The meal finished with the kind of quiet that came from exhausted people processing too much new information simultaneously. Five of the nine children had stood to shake Commander Voss's hand—Amari, Kace, a girl named Senna who'd been maybe thirteen, a boy called Tai who looked older than he probably was, and another girl whose name Amari had heard as Lena but wasn't certain. The other four had chosen different paths: civilian integration, or in one case—Mira, the eight-year-old who still hadn't spoken—remaining undecided pending additional recovery time.
Voss had acknowledged each choice with the same measured respect, making it clear through tone and body language that no option was superior to the others. When the decisions were settled, he'd gestured to Zara, who'd been standing near the hall entrance observing the entire interaction.
"Zara will show the civilians to their quarters. The rest of you—" he focused on the five who'd chosen to fight, "—come with me. Your training instructor wants to assess you before tomorrow's session."
They'd followed Voss out of the communal hall, back into the valley where late afternoon was transitioning toward evening. The sun was invisible behind the rock walls, but ambient light still filled the space with that particular quality of illumination that came from indirect reflection rather than direct exposure. Shadows were diffuse, softening the settlement's architecture into something that looked almost peaceful.
The training area was located in the valley's northeast quadrant, identifiable by the packed dirt ground that showed signs of intensive foot traffic and the wooden practice weapons arranged in orderly rows along one wall. A structure that might have been storage or office space occupied the eastern edge, single-story construction with open sides that allowed observation of the training grounds from within.
A man emerged from that structure as they approached. The first thing Amari registered was his size—not exceptionally tall, maybe five-ten, but built with the kind of density that suggested muscle developed through decades of functional use rather than aesthetic cultivation. His shoulders were broad enough that they strained the fabric of his shirt, and his arms showed definition visible even through the canvas sleeves.
The second thing Amari registered were the scars.
The man's face looked like someone had used it as practice material for blade work. A major scar ran diagonally from his left temple across the bridge of his nose to his right jaw, the tissue raised and discolored in the way that indicated the wound had been deep enough to damage underlying structure. Another scar crossed horizontally above his right eye, which was milky white and clearly non-functional, the pupil fixed in position rather than tracking with its functional counterpart. Smaller scars peppered his cheeks and forehead, the accumulated evidence of extensive combat experience.
His left arm ended just below the elbow. Not a clean amputation—the scarring suggested traumatic removal rather than surgical precision, tissue damage extending up past where the limb terminated. The arm was bare, no prosthetic or covering, just the reality of permanent injury displayed without apparent self-consciousness.
He wore his hair long, pulled back in a style that reminded Amari of illustrations he'd seen of northern raiders from historical texts—warriors from regions where masculine presentation involved elaborate braiding and decorative beads worked into the hair. His beard was similarly maintained, dark brown shot through with gray, divided into three sections that were bound with leather cord.
When he smiled—and he did smile as they approached—his teeth showed gaps where several had been knocked out and never replaced.
"Well then!" His voice boomed across the training ground with volume that suggested either natural projection or years of practice commanding attention in chaotic environments. "These are the fresh ones who've chosen death! Welcome, welcome! I'm honored to guide your journey toward glorious ending!"
Commander Voss's expression shifted from neutral to mildly annoyed. "Bjorn."
The scarred man—Bjorn—held up his remaining hand in placating gesture. "Apologies, apologies. Commander prefers I use less... honest terminology." He executed an exaggerated bow that looked like mockery but might have been genuine respect filtered through personality that didn't take anything seriously. "Let me try again: Welcome, brave children, to the beginning of your training as Liberator warriors! I am Bjorn Halverson, and I will be teaching you how to not die immediately when violence occurs!"
Voss rubbed his temple with two fingers in the gesture of someone managing persistent headache. "Better. Barely." He turned to the five children, his tone returning to the measured authority from earlier. "Bjorn is our primary combat instructor for new recruits. He's survived twenty-three years of active operations, which makes him statistically anomalous and theoretically qualified to teach others. Try to learn from his experience rather than his personality."
Bjorn laughed—a deep sound that came from his chest and seemed to carry genuine amusement. "Commander wounds me! My personality is my greatest teaching tool!" He stepped forward, his single eye tracking across the five children in sequence, assessment visible in how his gaze lingered on specific details. "But yes, yes, let's see what we're working with. Line up—arm's length apart, face me."
They arranged themselves as instructed. Amari ended up second from the left, between Kace and Senna. His back still ached from the injuries sustained during the mine beatings, and standing at attention made the pain more noticeable. He forced himself to maintain position anyway, vertebrae protesting the proper posture.
Bjorn walked down the line slowly, examining each child with the focus of someone evaluating materials for specific purpose. He stopped in front of Kace first.
