A strange thing occurred at breakfast the next day. Like always, I had made my way over on my own, wondering if the guys would be there or if I'd be eating alone when I saw Tom's distinctive hobble heading down to one of the cell blocks away from the canteen. It struck me as a little odd because it wasn't where his cell was but I figured he had his own personal stuff to deal with. Especially with how down he was acting the day before. I considered jogging to catch up, maybe ask if he was alright, but it felt intrusive. I figured if he wanted company, he'd have waited and asked.

I've thought about that decision a lot since. Wondered what might've happened if I'd followed him, asked questions, maybe found out what was bothering him. Maybe things would've gone differently. But I didn't and there's no way for me to change that decision. So now, I just have to live with it, knowing that I could have stopped what happened if I'd just gone down that hall after him. Instead, I made my way to breakfast and sat down with H, Carl, and Ginge.

"Fucked up yesterday, didn't you?" H said, ever the tactful one.

"Tell me about it," I sighed. "Feels like a theme in my life at the moment."

"Ah well, you were always going to experience one. It's early but you're a big lad. And at least you'll have Tom with you."

"What do you mean?"

"He was going to be conscripted—which was why he was so down yesterday by the way—but Celine put him on this new repair team so he's still going but at least he won't have to fight," Ginge explained.

"When did that happen?" I asked, frowning in confusion.

"Just as we were leaving she pulled him to the side to tell him," Ginge answered. "She hasn't said who else will be going yet though."

"It's not going to be us though," H added confidently.

Ginge rolled his eyes. "You don't know that."

"If she was going to assign us, she would've done it right then. Obviously. Right, Carl?"

"Yeah," Carl said with a nod, like it was a matter of fact.

"Why would Carl know any better than you?" Ginge asked, exasperated.

"You're just mad because I'm right."

Ginge let out a long suffering breath. "I'm not mad because you're right," he shot back. "I'm irritated because you're making things up again."

"Do you think they'll announce who else is going today then?" I interjected, steering them away from another pointless argument.

"They should do. You'll need the time to learn how to fix things. Especially you. It'll take you a shift to learn how to screw in a handle," H said, nudging Carl with his elbow as they all broke out in laughter.

"Yeah, yeah. Very funny. Oh Tom, you're here," I said as I spotted Tom coming up behind Ginge.

"Yeah," he said, sitting down with a tray of food.

"Listen, I'm sorry about… you know."

"It's not your fault. If anything, what ya did do got me assigned to the repair squad so I shouldn't have to fight at least."

"You two will be alright. Just keep your heads down and run away from any monsters," H advised.

"Easy to say when you're not going," Tom responded bluntly, deflating the jovial mood we'd built up.

"True enough. Well we've finished up here anyway so we'll leave you two to it."

With that they scarpered and left me alone with a dour Tom. I tried to make small talk, even going as far as asking if he had any tips for surviving a Challenge but he wasn't receptive, only giving me one word answers to my questions. It left me feeling sorry for him, thinking he was down because he was so worried about what would happen to him, whereas I was thinking about using it as my chance to escape.

The repair squad was to be ten men deep. Tom and I were the first two chosen; the remaining eight were faces I recognised but couldn't put names to. Celine introduced them all, but I didn't bother to commit their names to memory. I didn't want to humanise people I was already planning to leave behind.

My training with Billy the night before had buoyed my dreams of escape. It wasn't that the spar had gone particularly well, but it had gone just well enough that I started to believe I had a genuine—if only small—shot at getting away. If I started getting close with everyone else then I'd be tempted to bring them with me. Finding out that Tom would be with me was already a complication I didn't need. My mind was spinning trying to think of ways to get him out as well. Adding eight others seemed like too much of a daunting task..

"We're going to do a crash course on basic fortification repairs," Celine was saying as the group gathered around her. "You're not going to be experts, but people's lives will rely on your work. Including your own."

I caught a few people rolling their eyes. I couldn't blame them. Why should they care? We were being forced into this. There was no real reward for excellence—just punishment for failure. The bare minimum would get us by. For some, that would be all they were willing to give.

"Yes, I know none of you want to go," she continued, clearly noticing the attitude shift, "but doing this well will reflect positively on you. Officers from several Houses will be stationed at the fortress, and many of the soldiers there are future officers themselves. If you put effort in and someone takes notice, it could open doors for you. A single good word from the right person can change your life."

