25
The barracks had never been so quiet. After the culling, the survivors were marched back in silence. Emil had expected shouting, celebration, or the same harsh orders as always. Instead, the acolytes left them without a word. The door shut, the torchlight dimmed, and they were alone. The dormitory stretched long and narrow, rows of cots lining both walls. Once, every bed had been filled with boys coughing, whispering, tossing in restless sleep. Now, half lay empty. Some still bore marks of sudden departure—blankets twisted in knots, boots left at the floor, a wooden charm dangling uselessly from a frame. Emil stood at the threshold for a long time. His hand tightened on the blade he had not been told to surrender. His heart still hammered with the rhythm of the culling, the wet weight o
- Writer
