The training ground smells of crushed pine, sweat, and the faint, metallic tang of ozone.
It is 0600 hours. The sun has just crested the eastern tree line, casting long, golden shadows across the newly paved cobblestones of the integration school courtyard. The rest of the Academy is still asleep, but the central courtyard is alive with the rhythmic, barking commands of physical conditioning.
I stand at the edge of the mat, my arms crossed over my chest. My hands are heavily bandaged, the frostbite from the Mariana Trench still healing, the nerve endings firing with a dull, constant ache. I ignore it. My focus is entirely on the boy in the center of the mat.
Asher is eleven years old, but today, he looks fifty.
He is stripped to the waist, his skin slick with sweat, his chest heaving.