Seeing that her talk of vague future rewards wasn't lighting a fire under anyone, Celine quickly pivoted to something more tangible—details about the actual work we'd be doing at the fort.

"You'll be assigned to a range of repair tasks," she said, her tone crisp and practical now. "We're expecting everything from patching up damaged stone walls to reinforcing defensive structures, refitting wooden frames, repairing furniture, and handling battlefield debris. The Wallowhackers don't have time to worry about whether the benches in their barracks are wobbly or if a section of rampart has cracked—you will. If it's broken and can be fixed, it's your job to fix it."

She began listing more examples as she paced slowly in front of us, eyes scanning for anyone who might be foolish enough to look bored. "You'll be mixing mortar, cutting timber, replacing hinges, tightening bolts, realigning beams, sealing gaps, hammering out dents, re-seating stone blocks, and, most likely shovelling more than a bit of muck."

A few of the others shifted uncomfortably. It was clear now this wasn't going to be some easy ride with the occasional nail hammered into a board. It would be hard, thankless labour—made worse by the fact that we'd be doing it under the threat of demons breaking through the gate at any moment.

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Celine paused for effect. "And you'll be doing all of this while under strict time constraints. During a Challenge, everything happens fast and damage isn't going to wait for you to fix it. If a barricade is smashed or a supply cart breaks an axle mid-run, you won't have the luxury of taking your time. Get it done. Get it done right. And then move to the next fire.

"You'll have a week before the Challenge starts to fix up the fort as best as you can. I suggest you use that time wisely. Get the harder stuff done then when you do have the luxury of time because when the demons start pouring out of the Fracture, you're not going to have the time to think. You'll be called to fix things in dangerous places and in time constraints that you won't think are possible but you'll need to get them done."

Her eyes scanned over the crowd, taking our measure.

"I know you're not volunteers," she said flatly. "I know most of you couldn't care less about what happens at the fort. But let me make one thing clear—if you screw something up out there, it won't just be soldiers who pay the price. It won't just be the people relying on those walls to keep the demons out. It'll be you. Your life will be the one hanging in the balance."

She let the words hang for a moment, letting them sink in.

"So, if you can't be motivated by honour or duty or survival of the realm, then at least be motivated by self-preservation. Because if you fail, no one's coming to save you. Let's just say it. You're prisoners. Your life is on the chopping block should a door break, or a wall come down. Nobody is turning back to save you. So you need to make sure it doesn't get to that point."

That got their attention. The shift in the group was immediate with a few straightening up, and others nodding to themselves, their expressions a little more focused than before. Seeing that her words had landed, she pivoted smoothly into the next phase.

"Right, now, let's get to it. We don't have time to turn you into master masons, but we can teach you the basics. First up is stonework—patching cracks, resetting loose blocks, and reinforcing compromised structures. It won't be pretty, but it'll hold. Follow me to the yard, and I'll show you the techniques we'll be relying on."

We followed Celine into the yard behind the workshop, where a set of ruined practice walls had been set up in a semi-circle—clearly damaged on purpose to mimic battlefield wear and tear. Some were chipped and cracked, others had entire chunks missing or loose stones threatening to fall. A small cart loaded with tools and materials stood nearby: buckets of mortar, trowels, chisels, mallets, and stone blocks of varying shapes and sizes. Celine walked us to the centre of the setup, her boots crunching over gravel. She turned to face us, arms folded.

"Right. This is basic field masonry," she began. "You're not rebuilding palaces here, you're keeping people alive. The goal is structural integrity, not elegance. Not that any of you fuckers know anything about elegance."

The joke landed and eased a bit of the tension. She moved toward the nearest wall—a waist-high section with a visible crack running down the middle.

"Start with damage assessment. Is it cosmetic? Structural? Will a cart bumping into it cause a collapse, or is it just ugly?" She tapped the cracked section. "This is mild structural damage. Could become worse under stress—say, a demon ramming into it, or a blast hitting nearby. So we fix it."

She grabbed a trowel and began scraping along the crack, chipping away the edges of the gap to widen it slightly.

"To fix it, you first want to open the crack. You want fresh surfaces so the mortar has something to grip. Don't be delicate about it. If the stone's loose, knock it out and reset it."

She demonstrated with swift, practiced ease. The trowel dug in, widening the fissure. Then she swapped it for a mallet and chisel, popping out a couple of loose fragments.

