Unlike the hectic patchwork of the Sprawl, the Culling House was a fortress of dark gray stone. The complex consisted of four large buildings, each rising three or four stories high, surrounded by a wall of the same material.

  It was massive. Larger than all of Ardan.

  Two men guarded a solid metal gate, which stood open. As Esteban approached, they crossed their spears, blocking his path.

  “Papers,” one grunted.

  Esteban handed over the parchment. The guard squinted at it, checking the red stamp, then nodded to his partner. The spears retracted.

  A stone walkway led to a thirty-foot bronze statue of Krovos. The Valyr’s oval face lacked a nose or a mouth, and his eyes were set with polished red stones. He wore his distinctive crown, which looked like it was made from flowing water. He wore no clothes, and his body was smooth and featureless, save for complicated swirling patterns drawn with silver and gold. Two slanted slits crossed his chest. His thin arms were extended in a frozen embrace, each ending with a set of seven long fingers, with two opposable thumbs on each hand. He had four legs, each with two knee joints, which made him look like half-man, half-spider.

  To the right, a dusty training yard was filled with two dozen men and women sparring with wooden swords.

  One of the fighters noticed him. He lowered his weapon and nudged his partner with an elbow.

  “Fresh meat!” he bellowed.

  The yard went quiet. Two dozen heads turned. Some of the fighters laughed, while the others just shook their heads and went back to their drills.

  To his left, a long, two-story building stretched the length of the wall. It was lined with more than a hundred small, dark windows. It reminded him of the stockades in Ardan, except many times larger.

  The barracks, he thought.

  The main hall was cool and smelled of old paper and weapon oil. A large wooden desk sat in the center of the room, manned by a woman with graying curly hair and a face that looked like it had been carved from dark granite. A younger woman with short, blonde, hair sat on a stool nearby, leaning back against the wall.

  “I’m here to join,” Esteban said, his voice echoing in the large chamber.

  The younger woman snorted. “There are easier ways to die. Tried jumping off the city walls?”

  The woman behind the table looked him up and down, her eyes lingering on the knife at his belt.

  “At least he’s dressed for it,” she said, her voice dry. “Better than those street rats who come in naked and begging.” She looked up, examining his face. “Name?”

  “Saren Wills.”

  “Have a place to stay, Saren?”

  Esteban shook his head.

  The other woman scoffed. “Full of potential, this one.”

  “Then you’ll bunk in the barracks,” the older woman said, pulling a heavy ledger toward her. “But it’ll cost you four bits a night. If you don’t have it, then it’ll be taken out of your pay. Food is provided.”

  “If you can call it food,” the younger woman added.

  “Helda, don’t you have something better to do?”

  “I do not. I’m all yours, darling.”

  “Do I pay while I’m out on a cull?” Esteban asked. “If I’m not sleeping in the bed?”

  The woman looked up, unamused. “You pay to reserve your space. So yes, it’s still four bits a night even when you’re out on a cull.”

  Esteban clamped his jaw shut and nodded.

  The woman continued. “You’ll report to Reaper Gordon. Cell 14. He’ll put you through the evaluation. Won’t take more than a day or two. If you’re found…” she paused. “Acceptable, then you’ll be officially inducted. You’ll start as Dross. Pay is sixty bits a cull. Bonus for exceeding quota. Understood?”

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  “Understood,” Esteban said. “Where can I find Reaper Gordon?”

  “PAUL!”

  Esteban flinched. A door banged open on the far side of the hall, and a stout balding man in a leather apron hurried out.

  “New meat for Cell 14. Take him to Gordon, will you?” she said, handing the man a piece of paper.

  “Right away, Overseer.” Paul mumbled, keeping his head down. He scurried past Esteban without looking at him.

  Esteban stood still for a moment, unsure if he should follow, before hurrying after the man.

  Paul moved with a frantic pace, his head low, and his hands clasped over his stomach. Esteban caught him as they exited the administrative buildings and stepped into the narrow, cobbled alleyway that ran between the walls and the barracks.

  “Why didn’t we take the front entrance?” Esteban asked.

  Paul ignored the question, continuing on his way.

  To their left, a heavy wooden wagon was parked to the side. Two men in leather aprons were scrubbing the bed of the cart, soapy liquid mixed with blood dripping onto the ground to pool into the cracks of the cobblestones. Esteban slowed, his eyes drawn to a pile of armor stacked haphazardly on a nearby crate.

  Paul abruptly stopped, and Esteban almost crashed into him. The older man turned around and pointed to the steel door next to them.

  “Wait inside. You’re assigned bed eighty-nine. Go there and wait for Reaper Gordon. Do you know how to read?”