"Tall. Good reach advantage if we can get proper weight on that frame." He poked Kace's shoulder with his index finger. "Malnourished currently, but bone structure suggests you'll fill out with proper nutrition. Seventeen, eighteen years old?"
"Sixteen," Kace said, voice uncertain.
"Close enough. Height came early for you—body's still catching up." Bjorn moved to Amari.
The assessment was immediate and apparently unfavorable. Bjorn's functional eye tracked from Amari's face down to his feet and back up, taking inventory of visible characteristics. Slight frame. Narrow shoulders. Hands that showed no calluses except those from recent mine work. Posture that suggested someone more comfortable with sedentary activity than physical labor.
"Hmm." Bjorn circled around behind Amari, and Amari felt the older man's gaze examining his back, probably noticing how he held himself to minimize the pain from his injuries. "You've got scholar written all over you, boy. Thoughtful eyes. Careful movements. Build suggests you've never done real physical work until recently." He came back around to face Amari directly. "You belong with the Architects, not the fighters."
Amari's stomach dropped. "The what?"
"Architects," Bjorn repeated. He gestured vaguely toward the settlement's western section. "The people who think rather than hit. They plan operations, devise strategies, calculate logistics, manage information networks. Every combat team gets assigned one—they're the ones who keep fighters from doing stupid things that get everyone killed." He tapped Amari's forehead with his finger, not hard but firmly enough to make the point. "You've got the brain for that work. You don't have the body for this work."
Commander Voss, who'd been standing back observing the assessment, stepped forward. "Bjorn, we haven't tested him yet. You're making assumptions based on appearance."
"I'm making assessments based on twenty-three years of knowing what works!" Bjorn countered, but without real heat. It sounded like an argument they'd had multiple times before. "Look at him, Commander—twelve years old, maybe ninety pounds if we're generous, frame that won't support serious muscle development for at least three more years. We put him in combat rotation now, he dies in his first engagement. We put him with the Architects, he might actually survive long enough to contribute."
"We test everyone," Voss said firmly. "Uncos manifestation changes calculations. You know this."
Bjorn sighed dramatically. "Fine, fine. We test. But I maintain my professional opinion that this one should be planning battles, not fighting them." He moved on to assess the other three children—Senna, Tai, and Lena—with varying degrees of approval.
When he'd finished the initial evaluation, Bjorn stepped back to address the group collectively. "Right. Here's how this works. We've got three categories of Liberator roles, and where you end up depends on two factors: your Uncos if you have any, and your natural aptitudes."
He raised his remaining hand and extended three fingers in sequence as he listed the categories. "First: Architects. These are the minds. They create operational strategies, devise infiltration plans, calculate resource requirements, manage intelligence networks. When a combat team goes on mission, their Architect is the one who planned every step and prepared contingencies for when those steps go wrong. They're not cowards hiding behind fighters—they're the reason fighters survive long enough to accomplish objectives. Every five-person team gets one Architect."
He lowered his thumb, leaving two fingers extended. "Second: Vanguard. These are the fighters. They execute operations, engage in direct combat, handle the violence that comes with challenging The Order's systems. This is what most people think of when they hear 'Liberator.' They train in weapons, hand-to-hand combat, Uncos application if they have it, tactical movement, survival skills. They're the ones who die most frequently, which is why we need constant replacements."
He lowered his index finger, leaving only his middle finger raised in gesture that would have been obscene if it wasn't part of legitimate explanation. "Third: Forgers. These are the makers. They craft weapons, manufacture equipment, develop new tools and techniques. Some work with traditional materials—metal, wood, leather. Others have Uncos that let them create things normal crafting can't achieve. A good Forger can mean the difference between mission success and total failure, because having the right tool at the right time changes everything."
He lowered his hand. "You get assigned based on where you'll be most useful. That's determined partly by your Uncos—if you manifest something like enhanced strength or combat precognition, you're going Vanguard. If you get something like matter transmutation or precision crafting, you're going Forgers. If you get something analytical or sensory, you're going Architects. And if you don't manifest Uncos at all..." He shrugged. "We assess your natural aptitudes and place you accordingly. Questions?"
Senna raised her hand tentatively. "How long does training take?"
"Depends on the role and your starting point. Vanguard training is minimum six months before first deployment—three months basic combat and survival, three months specialized tactics and team integration. Architects train for nine months—six months in strategic planning and intelligence work, three months embedded with combat teams to understand field realities. Forgers vary wildly depending on specialization, anywhere from four months to two years." Bjorn's expression turned serious, the sardonic humor dropping away. "But understand: training period is the easy part. Training is controlled. We can stop exercises if someone's actually going to die. Real operations don't have that luxury. Once you deploy, you're in environments where mistakes have permanent consequences."
