It had been a grueling couple of months since our induction into the military camp. As the weather turned bitterly cold, our superiors denied us access to the provided cold weather gear, claiming it fostered weakness. Instead, we were left to fend against the chill that deeply ached our bones with little more than our thinly layered, summer combat uniforms; black trousers riddled with deep cargo pockets and a similarly shaded sleeveless undershirt. Over our undershirts, we wore a thin coat that barely reached our elbows, fastened with a clasp at the base of the neck. The color of the military coat signified our heritage: black for those of demonic descent, and white for those of angelic. It felt pointless, really, because we already had our brands; but, it was just another cruel reminder of our place.

The barracks were just as stark and unwelcoming, offering only a slight improvement over the conditions of the Veil. These brick buildings were old, their paint long faded and peeling. They housed rows of cots that, while uncomfortable, were a luxury compared to what we were accustomed to, besides the lack of a blanket for warmth.

The only segregation was by age, with each group being assigned to separate bays. The groups were distinctly named: those in the ten to fifteen group were called “Spark’s”, those who were sixteen to twenty-five were named “Spearhead’s”, and those twenty-six to thirty-five were called “Reserve’s”.

The Spark’s received marginally better treatment, equipped with thin blankets to shield against the night’s cold. The rest of us were left to improvise our warmth as part of our “training”. Comfort was conditional, only awarded with compliance.

Early on, the children adapted quickest, conforming to the demands placed upon them. Upon arrival- the King’s Guards– our appointed military overseers– embarked on a ruthless campaign to strip us of our identity and resolve. This involved frequent beatings, deprivation of basic necessities, and prolonged isolation. Cyrus suffered greatly during one of his first beatings, his scars reopening under the harsh treatment.

After breaking our spirits, the camp shifted focus to integration and compliance through hazing. Mongrel’s began to turn on each other, with initiation rites involving tactics such as being bound to trees for hours, sometimes a whole day. It became a twisted badge of honor; those who endured were accepted, while those who didn’t faced ostracization. You were either “part of the team”, or you weren’t.

During these initial phases, we had eight Mongrels die: five Spark’s, two Reserve’s, and one Spearhead. The loss seemed to deepen the desperation of those who still had some sort of sanity intact, while those who had lost touch with reality acted as if we were weeding out the weak.

The indoctrination intensified with the third phase, which was saturated with propaganda. We were subjected to endless lectures about the dangers of our bloodlines and our supposed inherent savagery. Yet, the King, in his “infinite wisdom,” claimed to have discovered a means to foster peace. Being chosen as a Mongrel to serve in his military was portrayed as more than a privilege– it was a testament to his trust, mercy, and benevolence. 

He was being “generous” to us by sparing our lives. It was an “honor” to be chosen to serve in his military.

We endured hours locked in rooms, bombarded with this narrative until it was all we could echo back. It was a clear systematic brainwashing.

Alarmingly, many Mongrels, especially the Spark’s, began to internalize these messages. They started to view service in the King’s military not as the horrifying reality that it was, but as a noble cause. Their naivety made them susceptible to the twisted heroism that the King’s Guards sang. Slowly, over each of the phases, more Mongrel’s began to conform.

They began to feel pride in the possibility of fighting for the King. He was their God, and their country.

Sometimes, I feared that Cyrus and I were among the few who still recognized the tyranny we were subjected to. No amount of physical or psychological torment could blind us to that– if anything, it strengthened our belief in the need for change.

The only bright side to this, was that I was learning to better control my emotions.

Today, our routine consisted of brutal sparring sessions designed more to inflict injury than it was to teach actual combat skills. Cyrus was commanded to stand on the sidelines and heal anybody who was wounded, but only on the guards’ command to do so. 

Our commander in the camp was Lieutenant Vexe, and he was the guard who oversaw our training on most days. His left eye was covered by a patch due to a severe injury. Being of demonic descent, he did not have the ability to force the brand on us, so he was always with another guard who could. Vexe’s ability was pain manipulation, and he could amplify anybody's pain with the mere touch of a finger.

Our training ground was a large circle in the snow, with each of us forced to face inward and witness the fighting at close range. Lieutenant Vexe stood on the sidelines during the sparring, so he could step in when needed.

