Roenan jolted awake, sitting up sharply. Pain lanced through his head and abdomen, stealing his breath. With a groan, he collapsed onto his side, curling into himself. His face was less swollen now, but the blinding white light stabbing into his eyes made them tear up as he blinked furiously.

As his vision adjusted, he slowly uncurled and lifted his head. The room was stark and clinical—some kind of hospital. Ten beds lined each side of the long space, each accompanied by its own set of machines and IV drips. Most of the beds were empty, except for one near his, in the far-left corner.

A boy, younger than Roenan, was strapped to the frame. He looked relatively uninjured—just a few bruises and scratches—and was deeply unconscious. Fluid dripped steadily into his arm from an IV.

Roenan’s gaze swept the room. There were no windows—only cold, sterile walls, all painted the same unforgiving white. The place felt more like a containment cell than a hospital.

Then he noticed someone else.

A person around his age stood near the only door, as if he'd just leapt to his feet. His light hair was tousled, like he’d been running his hands through it. He had a pale complexion, far lighter than Roenan, and especially lighter than the restrained boy. He was tall and well built, like he was an active or an athletic person. He had an appearance that made Roenan wonder whether he would even understand him if he attempted to speak to him. 

He was holding a book in one hand, his fingers curled tightly around it. When he saw Roenan awake, he hesitated—then turned toward the door.

“Wait!” Roenan rasped. His voice was hoarse, and pain flared in his ribs. He coughed violently, the metallic after-taste of blood filled his mouth.

The young man paused with his hand on the door handle, glancing back.

Roenan swallowed hard. “Um…” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Where... where am I?” His voice was dry, hesitant.

The young man looked from Roenan to the door, then down at the floor. After a long pause, he dropped his hand and turned around. He approached Roenan's bed with determined strides.

Roenan sat up with a pained effort, struggling to prop a pillow behind his back. He tensed as the stranger drew close, unsure whether to feel relief or dread.

The young man had caramel-colored eyes that stood out against his dirt-blonde hair. His features were striking—dark eyebrows, sharp nose, soft waves curling around his ears. But, Roenan's stomach sank when he caught a glimpse of the book’s cover in his hands. The writing was in Vernajjian.

The language was both familiar and foreign to Roenan. He couldn’t read or speak it fluently, but his father had. Once.

The thought twisted something deep in his gut.

"Do you mind if I sit?" the young man asked, motioning to the edge of the bed.

Roenan’s eyes widened. He had spoken in Jaedan—heavily accented, but clear.

"Go ahead," Roenan said, blinking. "You speak Jaedan?"

"There is enough of it that I do speak," the he replied, sitting down. "It was learned to me in school. Not many of our people are learned it."

Roenan blinked at him, then shook his head, trying to reorient himself. “Where am I?”

"You are in the University Hospital of Zroskk. In Vernajja."

Roenan’s stomach churned. He fumbled for a bucket, and the boy quickly handed him a small bin. Roenan dry-heaved, each spasm shooting pain through his chest. As he recovered, panting into the bucket, the young man awkwardly patted his shoulder. He glanced over his shoulder toward the door.

When Roenan finally caught his breath, sweat cooling on his skin, he wiped his forehead and looked back up.

"What’s your name?" he asked hoarsely.

"Drakke," the boy answered. "And you?"

"Roenan."

Drakke nodded. He dropped his hand into his lap and Roenan noticed deep-looking scabs across the top of his fingers.

Roenan motioned toward them with his chin. “What happened?”

Drakke glanced at the wounds, then jerked his head toward the boy in the corner. “That one is not right. He will have hard troubles here.”

Roenan looked at the unconscious boy—soft features, even breathing. He didn’t look dangerous.

When Roenan turned back, Drakke was still watching the boy, rubbing at the top of his hand subconsciously.

“Hey, stop that,” Roenan said abruptly.

Drakke looked over, startled.

“It's just... you’re going to make it bleed,” Roenan added, weakly.

Drakke stared at him, unreadable. Roenan shifted under his gaze and turned away, heat rising in his face.

“What?” he muttered.

“Look at me,” Drakke said, voice quiet.

Roenan met his gaze again, hesitantly.

“Your eyes...” Drakke trailed off, narrowing his own as if trying to decipher something. Roenan looked away, throat tight.

“So, I’m in Zroskk." Roenan began, trying to change the subject. "Is this a military encampment? You said ‘University,’ but—”

“They’re very... strange,” Drakke interrupted, almost to himself.

The door burst open.

Drakke snapped to attention, standing so fast his chair scraped the floor. He raised his arm in a rigid salute.

Five men entered. Four wore dark-blue military uniforms; the fifth, tan scrubs. They moved with purpose toward the corner of the room.

One soldier stopped in front of Drakke and barked something in Vernajjian. Drakke replied but was cut off by a backhanded slap that made him half-fall onto Roenan’s bed.

Roenan reflexively reached to steady him, but Drakke smacked his arm away, stood, and saluted again.

Blood was already welling from a split in Drakke’s cheekbone, sliding down like a red tear. Roenan looked from the medals on the soldier’s chest, to Drakke’s face—then up at the officer himself.

He had caramel-colored eyes like Drakke, but far colder. His hair was a dirty-blonde, his skin pale. A scar split one eyebrow and another marked the corner of his mouth. He looked brutal—and proud of it.

Roenan held his gaze, unflinching.

The man spoke again without breaking eye contact. Drakke dropped his salute and turned, heading toward the door. It looked like he had been dismissed.

A medic suddenly sprang into action, dragging an IV stand next to Roenan's bed. As he pulled out a fresh syringe, understanding dawned over Roenan. He was about to be drugged.

“No! Don’t! Please—!” Roenan shouted, starting to struggle, and kicking out. The boy in the bed next to him began to stir.

Two soldiers moved over to Roenan's bed to pin him down. 

The boy in the corner suddenly growled and began thrashing violently against his restraints.

Roenan cried out again as the needle slid in.

After he had completed the injection, the medic rushed to the other boy’s side next, swapping his IV with one filled with a different-colored fluid.

Roenan’s vision began to go hazy; consciousness slipping again. He had barely registered the other five men leaving as abruptly as they’d come.

He slowly lolled his head over toward where the restrained boy lay.

“Hey, kid…?” he slurred.

But the boy had already gone still.