He let that sink in, watching their faces to gauge comprehension. "You'll struggle. All of you. Training is designed to push you past comfortable limits, to break down the assumptions you have about what you're capable of, to forge you into people who can function under conditions that would make normal humans collapse. Some of you will wash out—decide this isn't what you want, choose civilian integration instead. No shame in that; better to recognize your limits during training than discover them during operation. But for those who make it through..." He smiled again, gap-toothed and somehow proud despite the mockery implied in the expression. "You'll be Liberators. You'll be people The Order fears. You'll be the reason this rebellion continues existing."
Commander Voss checked the light level in the valley—the diffuse illumination was fading as evening progressed toward night. "That's enough assessment for today. Bjorn, get them situated in trainee quarters. Tomorrow we start the actual work."
"Yes, Commander." Bjorn gestured for the five children to follow him. "This way, future warriors and/or corpses."
Voss shot him a look.
"Sorry—future Liberators and/or survivors who wisely choose different paths."
They followed Bjorn to a structure near the training grounds, long and low with multiple entrance points suggesting it was divided into separate rooms or sections. The building's construction matched the settlement's general aesthetic—wood frame, clay walls, thatched roof—but with additional features like proper windows with shutters and a stone foundation that elevated it slightly above ground level.
"Trainee barracks," Bjorn explained as he led them inside. "You'll stay here during your training period. Four to a room, shared common space for meals and social time. Facilities for washing are around back—we've got water channeled from a spring higher up the valley walls, gravity-fed so no pumping required. Toilets are composting system, surprisingly sophisticated for operation this size."
The interior was dim, lit by oil lamps that provided enough illumination to navigate but not enough to read by. The common space held rough furniture—tables, benches, a few chairs that didn't match—and a stone fireplace that wasn't currently active. Doors along the sides led to what Amari assumed were the individual rooms.
"You'll get room assignments tomorrow after we've completed initial Uncos testing. For tonight, pick beds wherever—we've got space since the last training cohort graduated three weeks ago." Bjorn moved toward the exit, then paused at the threshold. "One last thing: you're allowed to quit. Any time during training, you can walk away, choose civilian integration or departure from the settlement entirely. The only thing you can't do is quit during an actual operation once you're deployed. At that point, you've made commitment to your team, and abandoning them puts their lives at risk. So if you have doubts, if you're uncertain whether this is what you want, figure that out now. During training. When it's safe to change your mind."
He left, his footsteps receding across the packed dirt toward wherever instructors spent their evening hours.
The five children stood in the common space, looking at each other with the particular awkwardness of people who'd survived trauma together but hadn't actually formed social bonds beyond that shared experience. Kace moved first, heading toward one of the side doors to claim a sleeping space. Tai and Senna followed together, their body language suggesting they'd formed some kind of alliance during the journey or earlier.
That left Amari and Lena.
Lena was small—the smallest of the five who'd chosen combat training. She looked maybe ten years old, though malnutrition made age assessment difficult. Her skin was several shades lighter than Amari's, suggesting mixed ancestry from both northern and central regions. Her hair was dark and had been cut short, probably to deal with lice infestation common in slave quarters. Her eyes were brown and currently showing the kind of fear that came from being in unfamiliar situation without clear understanding of what happened next.
"We should find beds," Amari said, trying to keep his tone neutral rather than commanding. He was twelve, not significantly older than her, and didn't have any authority to be giving directions.
Lena nodded but didn't move toward the rooms immediately. "You think we made the right choice?" Her voice was quiet, accent suggesting she'd grown up somewhere in the agricultural territories where vowels got softened and consonants blurred together. "Choosing to fight?"
Amari considered the question seriously rather than offering reflexive reassurance. "I don't know if it's right. But it's the choice that felt necessary. For me, anyway."
"Because of the others? The ones who died?"
"Partially." Amari moved toward one of the unoccupied rooms, and Lena followed. The room held four beds—simple wooden frames with straw mattresses, blankets folded at the foot of each. A small table near the window held an oil lamp that was currently unlit. "But also because going back to how things were—being property, being powerless—I can't do that. I'd rather die trying to change things than live accepting them."
Lena sat on one of the beds, testing the mattress compression. "We're lucky, you know. To be alive. To have escaped."
"Yeah." Amari sat on the bed opposite hers. His back immediately protested the position, the injured muscles unhappy about the lack of proper support. He ignored the pain through practiced discipline. "We are."
"And to have found these people. The Liberators." Lena was picking at the blanket's edge, fingers working at a loose thread. "They could've just freed us and left us somewhere. Could've not bothered freeing us at all. But they did, and then they brought us here, and now they're offering training and purpose and..." She trailed off, struggling to articulate something complex.