In the center of the circle, two Spark’s were pitted against each other– one a dark haired boy, the other Miriam, the blind girl with prophetic abilities. Due to her blindness, the guards had been trying to teach Miriam to use her other senses for hand-to-hand combat, but she was struggling to pick it up. The young boy had already landed several blows, each one sending a jolt of guilt through me, and a cry of pain from her. Miriam was struggling hard to defend herself.

I was standing across the formation from Cy, both of us wincing with every blow she received. It was clearly an unfair fight, and I couldn’t stand by and watch it anymore. As the young boy went in to kick Miriam, I subtly raised my finger to slow his attack, drastically reducing the impact. He let out a scream of pain from his blood being manipulated, and he stumbled in the snow. Lieutenant Vexe’s eye dangerously shifted to my face, knowing what I had done.

“Damn my ability for being so noticeable,” I muttered under my breath as Vexe approached. Once he reached me, he punched me hard in the gut, the pain already nearly crippling. As I was bent over, his hand suddenly gripped my shoulder harshly, his power causing the pain to skyrocket. I cried out, the feeling radiating like he had shattered my ribs into my lungs.

“Spearhead Vermisial,” he hissed, his tone disgustingly calm. “You know the rules about using your ability without a direct order. The only people who have any leeway are those who cannot control it yet.” He released me abruptly, and I gasped for air, the relief from his grip as palpable as the pain had been. “Don’t let it happen again,” he warned before dragging me into the center to face Miriam. “Fight her. If you hold back, you’ll lose chow privileges for seventy-two hours."

My mind was made up as soon as he said it. 

Looks like I’m not eating again.

Miriam’s face turned to my direction from hearing my labored breathing, her eyes looking past my shoulder. She had an expression of sheer horror etched into her features, and she whimpered softly. I calmly walked toward her, my feet crunching slightly in the white ice beneath me, and rested my hand on her shoulder.

“I’m not fighting you, Miriam,” I told her gently, resolved to defy the lieutenant.

“Yes, the fuck, you are,” Vexe spat. “Or, I will have a different trainee, with actual pride for their job, do it for you.”

I felt Miriam touch my arm lightly and I looked at her as she tried to speak. Suddenly, her shivering ceased and her expression changed. Her next words were spoken with eerie clarity, chilling the air further. “You have demon blood,” she declared.

The training grounds fell silent, every pair of eyes turning to me in shock. My breath caught in my throat, and I forgot how to breathe.

What the hell…

Time stood still. Everyone just stared at me with wide eyes– nobody said a word. I locked eyes with Cyrus, whose expression was the same. I turned back to Lieutenant Vexe, hoping that I would be able to erase the look of realization in his face.

“She doesn’t know what she’s saying,” I finally said, trying to laugh it off. “Everyone calm down, it’s impossible. Her ability still isn’t fully developed, so I’m sure she’s not seeing her vision correctly.” I scratched the back of my head nervously, my fear pounding in my chest.

Vexe’s eyes darkened. “Prophecy's, no matter how underdeveloped, never lie.”

Shit.

I racked my brain trying to come up with an answer, but my thoughts failed me. Nothing I could say would explain why she said I had a demonic bloodline. My body began trembling; whether it was from my anxiety or the freezing cold, I did not know. Maybe, it was both.

I was so focused internally, that I barely noticed Lieutenant Vexe walking over to me.

“Training is over for today!” he shouted to the other Mongrel’s. “Everyone back in their barracks, and don’t leave until we tell you.” He violently seized my arm and dragged me with him, calling to his angelic counterpart to get an extra watch of guards for the camp. “And, send a messenger to the King, immediately. Tell him it’s urgent.” 

Vexe looked down on me menacingly. My heart felt like it had completely stopped and dropped to the bottom of my stomach. All I could feel was dread. “You have some explaining to do,” he sneered at me. “You are going to tell me everything.”

As I was being forced away, I glanced at Cy one more time. He stared back and I could see he didn’t know what to do. I was scared of losing control and his face might have been the last friendly thing I would ever see.

But, this time, it was my turn to shake my head slowly and remind him not to interfere. I couldn’t let him get hurt again.

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