The only good thing about my accidental volunteering for the Challenge crafting squad was that I would be released from prison—for a short period of time anyway. Obviously I wouldn't be released properly. They told me I'd be manacled and under watch the entire time so there wouldn't be a chance of escape but even that was enough to offset some of my dread.

Not that I believed them about my inability to escape. If they sent me to the Challenge and expected to be able to keep me under watch the entire time, then they were fools. Challenges were notoriously chaotic—if they weren't, then they wouldn't need prison conscripts to fight the invaders, and mend the barriers.

Celine told me she would be moving me to a group with the other selected individuals who would be working with me so that we could all make sure we knew how to make basic repairs to the fortifications, and anything else the Wallowhackers might need from us. We were expected to head out a week before the Challenge started and stay until it ended, which meant we had three weeks to get up to speed. I didn't anticipate the work to be difficult but Celine was adamant that we would have to work hard in the minimal time we had to make sure we were capable of doing it.

When the workshop shift ended, I couldn't see Tom and the others so I left on my own, grabbed food from the canteen, and sat alone, lost in thought. My appetite was gone, drowned beneath the weight of what lay ahead but I forced myself to eat anyway, the Warden's voice replaying in my head. The smug satisfaction when he accepted my "offer." That prick thought he'd got one over on me and I wasn't happy about it.

Fighting a Challenge was a terrifying prospect and I was under no illusions that being there for repair jobs and not as a fighter would keep me safe. If that was the case, they would have hired normal crafters to do the job. No, I knew I'd be running around unarmed in the midst of a battle, trying to fix things as swords slashed down around me. If I wanted to seize this as an opportunity, then the first thing I would need to do when I was there would be to arm myself. If I got myself a weapon then I'd be able to defend myself, and possibly, get clear of the fort. The problem would be using it.

There had never been much need for me to train with weapons so I'd spent most of my time training unarmed. Yes, fighting in a Challenge was always on the horizon but it always seemed so far away and so I'd never focussed on actual war weapons. The only weapon I had real experience using was a knife—and whilst I fancied my chances in a knife fight against your average tavern drunkard—I didn't fancy my chances with one against the armoured guards. Never mind against one of the invading monsters. A small blade against one of those beasts could see me getting impaled even if I landed a hit.

Sighing, I put away my food tray and made my way into the back of the kitchen. It was just as hectic this time but nobody seemed to pay me any attention as I made my way through the back. The only interaction I had was a nod by the chef who had called out to me the day before, which I think was less of a greeting and more an acknowledgement that I had been seen.

Billy had already turned the lamps on when I entered this time so I wasn't greeted with a dark, and sinister looking butcher's room occupied by a well known killer. Instead I was greeted with a bright and sinister looking butcher's room occupied by a well known killer.

"Hi Billy," I muttered, voice heavy with resignation.

He frowned as he studied me. "There's no way Celine let you be conscripted."

I was taken aback by how quickly he'd come to the most likely reason for my dour mood. "How would you know that?"

He shrugged. "We've both been 'ere for a while. She can be 'ard but she's not cruel. She wouldn't send a kid to the Challenge."

I let out another long, pitiful sigh, avoiding his eyes. "Yeah… you're right. She didn't. She actually moved me to a special squad so I couldn't be picked."

He narrowed his eyebrows. "So what are you so mopey about?"

Still not looking at him, I scuffed the floor with my boot, trying to find the words.

"Well… the Warden came by. Said the Wallowhackers need crafters for battlefield repairs. And, uh... I sort of... accidentally volunteered."

Finally, looking over at him, it was just in time to see his grim face flying at me, and a fist driving into my jaw. Three hits later—and before I could even fully register what was happening—-I received my first knockout of the day.

"Ouch," I moaned as I came to. "What was that for?"

"For being a bloody idiot," Billy snapped, offering me a hand to pull me up. "You're not off the 'ook, but I'll tell you what—there's something real therapeutic about punchin' someone you know's gonna be alright."

"It's not therapeutic for me. It hurts getting punched yanno?"

