There was no morning in the First Nest.
Only a change in light.
The campfire that burned at all times never truly went out. It only dimmed, as if growing drowsy, when pale light slowly crept in through the cracks in the stone ceiling. That light was not warm. It did not bring a new beginning. It was only bright enough to show who was still breathing.
Clive woke with a dull ache throughout his body.
It was not new pain. It was what remained from yesterday. From impacts. From muscles forced to work beyond their limits. From a body that had not yet fully accepted the fact that it was still alive.
He drew a breath.
His chest felt heavy, as if his lungs needed to be convinced again to function. The air entered reluctantly, hot and smelling of old smoke.
He opened his eyes.
A stone ceiling.
Thin cracks spread across its surface like veins in aged skin. There was no sign of time. No direction. No marker except the same cracks he had seen before falling asleep the night before.
Clive shifted his body slightly.
Pain shot from his back to his shoulder. He hissed softly and stopped moving. The stone floor felt cold, pressing directly against his bones. There was no bedding. No blanket. Only rough cloth rolled and placed beneath his head.
Around him, others began to stir.
Some woke without sound, their faces stiff like masks. Some let out short groans, low and restrained, like wounded animals too exhausted to scream. No one complained loudly. No one asked questions.
Footsteps echoed from the main corridor.
Heavy. Steady. Unhurried.
Clive sat up and turned his head.
Raimon stood near the mouth of the corridor. His back was straight. His hands were clasped behind him. He did not shout. Did not call out. Did not give orders.
He simply stood there.
And that was enough.
One by one, people rose.
Instinct worked faster than thought.
Ted woke more slowly than the others.
Clive saw him from the corner of his eye. Ted's face looked older than yesterday. His eyes were sunken. The skin beneath them darkened. His lips were dry and cracked. He sat for a long moment, his breathing short, as if afraid that if he stood too quickly, the world would collapse again.
Eventually, he stood.
His movements were stiff.
They formed a line without being ordered.
Not neat. Not symmetrical. But enough.
Raimon stepped forward once.
"You who stand here," he said. His voice echoed briefly in the stone chamber. Not loud. Not gentle. "Are those who failed to ascend."
No one argued.
"You are also not those who were eliminated."
Several shoulders loosened slightly.
Raimon looked at each face before him. His gaze did not search for reactions. He only recorded.
"You will remain in the First Nest for six months."
Some swallowed hard.
"During that time, you will be trained."
He paused briefly.
"But nothing here is free."
The words fell softly. Heavy.
"Food, shelter, protection," he continued. "All of it is paid for."
With strength. With blood. With time.
"Those who cannot endure," he said more quietly, "will leave the same way the others did."
He made a small gesture toward the dark corridor at the side of the Nest.
No one asked where it led.
"Physical training begins now."
There was no pause.
No warm up.
They were herded into another corridor. This one was narrower, lower. The air inside was damp and heavy. The smell of iron, old sweat, and something sour blended together.
The stone floor was uneven. Sometimes it climbed sharply. Sometimes it dropped without warning. Breathing grew heavy even before they reached the end.
When they emerged, the space opened wide.
The ceiling was high. The walls were covered in scars. Weapon marks. Claw marks. Marks left by something that had tried to escape and failed.
In the center of the room, massive stones were stacked. Each one was bound with thick metal chains. Rust gnawed at their surfaces, but the chains remained intact.
A man stood there.
His body was large, but uneven. His left shoulder sat lower. His right arm ended at the elbow, cleanly severed long ago. The wound had closed, the surrounding skin hardened and thickened.
His face was covered in scars.
He looked at them with one eye.
The other was sealed shut by scar tissue.
"Lift," he said.
That was all.
No explanation.
Clive stepped forward.
He grabbed one of the chains. The metal was cold and rough against his palms. When he pulled, the stone did not move.
He pulled harder.
His back screamed. His muscles resisted. He clenched his teeth.
He pulled again.
The stone shifted slightly.
The others began to join in.
Chains groaned. Stones scraped, leaving long gouges across the floor.
"Circle the room," the one eyed man said. "Ten laps."
Someone fell on the second lap.
The body hit the floor with a dull sound.
The training did not stop.
The one eyed man approached.
"Get up," he said. "Anyone who does not finish ten laps does not eat."
The person stood.
They understood what that meant.
They would not survive without food.
Clive did not know which lap it was when his legs began to go numb.
Numbers blurred. The world narrowed to the stone floor ahead of him. The groan of chains. The shadow of his own body falling in the same place, again and again.
His heartbeat filled his ears.
He saw Ted fall.
Ted hit the floor shoulder first. His head struck stone.
Ted gasped, choking, clawing at the floor like a drowning man.
He tried to stand.
Failed.
Clive turned his face away.
He did not have the luxury of caring.
He focused on the chain. On the next step. On the next breath.
If he stopped, he knew he would not rise again.
One by one, people began to complete the tenth lap.
There were no cheers.
No announcements.
Assistant trainers emerged from the shadows. They did not stop the stones. They stopped the people.