  “I know the numbers.”

  “Good. The beds have numbers written on their side. Yours will have an eight and a nine. Reaper Gordon will arrive shortly. For the love of the Spheres, do not piss him off. Only speak when you’re spoken to. Do not stare at him the way you’re staring at me right now. Lower your head and be humble. He’s a Doubler. He will snap you in half then complain about the mess. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” Esteban said, his jaw tight, still maintaining eye contact.

  Paul hesitated then nodded. He waited for Esteban to step into the barracks, then scurried back down the alleyway they had just traversed.

  Rows of beds lined the large room, separated by only a few feet. The room stank of sweat, despite the barracks being nearly empty, though the bed and floors looked reasonably clean. A wooden chest sat at the foot of each bed.

  “I assume you’re the new recruit?” A man called out, approaching the bed where Esteban sat.

  “Yes. My name is Saren.”

  “I’ll try to remember that if you make it through the assessment.” The Bound motioned for him to follow.

  Reaper Gordon was a short man with sharp, honey-colored eyes, the same shade as Esteban’s. He was bald, save for a long, black ponytail trailing from the base of his skull. He wore two bands on his right hand, marking his rank as a Doubler.

  Esteban followed. He hated having to work with the Bound, in a Valyr organization. He wanted to fight them. He wanted to destroy them. But he wasn’t strong enough. The Culling House provided a clear path forward toward that goal. He would hunt the Echoes and absorb their Essence, feeding the Ring to grow his power. He clenched his fist, watching the muscles of his forearms bulge. Judging by the strength a single cycle had granted him, it wouldn’t be long until he could stand toe-to-toe against his enemies. His pulse quickened with excitement as he followed the Reaper to the training yard.

  “Cell fourteen, attention!” Gordon bellowed. Five of the fighters—three men and two women—stopped sparring and approached.

  “This scum thinks he’s worthy of fighting on your side. Do you think he has what it takes?”

  Two of the men shook their heads, while the others remained impassive.

  Gordon turned to Esteban. “Do you know how to handle a sword?”

  “Yes, sir,” Esteban lied.

  Gordon eyed him skeptically, then turned to a giant of a man with a blond mane and bushy beard. “Ox, give him your sword.”

  “Let me fight him, Reaper. I will tear him to shreds!” Ox roared, although there was a hint of a smile on his face.

  A tall woman of about thirty, with tan skin and black hair, rolled her narrow eyes. “I don’t know, he looks pretty strong.”

  “Hah! I’m much stronger than this scrawny weakling!” Ox said, flexing his muscles.

  Gordon raised his hand, silencing them.

  “Mara, step forward.”

  The tall woman stepped closer to the Reaper.

  “Spar with him. But pace yourself. I want to see what he’s capable of.”

  “As you wish, Reaper.” Mara bowed, then turned to face Esteban. She pointed her practice sword at him. “Show me what you know, handsome.”

  Esteban raised Ox’s wooden sword and faced his opponent.

  Mara’s blade slapped him across the face. Her movement was so quick he barely had time to flinch before the impact.

  The other four laughed. Gordon stood expressionless, his hands clasped behind his back.

  Esteban reset his stance but was immediately struck on the other cheek. He tasted blood, and his chest tightened with anger.

  With a roar, he charged, swinging his sword in frenzied arcs. The woman dodged every attack with grace, spinning behind him and slapping her blade against his backside with a loud thwack.

  Esteban spun around, his face twisted in frustration. She stood in a relaxed posture, a sweet smile on her lips.

  “He’s never handled a sword in his life,” the other woman said, smirking.

  Esteban clutched the hilt with both hands and lunged, swinging down with all his strength. Mara sidestepped, dropping into a crouch and sweeping her leg across the back of his ankles. His feet flew out from under him, and he slammed on his back.

  She stood over him, the smile still on her face, and extended a hand to help him up.

  Esteban took her hand and pulled himself up to his feet. Despite the humiliation of such a lopsided defeat, he felt respect for the woman. She was not Bound. No dark gods promised her power and vengeance. Yet, she was a formidable opponent. He had much to learn from these Threshers.

  “I’ve seen enough.” Gordon stepped forward. “Vick is right. You’ve never held a sword. And to be honest, you looked like trash out there.”

  Esteban locked eyes with the Bound, his jaw set tight.

  Gordon smiled. “Which makes sense, since you are trash. But every cell needs a porter, and the barracks need cleaning. So, you’re in.”

  Ox grunted.

  “We leave on a cull in two days. In the likely event you die, make sure your affairs are in order.” Gordon turned and marched out of the yard.