“What are you, really? What are you hiding?” The blunt iron of the dagger bit into Inezia’s skin, a cold promise of blood. She held her breath, the scent of fresh metal and Thiago’s clean, masculine sweat filling her nostrils. Her pit-fighter instincts screamed to snap the wrist, to roll, to disarm, but the thought of tearing through the flimsy linen wrap in the process froze her. One wrong move and her masquerade shattered. “Hiding?” she rasped, feigning a groggy confusion. The lie felt like ash on her tongue. “Murguia, what in the name of the Ash-Stalker are you babbling about? Let me sleep.” She tried to sound annoyed, impatient, anything but terrified. “Don’t play the fool.” His voice was a raw whisper, barely audible over the distant snores of the other initiates. “You fought like a rabid feral-hound today. More like a seasoned veteran of the Pit than an initiate. And you move… different. Not like any man I’ve ever seen.” The blade pressed harder, a thin line of pain blooming at her throat. “Speak plainly, Vargas, or I’ll gut you and let the high command figure out what to do with the pieces.” Inezia's fingers twitched, itching for a counter-grip. “Or perhaps you simply fought like a child,” she shot back, the familiar fire flickering in her gut. “Some of us learned to fight before the Bastion found us. Not all of us were born with a silver spoon in our mouths and a blade already clutched in our hands.” It was a dangerous retort, designed to provoke, to make him back off with rage instead of suspicion. The blade wavered, a sharp intake of breath from Thiago. She heard the grind of his teeth. “Insolent whelp.” He yanked the dagger back, and Inezia felt a sudden, terrifying emptiness where the steel had been. The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on. She could feel his gaze, even in the absolute dark, burning into her. After a long, agonizing moment, he shifted, rolling onto his side, his back to her. The mattress springs groaned, a mournful sound in the suffocating quiet. The danger had passed, for now. But the venom in his voice still prickled her skin. She lay rigid, every muscle screaming from the effort of feigning sleep. The minutes crawled by, each one stretching into an eternity. She heard the steady rhythm of Thiago’s breathing eventually deepen, signaling that he had sunk into heavy slumber. Still, she waited, listening. Her heart thrummed a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Only when the first sliver of grey light began to bleed through the high, grimy windows did Inezia allow her shoulders to slacken, just a fraction. But sleep was a luxury she couldn't afford. The barracks began to stir. The clatter of boots on stone, the guttural coughs of waking men, the groan of tired bodies. Inezia kept her eyes closed, feigning the exhaustion of a deep sleep. Then, a sudden, heavy weight settled over her. Thiago, still lost to the depths of slumber, had rolled onto his back, one arm thrown out, pinning her against the wall with the unexpected force of his body. His leg, warm and solid, pressed against her thigh. Her throat locked. The strips of linen around her ribs, already chafing from the night, bit like hemp rope. Worse, she could feel the undeniable, stirring hardness against her hip. His. In his sleep, he was pressing against *her*. And in the haze of his unconsciousness, his body was responding. Panic, cold and raw, clawed up her throat. This was it. He would wake, feel her, feel *himself*, and the game would be over. Her face flushed hot, a flush that had nothing to do with the warmth of his body. She held herself utterly still, a statue carved from dread. She could feel the rapid pulse at her own throat, matching the frantic beat in her ears. He stirred again, a soft murmur escaping his lips, his leg shifting higher. The pressure was unbearable, the intimacy horrifying. She tried to push him, gently, subtly, but his sleeping weight was too immense. She was trapped. Suddenly, the barracks door burst inward with a splintering crash. A figure stumbled in, a gaunt young man with wide, panicked eyes and hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. “They’re coming! The Viper’s men! He knows I’m here!” Gaspar, the lanky recruit whose nervous jokes were as common as the muck in the training yard, half-tripped over a boot, sending a cascade of tin cups clattering to the floor. The sudden cacophony ripped through the barracks. Men grumbled, curses flew, and Thiago jolted awake with a strangled gasp. His eyes, dark and confused, snapped open, staring blankly at the ceiling for a moment before dropping to Inezia. He felt it. The contact. His own body’s betraying reaction. His face, usually a mask of arrogant disdain, contorted into an expression of sheer, visceral horror. He snatched his arm back as if burned, scrambling away from her with a choked cry, bumping against the cold stone wall. His breathing was ragged, his eyes wide and wild, fixed on nothing but the space between them. A sheen of sweat instantly coated his skin. “Get out, you idiot!” an initiate roared at Gaspar, lobbing a pillow at him. Gaspar, oblivious in his terror, scrambled under a nearby bed, muttering frantically. “I only lost five *solari*! Five! How can Lord Kaelum send his thugs for five *solari*?!” The chaos was Inezia’s salvation. In the confusion, with Thiago still reeling in bewildered disgust, she swiftly and subtly shifted, her fingers fumbling at the back of her tunic. The knot of her swaddle was loosening, the rough cloth slipping. She tugged at it, cinching it tighter with frantic, numb fingers, hiding the movement in the shadow of the bed frame. Thiago watched her, his expression a storm of revulsion and something akin to self-loathing. He looked from Gaspar’s flailing form to Inezia, then back again. The terror in his eyes hardened into a desperate, furious resolve. He sprang from the bed, his movements jerky, violent. He strode to where Gaspar was whimpering under the cot, seizing the man by the scruff of his neck and hauling him out like a sack of turnips. “Out!” Thiago snarled, his voice raw, laced with a desperate fury that vibrated through the air. “Both of you. Now.” He didn't wait for a response, yanking Gaspar towards the door. He glanced back at Inezia, his eyes flashing with a dangerous, silent challenge. The message was clear: *You are coming with us, whether you like it or not.* Inezia, ribs burning from the near-exposure, quickly rose, adjusting her tunic, the linen now secure. She followed them out into the pale, chilly dawn. The Bastion’s main gate, a massive slab of iron, stood ajar, the guards still yawning at their posts. Thiago pushed Gaspar through it, then motioned for Inezia to follow. They walked in silence for a long time, the grey light slowly giving way to the first hints of sunrise over the jagged peaks of the Serrado. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. Thiago led them down a winding, rocky path towards the distant lights of the village of Oakhaven, his steps purposeful and angry. Gaspar stumbled along, occasionally glancing back over his shoulder, still muttering about the Viper’s men. At last, they reached the outskirts of the settlement, a cluster of ramshackle timber houses and a few more substantial stone buildings. Thiago stopped abruptly, turning to Gaspar. His hand delved into a leather pouch at his belt, pulling out a heavy, jingling sack. He thrust it at Gaspar, the metal clinking loudly. “Take it,” Thiago snarled, his eyes blazing, fixed on Inezia. “We are going to the village tavern—it is time Ignazio finally became a man.”

Cramped Quarters