A hand clamped onto a shoulder.
"Enough."
The chain was released. The stone was left where it lay.
Those who finished were dragged to the side of the room. Dropped onto the floor. Given no water. Given no congratulations.
They sat or lay there, gasping, their chests rising and falling unevenly, waiting for the others to follow.
When the training ended, there was no closing.
They were not given time to rest.
Those who had just finished the tenth lap were still gasping, their chests rising and falling unevenly, when the sound of footsteps echoed again from the corridor. Not Raimon's steps. Faster. Lighter. The steps of people accustomed to escorting corpses.
"Get up," one of the assistant trainers said. "Work."
No one asked what kind of work.
They were herded into another corridor.
The passage sloped downward. The air changed. Hotter. More humid. The smell arrived before the room itself, tightening Clive's stomach.
The smell of blood.
Not the fresh scent of battle. This was old. The settled stench of iron. Fat beginning to rot. Entrails mixed with ash and smoke.
They arrived at the carcass processing room.
The room was low and long. The ceiling was blackened with soot. A small iron furnace burned in one corner, its fire too weak to warm the room, only strong enough to make the air more suffocating. Black smoke crawled above their heads and clung to their lungs.
Light came from filthy lanterns hung without order. Their oily glow reflected off the floor, the tables, the walls, and across the bodies of dead monsters.
The carcasses were not stacked neatly.
They were dumped.
Piles of flesh, fur, scales, and chitin filled half the room. Some bodies still released warm steam. Certain muscles twitched, as if they had not yet accepted death. Heads stared with eyes still open.
Their shapes were wrong.
Some had too many legs, twisted like roots. Some had mouths where eyes should have been. Their teeth were small and sharp like needles. Some had skin as hard as bleeding bark. Others were slimy, soft, and glistening beneath the lantern light.
The stench assaulted them in layers.
First, blood.
Second, bitter bile.
Third, rotting entrails, foul and nauseating.
The air felt greasy. Every breath was like swallowing something that did not belong inside the body.
A man stood near the cutting table.
His hands were large. His nails black. His leather apron stiff with old stains that had never truly faded.
"Listen," he said without preamble. "This is edible. This is poison. This is for medicine. This is for sale."
He pointed quickly, not waiting for them to fully understand.
"You cut according to the marks. Take the wrong thing, and you eat the poison yourselves."
He threw a knife.
Clive caught it.
The handle was slick. The blade covered in small scratches.
He swallowed.
The work began.
Clive stood before one of the carcasses. Its skin was hard and strange, bluish green in color. He cut.
The knife went in with a wet sound.
Strangely colored fat split apart. Warm liquid flowed over his arm. The smell intensified.
His stomach churned.
He slipped his fingers into the incision, pulling out a large muscle as instructed. The meat was heavy, slick, and still warm. He threw it into a large leather basket.
Certain organs had to be separated.
Those that gleamed like black pearls.
Those that pulsed faintly even after being removed.
Those that had to be taken whole or were useless.
The remaining body was swept into a disposal pit in the floor.
From inside the pit came distant wet splashes. A stronger stench surged upward.
The cycle repeated.
Cut.
Lift.
Throw.
Every movement was a small act of resistance against his own body. Saliva pooled in his mouth. His stomach clenched. His breathing grew short and shallow.
Ted worked at the table beside him.
Clive did not look over.
He heard Ted gag.
Once.
Twice.
Then the sound of vomiting.
Clive closed his eyes.
He forced his hands to keep moving. If he stopped, he knew he would vomit too. He focused on the blade. On the texture of skin. On the simple instructions.
Cut here.
Do not touch that.
Throw this away.
Ted vomited again.
Clive clenched his teeth.
Time passed without shape.
When the light in the stone cracks changed, they were stopped.
Food.
A piece of dried meat.
Water.
Nothing more.
Clive held the meat in his hand.
It was dark brown. The texture hard. The scent of smoke faint.
His hand trembled.
He remembered the meat he had just cut. Bluish green fat. Warm liquid. Shimmering organs.
His stomach churned again.
He closed his eyes.
I have to eat.
He bit into it.
His teeth worked slowly. Every chew felt wrong. As if his body rejected anything that resembled flesh.
He forced himself to swallow.
Ted sat across from him.
He did not eat.
The meat lay untouched in his palm. His eyes were empty, fixed on the stone floor.
Clive did not know what to say.
In the end, Ted spoke first.
His voice was very soft.
"I thought… if I failed there… at least it would be easier here."
Clive did not answer.
Ted gave a small smile. One that did not reach his eyes.
"Turns out I was wrong."
He finally bit the meat. Chewed briefly. Then stopped. Swallowed with difficulty.
Clive stared at the ceiling.
He was beginning to understand.
The First Nest was a grinding mill.
Those who did not ascend were not discarded.
They were broken. Remade. Squeezed until only those who could truly endure remained.
Clive closed his eyes.
Six months.
He did not know if his body would survive.
He did not know if his mind would remain intact.