Unbroken: The Last Lunar Heir

The Unbound Barracks

The heavy wooden door at the end of the lower corridor swung shut behind me with a solid, echoing thud.

The room was a massive underground stone vault lined with rows of rusted iron cots. It smelled of wet wool, damp stone, stale sweat, and copper. Dozens of teenagers and young adults in threadbare grey tunics were scattered across the space, polishing wooden training knives or nursing fresh bruises.

The moment my boots hit the floor, every conversation died.

Silence spread through the barracks like a stain. Nobody moved. Nobody offered a greeting. Dozens of eyes fixed on me, watching my every breath as I walked down the central aisle between the rows of beds. They did not look at me with curiosity. They looked at me the way starving strays look at meat.

I kept my chin up and my eyes forward, walking until I reached an empty cot against the damp stone wall near the back. A folded grey blanket rested on the wire springs.

I picked up the blanket. It was cold, but dry.

Footsteps approached from the central aisle. Slow, heavy, and uneven.

I turned. A tall, broad-shouldered guy was stepping toward my cot, a soaking-wet blanket draped over his shoulders. Water was steadily dripping from a cracked stone archway three rows over, drenching the mattress he had left behind. As he walked, I noticed the slight hitch in his posture. He was putting almost all his weight on his left side, his right trouser leg torn to reveal dark blood seeping through thick bandages on his thigh.

He stopped in front of me. "Get up," he said, his voice raspy. "That's my cot."

"There are three other empty beds down the line," I said, keeping my voice level.

"They're taken," he grunted, stepping closer.

His size was intimidating, but I had dealt with bigger men than him behind a harbor diner counter. I knew how to look at someone who was about to swing. His right shoulder was stiff. His breath came in shallow gasps.

He reached out a heavy, calloused hand to grab my collar and yank me off the cot.

I didn't try to block him. I stepped inside his reach, ducking under his arm, and drove my foot hard into the side of his uninjured left ankle.

His weight was already unbalanced. The sudden sweep threw off his center of gravity completely. He let out a choked curse as he stumbled, his heavy body crashing sideways onto the hard stone floor with a sickening thud.

I went down with him, my right elbow slamming viciously against the edge of the iron cot as I fell. Sharp, blinding pain shot up my arm, and the skin over my knuckles split against the rough stone floor, spilling fresh crimson across my fingers.

Adrenaline surged through my blood. I scrambled to my feet before he could roll over, stepping back just out of his reach. My arm throbbed with heat, but I kept my posture rigid.

Brant shoved himself up onto one knee, his face twisted in rage. As he shifted his weight, the leather pouch at his waist shifted open.

A glint of polished silver caught the torchlight inside the gap. A silver token. Even I knew enough by now to recognize contraband.

I didn’t yell for the guards. I just stared at the pouch, then met his eyes.

“You’d be surprised what a harbor diner teaches you,” I said quietly, my voice steady despite the pain radiating up my arm.

His hand froze over his belt, his eyes flicking nervously toward the two guards standing near the heavy entrance doors.

He swallowed hard, realizing in an instant that I wasn't going to scream, and I wasn't going to play by his rules.

For three agonizing seconds, neither of us moved.

Brant spat on the stone floor, muttering a foul curse under his breath. He snatched his wet blanket off the ground, stood up carefully on his good leg, and slouched away toward another corner of the room.

The surrounding cadets slowly turned back to their own cots. The low hum of quiet murmurs resumed, but the atmosphere had changed. The predatory edge in the air was gone. They knew I wasn't easy prey anymore.

I sat down heavily on the edge of the cot, my legs shaking as the adrenaline crash hit my system.

My knuckles were bloody, and my elbow throbbed violently every time I moved my wrist. I tore a strip of cloth from the bottom hem of my grey tunic and wrapped it tightly around my bleeding hand, pulling the knot shut with my teeth.

A shadow fell over me.

I looked up, every muscle in my body tensing again.

A hooded figure stood a foot away. Without saying a single word, the cadet slid a dented tin cup full of clear water onto the edge of my cot, then turned and melted back into the shadows of the crowded barracks.

I picked up the cold tin cup with my uninjured hand, watching the dark corridor where the cadet had disappeared.

I was still trapped in a fortress full of killers, my hands were bleeding, and the morning trials were only hours away. But as I took a slow drink of the cold water, I knew one thing for certain.

If Ironfang wanted me dead, it was going to have to earn it.