CHAPTER 6

News of Oliver's suspension spread like wildfire. His punishment was swift: barred from the choosing ceremony, left to grapple with his fate in silence. The ceremony itself was brief. The nine candidates from the experimental procedure all chose the Glades, while of the others who passed, only two selected the Elite House. Surprisingly, none chose the Founders, raising murmurs of confusion among the onlookers.

When the ceremony ended, the real journey began—we were finally entering the Glades.

From the moment we approached the gates, it was clear the Glades were unlike the other houses. The sound of grunts and the dull thuds of bodies hitting the ground echoed through the air. Guards in sleek black-and-white Taskforce X jumpsuits stood at attention, their imposing presence a silent warning. As we neared, a stocky, powerful woman stepped forward, her sharp gaze locking onto us.

The guards saluted her with fists to their chests, their movements precise and practiced.

“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 Taskforce X members barked. “When she moves, you move. Learn it fast.”

We scrambled to follow. Rebel’s pace quickened, her strides lengthening until she broke into a run. The speed she maintained was staggering. Some of us faltered, stumbling on uneven ground or giving up entirely. Michael and I kept up, our years of running together paying off. But then, out of nowhere, Phoebe surged ahead, her figure a blur as she whooshed past us.

Michael and I exchanged a look. No way were we letting her outpace us. We pushed harder, muscles screaming as we closed the gap. When we caught up, Rebel was already standing still, her arms crossed, waiting. Phoebe was there too, not even out of breath.

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

“Phoebe Thunder, ma’am,” Phoebe said, her voice steady.

“Michael Griffin.”

“Jace Jamerson.”

Rebel smirked a gleam of amusement in her eyes. “Jamerson and Griffin. Figures.”

As the rest of the initiates trickled in, panting and gasping for air, a tall girl named Diana Novak led the stragglers. Rebel surveyed the group with a mixture of disdain and indifference, waiting just long enough for everyone to catch their breath.

“My name is Rebel,” she began, her tone sharper than before. “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 a dying animal. Let me make one thing clear: I don’t tolerate weakness. Whatever softness you’ve brought with you, bury it. Lock it away, and don’t let me see it again.”

Without another word, she turned and strode away, leaving us to follow. The barracks were a stark reminder of the challenges ahead—bare walls, thin mattresses tossed on the ground, and no privacy. Grumbles filled the air as we surveyed our grim accommodations, but no one dared speak too loudly. Exhausted, we sank onto the mats, closing our eyes and pretending they were beds back home.

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

“Get up! MOVE!”

We scrambled awake, disoriented. Hector, half-asleep, muttered, “It’s still dark.” His comment earned him a swift slap across the face, sending him sprawling.

“You have two minutes!” the voice barked. “Dress and report outside!”

Panic set in as we rushed to pull on our 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 gain. 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.”

We were divided into smaller groups, each assigned to a trainer. My group was led by Constantine, a wiry man with sharp eyes and a deadly presence. Without warning, he threw a wooden staff at me.

“Defend yourself,” he said.

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

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

By the time dawn broke, we were bruised, battered, and utterly spent.