A metallic tang, thick and sickening, scraped the back of Inezia’s throat. Her eyes snapped open, fighting the sluggish pull of drugged sleep. Cold, slick flagstones dug into her cheek. The air, heavy and still, reeked of iron and something ancient, like grave dirt disturbed. Her vision sharpened to a blurry tableau of crimson smears across a rough-hewn altar, and then, the stoic faces of the Order’s inquisitors, their cowled heads casting long, accusing shadows in the flickering torchlight. Panic, cold and sharp as a honed dagger, pierced through the lingering haze. This was it. The crypt, just as Navarro had described. The ‘initiation ritual’ he’d coached her through. Her palms, rough and scarred from the fighting pits, caught on the fine weave of the uniform. It had belonged to her twin. Now it belonged to her. “Awake, boy?” The gravelly rumble came from an elder Inquisitor whose skin resembled cracked river clay. “The blood tithe calls for vigilance, not slumber.” Silver-gray irises bored into her. “State your name and your purpose.” Inezia pushed herself upright, every muscle screaming in protest. The robes felt too loose, the posture too unfamiliar. She forced her voice to a deeper register, a rasp that felt foreign even to her own ears. “Ignazio Vargas. To serve the Order. To hunt the blight until my last breath.” Each word was a lie, a blade twisting in her gut. Her true purpose was to slit the throat of whoever had murdered him, someone breathing among this very circle. Inquisitor Navarro, standing slightly apart, offered a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. A chilling comfort, knowing the serpent who had guided her into this den of killers. His gaze, usually warm and paternal, held a predatory glint she’d only recently learned to fear. He’d helped her assume Ignazio’s place, taught her the rituals, the names, the history. All to ensure she was a perfect, disposable pawn. “The Blood Tithe is complete,” the elder Inquisitor declared, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. “The mark of the Black Hound now resides within you. Bear it with honor, or die without it.” The air outside the crypt was a brutal slap of cold wind, scrubbing away the crypt’s stale breath but not the iron tang in her mouth. The Bastion of the Black Hound rose, a jagged tooth of dark stone against a bruised sky, its battlements scarred by countless skirmishes. Within moments, she was herded alongside a dozen fresh inductees onto the drilling grounds, a vast expanse of packed earth churned into black muck by the winter rain. Targets—crudely fashioned scarecrows stuffed with straw—stood impaled on thick posts, their fabric bodies already ripped and tattered. A wiry recruit with a perpetually terrified expression, Gaspar, bumped into her. “First day, and already reeking like a slaughtered calf, eh?” he chittered, his gaze darting toward the stone walls. “Don’t tell me they made you *drink* it.” Inezia tightened her mouth into a flat line, a grimace her twin would never have worn. “Just the usual rites.” She scanned the yard, her gaze snagging on a figure who moved with cold, arrogant poise. Thiago Murguia. Even in drab wool, he carried the coiled lethality of a wolf, dark hair falling across sharp cheekbones. He swung a heavy practice blade with fluid, brutal precision. He had always outmatched her twin in grace, if never in sheer animal viciousness. “Alright, you mangy curs!” A drill sergeant, all brawn and bark, bellowed. “Pair up! Show me you’re worth the mud you’re standing in!” Before Inezia could find Gaspar, a shadow fell over her. “Vargas,” Thiago’s voice was a low growl, laced with disdain. “Thought the crypt would have swallowed you whole. Still here to disgrace the name?” His eyes, dark as bruised plums, held a mocking challenge. “Come. Let’s see if you can hold steel without trembling.” Her blood, already simmering, began to boil. Her twin might have hesitated, might have yielded ground. But Inezia knew only one answer to an insult. She pulled an iron practice bar from the rack, the balance rough and familiar in her grip. “Gladly, Murguia,” she snarled, the words escaping her control, a low, guttural sound that was all Inezia. Thiago’s eyebrow arched, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, quickly replaced by a smug smirk. “Feisty. Good.” He struck first, a blistering