CHAPTER 6: The Glades

“I welcome you to the Glades,” she said, her voice firm, commanding. “You’ve chosen this path, and in the days ahead, you’ll discover if you made the right decision. From now on, you are initiates. Prepare yourselves. Weakness has no place here.”

Without waiting for a response, she turned and began walking away.

“Follow her,” one of the guards barked. “When she moves, you move. Learn it fast.”

They scrambled to follow. Rebel’s pace quickened, her strides lengthening until she broke into a run. She moved faster and the initiates were having trouble keeping up. Some fell on the ground, others gave up.

Michael and Jace passed Diana and Hector. Their years of running together were paying off. But then, out of nowhere, Phoebe blurred past them. They looked at each other and both nodded, no way they're letting her outpace them. They pushed harder, their legs screaming as they closed the gap.

They arrived at the same time to find Rebel standing still her arms crossed, waiting for them, not out of breath.

“You three,” Rebel turned. “Names, now!”

“Phoebe Thunder, ma’am,"

“Michael Griffin.”

“Jace Jamerson.”

Rebel smirked, a gleam of amusement in her eyes. “Jamerson and Griffin. History repeats.”

As the rest of the initiates trickled in, panting and gasping for air, Diana Novak led the stragglers. Rebel surveyed the group with a mixture of curiosity and indifference, waiting just long enough for everyone to stop puking.

“My name is Rebel,” she began, her tone sharper. “I am the leader of the Glade House. And you…” she gestured to the group with a wave of her hand, “are pathetic. A simple run, and you’re gasping like dying animals. Let me make one thing clear: I don’t tolerate weakness. Whatever softness you’ve brought with you, rip it off. Lock it away, and don’t let me see it again.”

Without another word, she turned and strode away, leaving them to follow. The barracks were a stark reminder of the challenges ahead—bare walls, thin mattresses tossed on the ground, and no privacy. It was basically a huge hall with bunk beds.

Grumbles filled the air as they surveyed their grim accommodations, but no one dared speak too loudly. Exhausted, they sank onto the mats, closing their eyes, pretending they were back home.

Morning came.

A piercing horn shattered the silence, followed by a booming voice.

“Get up! MOVE!”

"What? It's still dark," Hector, half-asleep, muttered.

His comment earned him a swift slap across the face, sending him back against the wall.

"No asked for the commentary initiate," the voice barked. "You have two minutes! Dress and report outside!"

"Get out of my way!" Brock yelled, pushing Jace to the side.

But it wasn't just him; everyone panicked, rushing to put on their clothes. The girls quickly threw up makeshift dividers for some semblance of privacy, but there was no time to linger.

Outside, Rebel stood waiting, her hands clasped behind her back. Torches lit the training yard, casting flickering shadows over rows of equipment—weights, dummies, and obstacle courses that looked more like torture devices.

“Welcome to your new life,” she said coldly. “From this moment forward, your body and mind belong to me. I will break you… and you....will pick yourselves up…and I will break you again. You will learn discipline, strength, and loyalty.”

She gestured to the Taskforce X members flanking her. “These are your trainers. They will ensure you succeed.....or see to it that you’re removed if you don’t. Training begins now.”

They were divided into smaller groups, each assigned to a trainer. Jace's group was assigned to Constantine, a wiry man with sharp eyes and a deadly presence. Without warning, Constantine threw a wooden staff at Jace.

“Defend yourself,” he said.

Before Jace could react, he lunged. His strikes came fast and relentlessly, forcing Jace to block, dodge, and stumble back. Each failure earned a sharp word of critique—each success—a grudging nod.

Others faced similar trials. Michael wrestled with a weighted dummy, his muscles straining. Phoebe was climbing a rope, her face a mask of determination.

DAYS LATER......

Dawn's pale light crept over the training yard, but there was no respite in sight. Their bodies had already begun to adapt to the grueling regimen. Yet even so, they still collapsed under their own weight, stamina draining with every drill.

“Back on your feet!” Rebel’s voice rang out like a whip crack. “I didn’t tell you to stop!”

Constantine circled the group like a predator, his eyes cold and calculating. “You think this is hard?” he sneered. “You haven’t even tasted pain yet. Pair up. No holding back.”

They hesitated; their bodies were frozen.

“Fine,” Constantine growled. “If you’re too scared to choose, I’ll pick. You.” His finger jabbed toward Michael. “And you.” It pointed at Jace next, like a judge delivering a death sentence.

Wooden staffs were hurled, and they caught them out of reflex.

Jace's hands trembled around the staff, worn wood rough against his blistered palms.

“Okay now,” Constantine said, his voice dropping to a measured calm that somehow made the moment more dangerous. “I know you just 'awakened' your abilities. You probably think they make you untouchable, right? Wrong.”

He paced between them, the staff in his hand turning lazily, balanced by his fingertips. “Your abilities will fade, the more you use them…like burning oil through flame. When that happens, this…” he lifted the staff….”is all you’ll have left.”

He slammed it into the dirt. The crack echoed through the yard.

“Consider a weapon as an extension of yourself,” Constantine continued. “Wood, steel, bone or even a toothpick….it doesn’t matter. What matters is discipline. Every strike, block and movement must be done with purpose. Today, you’ll be learning that the hard way.”

He turned back to Jace and Michael. “You two. Front and center.”