"Clean the area. No dust, no loose grit. You want a solid bond. Then, mix your mortar. Add a touch more water if it's dry and crumbling. Too wet and it won't set properly. Push the mortar in. Don't just smear it across the front. Force it deep into the crack so it bonds inside. Then smooth the surface and move on. Give it a day to cure, but in emergency cases, sandbag or brace it to reduce pressure."

She stood up and pointed to a wall with a missing block near the bottom.

"If you're replacing a stone, same principles apply. Clear the space. Check the stability of surrounding stones. Fill the void with mortar, press the new block in, then pack around it to seal the gaps. Tap it with a mallet to ensure it's snug. If it moves, it's useless."

She let that sit for a moment, then turned back to the group.

"Any questions so far?"

One of the older conscripts, a wiry man with a crooked nose, raised a hand. "What if there's a breach and we've only got sandbags or wood?"

"Then you improvise," Celine said without hesitation. "Sandbags, wooden braces, planks wedged against weak points—whatever holds. The goal is to buy time, not win awards for craftsmanship."

As she explained how to repair walls my mind went back to when I'd first gone to live with Dillon and Morgana. Back then I wasn't much of a thief. More like a snot nosed brat who wanted to be like his friends. Dillon and Morgana had already been stealing for a living by that point and one day Dillon was showing me how to pick a lock. He had a few different ones he'd stolen over the years, some in different states of repair. I'd asked him what the deal was and he'd explained that it was easier to see where things could go wrong when you knew how it was meant to work.

It was something that had stuck with me in the years since. It's odd looking back and thinking I took such advice to heart from a child but it was a good lesson. One that came to mind on that day when Celine was showing us what to look out for in walls so that we knew how to repair them, because if you know where the fault points are, there's a good chance you know how to get them there.

Celine pointed at the walls behind her. "You'll each get a section to practice on. We'll rotate every day—stone, then carpentry, then basic joinery. You'll learn how to brace doors, patch roofs, and hopefully you'll do a good enough job that you won't get yourselves and everyone else killed."

She started assigning stations, and I ended up paired with Tom on a half-collapsed wall that had clearly seen better days. The goal was to mix up some mortar and get it back to working condition so that when we came back in tomorrow, it would be nice and repaired.

It was a long hard graft and we spent hours shuffling stones and slathering mortar, trying to get everything just right. I'll admit, a lot of that time was spent fixing mistakes I'd made. Which I didn't think was exactly representative of my skills. It was just that masonry wasn't as straightforward as it looked. Though by the end of the shift, I got the feeling that my constant slip-ups had ground down Tom's mood even further.

"You coming to the canteen?" I asked, wiping my hands and starting to pack away my tools.

"Nah. Got stuff to do," he muttered. Then, after a pause: "Are ya off to see Billy?"

"Yeah, probably," I replied, quietly relieved he'd finally said more than a grunt in my direction.

"What is it ya do with him anyway?"

I shrugged. "Just hang out. Nothing much."

I liked Tom but there was no way I was telling him me and Billy sparred every day. He didn't strike me as the sort of person who could keep that a secret.

"Is that why ya keep going through the kitchen?" he asked, giving me a sidelong glance. "Seems to the rest of us like it's more than just hanging out."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, suddenly defensive. "We're just friends. Nothing weird's going on."

"I didn't mean it like that," he said, rolling his eyes. "But it's Old Billy. He's got a reputation. People think he's grooming you to be his number two."

"His number two in what?" I asked, confused.

"Yanno…" he said, a frown on his face.

"No… I don't."

He shook his head. "Doesn't matter. I'll see ya tomorrow."

And with that, he walked off, leaving me standing there wondering what he was getting at. Did people think Billy was still running some kind of operation? Some shadow crew behind the scenes? I put it down to Tom being weird and stuffed it to the back of my mind.

On the way out I bumped into H, Carl, and Ginge and joined them on their walk to the canteen.

"What did I tell you, eh?" H said, putting an arm around my shoulders.

"What?" I asked.

Ginge groaned. "It doesn't mean you were right."

"Of course it does," H said, preening.

"What are you on about?"

"I was right about us not being conscripted. Celine would have just told us when she told Tom."

"You don't know that!" Ginge said defensively.

I rolled my eyes as they argued, happy to passively listen to their banter after a long day.

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