He shrugged, not fussed at all. "We were going to work on knockin' you out anyway. I just started early. You deserved it though. I mean, what were you thinkin'? Volunteerin' for a Challenge is beyond stupid."

"I didn't mean to," I muttered, rubbing my jaw as I stood. "I was arguing with one of the crafters—this guy, Stanley. Big scar on his cheek." I traced the mark on my own face for emphasis. "You know him?"

Billy shook his head. "Can't say I do."

"Doesn't matter anyway," I said with a sigh. "The guy riled me up about the fact I was only on the project so that I wouldn't be conscripted. Next thing I've let my pride get ahead of me and suddenly the warden's there to punish me."

I dropped my head between my knees and let out a long, frustrated groan. "I was so stupid! I can't believe I let myself get worked up like that. So lost in my emotion that I didn't bother checking my surroundings."

"That's right," Billy said bluntly. "You were stupid. And now you're gonna deal with the consequences."

I tensed, worried that Billy was going to be the one to deliver those consequences.

He gave an exaggerated tut and rolled his eyes. "Not from me. But we're changin' the sparrin'. Gonna focus on things you might actually run into out there. How long till they ship you off?"

"Three weeks," I replied. "Then I'll be there for two."

Billy rubbed his chin as he thought.

"We can work with that," he muttered, nodding to himself. "Three weeks might just about be enough to make you capable. You ever used a sword?"

"No, not properly," I admitted.

"A spear might be better anyway. 'old on a sec."

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He disappeared into the store room a moment before returning with a couple of mops. Taking the heads off them and tossing one to me, he said, "Weight's not the same, but you'll get the feel for it. Skills'll transfer easy enough. With three weeks of proper training, I reckon we can make it so you're capable of killin' what you need to."

I hefted the makeshift spear in my hands, giving it a few tentative thrusts before trying to spin it around like I'd seen staff users do in travelling circuses. It turns out it's not as easy as they made it seem, and on my second rotation, the mop handle slipped out of my hand and clattered to the ground. Billy let out a long, unimpressed sigh and rolled his eyes

"If you're done messin' about," Billy said, voice dry as old sandpaper, "I'll run you through some basic drills."

Still red-faced from my little circus performance, I picked up the fallen mop handle and took position in front of him.

Seeing I was ready, began.

"Right. First thing you wanna know is the grip," he placed his hand slowly lower down the spear. "You want one 'and near the base. Not too tight, not too loose. It's not a club, so don't swing it like one."

I adjusted my hand so that it mirrored his.

"That's it. Now your other hand should be about two thirds up, like this." Again he slowly moved his hand and readjusted it to the correct position. "With this, you're gonna 'ave more control over it, whilst still allowing yourself the ability to be dynamic."

He then proceeded to show me a series of strikes in which he variously let go of the spear with a different hand whilst maintaining full control.

"Do you see what I mean?"

I nodded instead of responding verbally.

"Good. Now the stance. You already know how important it is in a fight so I won't bore you about why it's so important. You want your feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent, and your weight slightly forward. You need to be ready to move but with a spear, balance is everything."

I did my best to follow the instructions but whatever Billy was seeing, wasn't what he wanted.

"You're too stiff," he said.

I adjusted my knees and slightly widened my stance.

He walked over and shoved my shoulder. I stumbled back a step.

"Too far the other way. Reset."

I did as he said, planting myself more firmly this time. Seeing that I wasn't fully getting it, he came over and used his feet to adjust my stance.

"Like that. Now, thrust straight forward. Don't jab like you're pokin' a campfire. You're drivin' through the target. You need to commit."

I practiced a few thrusts, each time trying to keep my motion smooth and direct. Billy corrected me when my elbow flared or when my weight was off. Which was less often than I expected.

"Not bad. Right, now your footwork. Obviously you're not a statue. In a real fight, you're gonna want to step forward when you thrust," he demonstrated stepping forward and thrusting the mop handle. "Then step back when you guard—like so."

He smoothly stepped back and held his spear in a guard position.

"You want to be closer to a slide than a hop. Don't want to be bouncing around like a rabbit. Okay, let me see."