Jace’s throat tightened. He could feel Michael’s gaze—part nervous, part apologetic. They’d gotten into disagreements in the past but it has never led to a serious fight between them.

“Jace defends,” Constantine said. “Michael attacks. Three minutes.”

Jace shifted his weight, setting the staff diagonally in front of him. His dad had drilled into him the basics. His voice echoed in his mind—check the shoulders, watch the legs, never lose balance. All lessons he desperately needed now.

Michael exhaled once, then lunged.

The first strike came fast—too fast for comfort. Wood clashed against wood, the shock running up Jace’s arms. Michael pressed forward with another swing, his strikes uneven but strong.

Jace backpedaled, deflecting blows. He could feel Michael’s frustration in every hit—each one harder than the last. Jace couldn’t read Michael who was pressing on, giving him less time to think. He pivoted, sweeping low. Jace barely caught it in time, twisting his staff to parry. Their feet kicked up dust.

“Harder!” Constantine shouted. “If I don’t see blood, you’re both running laps!”

“You heard him,” Michael grunted between strikes. “You always think too much. Just hit me.”

“I’d rather not break your face,” Jace shot back through clenched teeth.

Michael grinned. “You won’t.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed, and his attacks came faster, more brutal and sharper. Jace parried as best he could, each block sending shockwaves through his bones. He felt a jolt and his grip slipped, Michael’s staff clipping his shoulder.

“Focus, Jamerson!” Constantine’s voice roared. “That hit would’ve shattered your arm in a real fight!”

Then, a feint—too quick to read. Michael’s staff darted high, then low. Jace blocked once, twice—but the third swing caught his ankle and swept his legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard, dust exploding around him.

Constantine didn’t move. “Get up.”

Jace forced himself to his knees, gasping. His heart rang in his ears. Michael’s stance faltered, guilt flickering across his face—but Constantine’s glare froze it

Jace rose, clenching his teeth and raised his staff. This time when Michael lunged, Jace spun his grip, sidestepped and used his shoulder to push into Michael’s guard. The momentum shifted—now Michael was backpedaling.

“Better,” Constantine said under his breath.

The final clash sent both of them staggering apart, panting, drenched in sweat. Jace’s hands trembled, the weight of the wood suddenly immense. Michael gave a faint nod, a quiet acknowledgement that neither of them had really won or lost.

Constantine approached, silent for a long moment. Then, “Not bad. Rest for a bit. Break’s over in ten minutes. Hydrate, patch your hands, then we start drills again,” he said. “Next pair!”

Jace sank onto a bench near the weapon racks. His palms were raw, blisters torn open and bleeding. He stared at them for a long moment before reaching for the water canteen beside him.

Michael joined him, shoulders slumped, his face red with both heat and frustration. They sat in silence watching dust rise from Brock breaking his staff on the ground against Phoebe. She moved with a ferocity that belied her size. Brock used his muscles to pin her to the ground but her legs coiled like springs, launching him off with a surprising burst of strength. She rolled backwards to her feet, sweat dripping down her face and charged him again.

“Good reaction!” Rebel’s voice boomed from across the yard. “But don’t just react….control the fight!”

Brock swept her legs out from under her with a calculated move, slamming her back into the dirt. Phoebe groaned but didn’t stay down. She was relentless, and even as her body faltered, her spirit never wavered.

After a while, Jace murmured, “Do you ever wonder what’s happening Outside?”

Michael looked up, frowning. “What do you mean?”

Jace shook his head, unsure of himself. “I don’t know. Just feels like Constantine not just training us to fight….he’s preparing us for something.”

“Like what?”

Across the yard, Constantine stood beside Rebel, speaking in hushed tones. His gaze lingered on Jace longer than it should have—like he was looking through him, searching for something.

Endurance drills followed, pushing them past the limits of sanity. Climbing ropes, scaling walls under a rain of weighted sacks—failure was met with punishment, and success only led to harder challenges.

Diana bore the brunt of one such ordeal, her slender frame pitted against the unforgiving wall while Rebel threw sacks her way.

“You call that climbing?” Rebel barked. “Even a child could do better!”

A sack slammed into Diana’s shoulder, nearly dislodging her grip, but she clung on, teeth gritted, defiance burning in her eyes. When she finally reached the top, she collapsed onto the platform, gasping for air.

Constantine called an end to the session with a sharp whistle. “Think you’ve earned rest?” he snarled. “Think again. Everyone….on the ground. Push-ups. Now.”

They dropped down, grunting, twitches of their muscles screaming in protest.

“Count out loud!”

“One... two... three...” Their voices were ragged and weak.

“I can’t hear you!”

“Four! Five! Six!”

Jace’s arms became spaghetti and finally gave out.

“Get up, Jamerson!” Constantine sent a boot to his ribs, “You don’t stop until I say!!”

Jace forced himself up, every minimal movement, sending agony to his ribs, his vision blurring like he was drunk.

By the time the sun was high in the clouds, they were spent. Some initiates vomited from the effort and others fainted. A few—like Adelle and Brock—looked barely tired.

“You’ve made it through your first session,” Rebel said, her tone almost mocking. “Barely. If you think this was hard, let me assure you.....it wasn’t. This is just the beginning.”

She paused, her gaze sweeping over them.

“You have one hour to eat and recover,” she said finally. “After that.....” her grin turned razor-sharp, “.....it’s the Pit.”

The name hung in the air like a curse. The Pit sounded less like a place of training and more like somewhere people went to die.