feet.” Sieg groused.

  Motus rushed to comply, peeling himself from the floor before the white-haired boy’s umbrella finger got itchy. He went to say something to Sieg, only to glimpse his expression. For as apathetic as the rest of Sieg’s face typically was, his eyes were quite expressive, and those eyes were looking at Motus as if he were attending a wake. It made Motus clam up immediately, whatever words he had prepared for Sieg drying up like a puddle in the Sahara.

  “What’s wrong?” Motus eventually managed to croak out of his suddenly all too dry throat.

  “Follow.” Was the only response Motus received as Sieg turned on his heel and marched out the doors of the arena.

  Motus was quick to follow, his heart thudding in his chest so forcefully he could hear it thumping in his ears. At first, Motus thought they were heading to the barracks, but where they should have turned left to leave the arena proper, they instead turned right. It brought both boys down a winding path of smooth stone halls that went on for several minutes. Motus noted idly that the torches here were not the same metallic silver ones that lined the rest of the base. These torches were made of the same obsidian-colored wood as those beautiful trees that dotted the space; the flames that danced atop them were similarly not the blue of those silver torches. They were instead a brilliant gold that seemed to grow somehow more beautiful the deeper the two walked.

  Motus struggled to appreciate that beauty; the sinking feeling in his stomach was slowly getting worse, the further he and Sieg walked in silence. Only the sound of their footsteps kept the air from being oppressively empty.

  Eventually, after what felt like hours, they stopped before a large door. It was an immaculately carved wooden structure, the same dark color as the torches that lined the halls; twice as tall as Motus and thrice as wide. Etched into the door’s surface in a circular pattern were eleven symbols that Motus couldn’t quite place. The symbols thrummed with a power that felt vaguely like his gift, only supercharged, as if they were hooked up to the strongest battery known to mankind.

  Each one pulsed a different color, with one even seemingly unsure as to what color it should be, constantly shifting both color and shade. Another of the symbols pulsed a warm orange that reminded Motus of the commander. Beyond the symbols, further up the door were markings that Motus thought were words. It wasn’t a language that he knew, but the longer he stared at the markings, the more he could feel what the words meant. They did not shift suddenly to become legible, but he knew what it said nonetheless. It was as if his very soul had translated the words and left him an impression of meaning.

  Motus blinked the strange sensation away as Sieg placed his hand on one of the symbols. It was the symbol that had been shifting colors, Motus realized. Something about Sieg’s touch seemed to cause it to halt in its color-shifting and settle on one color, if only for a moment. It pulsed a bright yellow, a color mirrored by Sieg’s own glowing eyes. When the glow faded, Motus could hear the sound of several gears clicking before the massive door began to swing inward. It revealed gleaming torchlight and the sheen of freshly polished metal, so meticulously cleaned that it was nearly blinding.

  Weapons—weapons of all makes, shapes, and sizes lined the walls of the room. Everywhere his golden eyes turned, there was a weapon: a sword, an axe, or a bow. So awestruck was Motus that he missed Sieg rifling through the racks behind him entirely. The gleam of the various weapons and items captivated him in a way nothing else quite did—nothing except those trees. So engrossed was the golden-eyed boy in the contents of the armory that he nearly leaped out of his skin when Sieg spoke up from behind him.

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  “Here.”

  Motus whirled around in response to the sudden noise, heart hammering in his chest. His golden eyes burned an electric blue as the world around him slowed considerably. This gave Motus a few choice moments to appreciate the unimpressed expression Sieg was giving him. He felt like an idiot, and struggling to turn his gift off wasn’t helping. Motus could run for hours without his gift and not be more than slightly winded. But using his gift drained at some inner well that, while large, took time and food to replenish. Motus worked to settle himself, calming his racing heart and arresting his gift; Motus was starting to suspect the thing was nearly more skittish than he was. When the blue finally receded from his vision and the world returned to normal, Motus blinked at Sieg.

  “Come again?” He asked tentatively.

  “Here,” Sieg repeated tersely.

  Held loosely in Sieg’s grasp was a sheathed dagger nearly as long as his forearm. The sheath was a dark, polished, leather-like material; Motus wasn’t quite sure why he was so certain that it wasn’t leather, but he was. It was a color so deeply purple it was nearly black. The hilt was a twisting spiral of gray fabric that was at once soft and firm between Motus’s fingers as he gingerly took it from Sieg. He held it to his side awkwardly for a moment before nodding as politely as he could without dropping the weapon.