"And meaning," Amari finished. "They're offering to make what happened mean something beyond just random suffering."
"Yes. Exactly that." Lena looked up at him, and some of the fear in her eyes had been replaced by something else. Not hope exactly, but maybe its precursor—the possibility that hope might be justified. "What's your dream? Like, if we survive all this, if the Liberators actually win somehow, what do you want to do?"
Amari hadn't thought that far ahead. His planning horizon had been measured in days, maybe weeks at most, since being sold to the mine. Long-term aspirations felt like luxury he couldn't afford when immediate survival required all available cognitive resources.
But Lena was looking at him with genuine curiosity, and the question deserved real answer.
"I want to be like Commander Voss," he said slowly, working through the thought as he spoke it. "Not specifically—I don't need to lead the Liberators or anything that grandiose. But that quality he has. The fearlessness. The certainty. The way he looks at impossible situations and sees problems to solve rather than reasons to give up. I want to be someone who stands between vulnerable people and the systems that consume them. Someone who makes the powerful hesitate before they victimize the powerless."
He paused, recognizing how aspirational that sounded coming from a twelve-year-old former slave who weighed ninety pounds. "Even if I die before achieving any of that, I want to die moving toward it. Does that make sense?"
Lena nodded. "It makes sense." She was quiet for a moment, her fingers still working at the loose thread. "My village was in the eastern agricultural region. Small place—maybe two hundred people, mostly farmers. Three months ago, The Order came through demanding increased crop yield quotas. The village elders tried to negotiate, said the quotas were already unsustainable, that pushing higher would mean starvation. The Order... they made an example."
Her voice remained steady, but her hands had stopped moving, frozen in position on the blanket. "They killed everyone over age sixteen. Everyone. Said it was punishment for resistance, said it was lesson for other villages about what happened when people questioned authority. Then they took the children—all of us who survived—and sold us to different slave operations. Separated us so we couldn't coordinate resistance."
Amari felt something cold settle in his chest. Not surprise—he'd heard similar stories, knew The Order operated through systematic brutality. But hearing specifics from someone who'd lived through it made the abstract horror concrete.
"I want to go back," Lena continued. "I want to find the other children from my village, the ones who got sold to different places. I want to free them the way the Liberators freed us. And then..." She finally looked up again, and her eyes showed determination that seemed too intense for her age. "Then I want to find the Order officials who gave that command. Who decided my parents and my older brothers and everyone I knew deserved to die for asking reasonable questions. I want to look them in the face and make them understand what they did. Make them feel what we felt."
Revenge motivation. Amari understood it intellectually—the desire to inflict equivalent harm on those who'd caused original harm made logical sense as response to trauma. But Commander Voss's earlier words echoed in his memory: killing people changes something fundamental in how you experience being human.
"That's why you chose Vanguard training?" Amari asked.
"Yes. I need to learn how to fight. How to kill if necessary. How to be dangerous enough that The Order can't just dismiss me as irrelevant child to be eliminated when convenient." She resumed picking at the thread. "I know revenge isn't noble motivation. I know the Liberators are fighting for larger principles than personal vendettas. But I'm twelve years old and everyone I loved is dead because of bureaucratic violence, so noble principles feel abstract compared to the very specific desire to make the people responsible pay for what they did."
Honest self-awareness about motivation's moral complexity. Amari appreciated that more than false nobility would have warranted. They were children trained by trauma into patterns that adults would spend years trying to overcome through therapy that probably didn't exist in this world. Pretending their motivations were pure would be self-deception.
"I hope you find them," Amari said. "The other children from your village. I hope you free them and they get to live beyond what was done to them."
"And I hope you become the person Commander Voss saw when he let you shake his hand." Lena stood, moved toward the door. "I'm going to find something to eat before sleep—didn't finish my meal earlier. You want anything?"
"No. I'm good."
She left, footsteps quiet against the wooden floor. Amari lay back on the bed, accepting the pain from his injured back as price of horizontal position. Through the window, he could see the valley settling into night, oil lamps being lit across the settlement, smoke from cooking fires dispersing into darkening sky.
Tomorrow they'd begin testing for Uncos manifestation. Tomorrow they'd start actual training. Tomorrow they'd take first concrete steps toward becoming people who could challenge the systems that had consumed their childhoods.
But tonight, Amari was just a twelve-year-old boy lying in an unfamiliar bed, processing the reality that he'd committed to dying for cause he barely understood in service to people he'd known for less than a week.
His hands found the loose thread Lena had been picking at earlier. He pulled it, watching the blanket's edge slowly unravel.
Eight children had died getting him here. He owed them more than just survival. He owed them meaning.
Tomorrow he'd start paying that debt.