Training in Brutality

The chill of the cavern air was a distant memory, replaced by the biting wind that whipped across the training grounds. It was a desolate place, a scarred expanse of cracked earth and skeletal trees, the kind of landscape that felt as though it had been left for dead. And in a way, it had. This was where the Soul-Hunters forged their soldiers, where the weak were culled and the strong, or at least the lucky, were hardened into weapons.

My hands, still clad in the gloves that felt like a second skin, clenched and unclenched at my sides. They were my secret, my lifeline, and my burden. "Fashionable," I'd called them to the gruff-faced woman who’d dragged me here. She’d just grunted, her eyes, the color of storm clouds, lingering on the strange, dark material. Fashion. What a joke. These weren't for show; they were for survival.

"On your feet, maggot!" A boot kicked my ribs, sending a jolt of pain through me. I scrambled up, tasting dust and blood. The instructor, a hulking man whose face was a roadmap of scars, sneered. "You think you're special, boy? Think those fancy gloves make you untouchable?"