arc that would have shattered her twin's guard. But she was carved from different bone. She met his blade with a vicious clang, the impact jarring her arm. He was faster than she’d expected, stronger. He drove her backward with sharp, measured chops. Instantly, she abandoned any attempt at the defensive drills Navarro had taught her. She ducked under a wide swing, the dull edge of his blade whistling past her ear, and countered with a savage thrust aimed at his midsection, a move designed to gut an opponent, not merely disarm. Thiago grunted, swerving by an inch as his brow pulled tight. “What in the—?” She drove forward, discarding every scrap of orthodox technique. She moved with the raw, brutal grace of a street brawler, her blade a wild extension of her fury. She dodged, wove, and struck, aiming for joints, for exposed flesh, for any point of weakness. She feinted low, then spun, bringing her training sword across his jaw in a flat, humiliating smack. The crack carried across the yard, choking off the surrounding shouts. Thiago stumbled, a dark flush spreading across his face. His pride, she knew, was a fragile thing. He roared, abandoning his own elegant forms, meeting her ferocity with an equally savage, if less practiced, rage. Their blades clashed, a furious symphony of metal on metal, each strike imbued with a desperate, primal intent to injure, to dominate. She caught him with a hilt strike to the ribs, forcing a gasp from his lungs, then slammed the flat of her blade into his knee, sending him crashing to one knee in the mud. Before she could deliver the final, humiliating blow—a blade to his throat, just as she would in the pits—a sharp, authoritative voice cut through the air. “Enough!” Inquisitor Navarro stood by the courtyard gate, his presence radiating an icy calm that instantly doused the flames of the brawl. His gaze, however, lingered on Inezia, a silent warning passing between them. He’d seen too much. Her lawless, gutter-bred footwork had laid itself bare for all to witness. Thiago scrambled to his feet, mud staining his uniform, his eyes blazing with humiliation and fury. “He fights like an animal, Inquisitor!” Navarro stepped forward, his voice low, controlled. “Indeed, Murguia. And you, like a peacock. Vargas, your… unconventional technique will cost you dearly if left unchecked. Murguia, your arrogance allowed a lesser fighter to best you.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over both of them. “For this display of indiscipline, you will both be reminded of the Order’s values: sacrifice, shared burden, and humility.” A cold dread coiled in Inezia’s gut. This was it. Exposure. Navarro’s game was over. “Tonight,” Navarro continued, his voice devoid of emotion, “you will share quarters. Specifically, a single bed in the lowest barracks. Perhaps a lack of personal space will teach you both the value of restraint.” The barracks were a maze of cramped, miserable cells, each barely large enough for two cot beds. But Navarro’s ‘punishment’ had ensured only one. The air was thick with the smells of stale sweat, damp stone, and cheap lamp oil. Gaspar, who occupied the cot in the opposite corner, eyed them with a mix of terror and amusement. “Careful, Murguia,” he whispered, “he might smother you for your fencing secrets before dawn.” Thiago only scowled. He pulled off his soiled tunic, exposing a lean, corded torso. Inezia turned away, blood pulsing hard in her ears. The rough planks offered barely enough width for one frame, let alone two men. The prospect of their ribs grinding together made her stomach tighten with cold dread. She stretched along the outer timber edge, muscles rigid. Thiago settled beside her, the mattress groaning under his weight, his scent – clean sweat and something musky, undeniably male – filling the minuscule space. The single flickering lamp in the barracks was extinguished with a clang, plunging the room into oppressive darkness. Inezia lay rigid, her breath shallow. The silence was broken only by the creak of beds and the rustle of straw. She could feel Thiago’s warmth a handspan away, the subtle rise and fall of his chest. Then, a whisper, cold and lethal, brushed her ear. “Vargas.” A blunt iron edge pressed against the hollow of her throat. Thiago’s voice, a low hiss in the dark, was pure venom. “What are you, really? What are you hiding?”