  “Thank you, Sieg.” Motus breathed as he took a moment to ground himself. “This is all suddenly feeling very real.”

  Motus felt as if he were marching into certain death and had nothing to protect him save this one small blade. A knife, far larger than anything he had used back at the restaurant, that was true, but that didn’t change what it was. He was to hunt monsters, real honest-to-god monsters, with a knife. It was so absurd that he might have laughed if he wasn’t sure he was moments away from tears as the reality sank in.

  A low, shudder-filled breath left his lips as he processed it. Motus was not stupid; over the last two weeks, he had pieced together why he hadn’t seen any of the other falem beyond The Commander, Sieg, and the boy who brought him his food—Jon. It was particularly clear in how Sieg pushed him like a drill sergeant. As much as they wanted to prepare him and stave off the worst, there was a very large possibility that he was not coming back from this ‘first hunt.’ Meeting and getting to know someone who had no chance of sticking around was probably cruel to them. Motus understood that, yet he also would have liked to try and make some friends for once before he died.

  Sieg reached for something belted to his hip as Motus stared at the ground with stormy eyes. Motus very nearly missed it when Sieg thrust his hand out suddenly to press something to his chest. It roused the boy from his apathetic musings, and he glanced down at his chest in confusion. There, pressed to his chest by a pale hand, were goggles, black and sleek. The gift was a kind enough gesture in its own right, if odd given its perpetrator, but little things stood out to Motus that suggested the goggles were used rather than new. They were incredibly well kept, but the straps were frayed at the edges, and one of the lenses was slightly scratched. These were goggles that had seen use and been cared for deeply; it clicked for Motus suddenly, with all the force of a runaway train—these goggles were Sieg’s. Frazzled, Motus began attempting to refuse the gift.

  “S-Sieg, I can’t ta—”

  “Survive.” Sieg interrupted.

  That was the last word Sieg spoke to Motus as they walked back through those twisting halls. They walked in silence, but it was not the silence Motus was used to; the kind of silence you drowned in. No, this silence was almost comforting. When Motus walked, he did so with his head held just a bit higher. Someone believed he was going to make it back.

  Motus stood with trepidation before a large archway formed of twisting roots and tree trunks; the sun was high in the sky, casting a brilliant radiance down upon him. He was deeper into the base than he had been before, amidst a large garden of sorts. The trees and roots that made up the arch did not match any other plant in the garden; glowing blue veins pulsed throughout the archway. That would have been strange enough in its own right, but the trees never quite seemed to stop moving; constantly shifting and swaying even in the absence of wind.

  Just beyond the archway, Motus could see an entire forest of trees that seemed to almost vibrate, and it called to him in a nearly uncomfortable way. He wanted to rush through the gate of trees and run for hours, run fast and free. Frankly, he was about to do just that when the commander’s booming voice rattled him from his daze.

  “Young falem, you are deemed a nameless hunter. Enter the realm of that which has made you. Earn both your name and weapon.” Leonidas all but barked.

  He met Motus’s gaze with a nearly literal fire in his glowing orange eyes. Such was the intensity of his gaze that fire bloomed across his arms and danced along his hair. Motus suddenly stood straighter in response to the flames. Leonidas continued once he was sure he had the boy’s attention.

  “You are not to return until you have slain a falion beast. Come bearing its blood on your hands and its corpse in tow. Choose carefully, Hunter. This is not a choice easily undone; you may end your hunt early with a weaker beast slain, even if you could have hunted stronger. That is your own choice to make.” The disapproving glint in his glowing eyes made Leonidas’s thoughts on that particular brand of hunt clear. “Just know that you will see your weapon all the weaker for it.”

  Motus’s response was quick and filled with far more confidence than he truly felt. He stood firm and slammed his left hand to his chest in a closed fist as Sieg had instructed him and screamed with as much confidence as his trembling hands would allow.

  “Yes, Sir!”

  “Then begin,” Leonidas instructed, seemingly far calmer as his glowing eyes dimmed. Motus gripped the dagger Sieg had equipped him with so tightly his knuckles popped.

  Motus thought with the release of a shaky breath. He closed his eyes and took a single step forward. That step was followed quickly by another, and two more after that. Before long, Motus found himself racing towards the archway; it was not a far trip, yet Motus felt it took ages all the same. With only a dagger to his name, the hunt begins.