I stepped forward and thrust in my best imitation of what Billy had done. Instantly I knew my timing was off and instead of using the momentum, I was doing two independent movements. Without waiting for Billy to correct me, I reset my stance and went again.

Again I moved, doing my best to feel the power flow through my body. It was a hard thing at first but eventually I got the timing right. Well, too a passable state at least. It would be a long time until I could be considered a spear user, that's for sure.

Billy seemed satisfied with my attacks and directed me to try the guard form. This one was a little easier to get because it was all about the stance. As long as I had a firm grip of the spear, and my feet set, I'd be able to defend myself against basic threats.

"You've got the basics down," Billy said, circling me with that ever-watchful eye. "So let's see what we can do to shore them up."

He was kind enough to give me a moment to brace before he lunged in with a sudden thrust. He was clearly holding back—his movements slower than in a real fight—but even a restrained Billy was faster than most people at full tilt. I moved to block, but everything felt clunky—my grip, my stance, even the timing when compared to what I was just doing. Before I could bring my spear across to intercept his telegraphed attack, he smacked me square in the chest.

"Damn," I cursed. "That was harder than I thought. Let's go again."

Billy's lip curled into a half-smile, the kind that said I'd given the right answer. Without a word, he launched another attack.

This time, I managed to intercept his weapon but only barely. He batted mine aside with ease and jabbed me again in the chest.

"Better," he said, stepping back.

I caught my breath, rubbing my chest where he'd struck me.

"Not much better. You're taking it easy on me and still making me look like a fool."

"You'll need years before that stops being the case. You're using a mop as a spear for your first ever lesson. I've known how to use a real spear since before you were born."

"Fair," I said, letting out a breath and readying myself for another round.

He took a ready stance opposite me.

"Let me show you two of the basic attack flows they train in," he said. "You're gonna see these a lot in battle—especially when people are under pressure. They're standard drills, the kind taught to every conscript headed into a Challenge. Problem is, most of them never learn the counters. They just focus on the strikes and pray they're faster. So if you know how to spot the pattern, you'll be the one walking away."

"Alright, let's have a go then."

"First up is the distance lunge."

Billy demonstrated the technique with fluid ease. His base hand anchored the spear while his top hand slid loosely along the shaft, allowing the weapon to extend forward with surprising range—all while maintaining control.

"This one's their basic distance-management move," he explained. "Keeping a firm grip at the base and a loose one up top lets you cover ground and keep people at bay."

He repeated the motion a couple more times, slow and deliberate so I could watch the mechanics.

"It's solid in a line fight—when you've got allies either side of you—but on your own, it's risky. Come at me and I'll show you why."

I copied the movement he had made and lunged the spear towards his chest. Billy quickly knocked the spear up and stepped into my space, hitting me with the butt of his mop handle like it was a staff.

"The attack works great when you've got others in the line with you but on your own it leaves you open for abuse. If someone does it against you, it'll let you get close and switch up the fight."

He gave me a grin and adjusted his stance. "Alright, let's drill it. A few rounds so you get the feel."

Billy kept his arm strong but went slow for the practice runs, allowing me to get a feel of what I needed to be doing. The move was easy enough to get a handle on but I knew already it would be different against a real fight.

"Next up is the parry. Some people think the direction doesn't matter, but I've always found it's best to deflect toward your strong-'and side. Like so."

Billy demonstrated the move, guiding my mop handle downward and to my right with a firm, practiced motion.

"Doing it this way gives you a slight edge—both in 'ow you read the follow-up and 'ow much power they can get back into their next swing. Even if you're just up against the runts they conscript, you want every advantage you can get."

We drilled the manoeuvre over and over, Billy correcting my form whenever I slipped up, only stopping once he was satisfied I had the basics locked in.

"We've flown through these," he said, resting his mop-spear on his shoulder, "but that's just to give you somethin' to fall back on when things go to shit. And knowin' you, that's more of a 'when' than an 'if'."

I did my best to not look sheepish as I responded. "I'm not that bad."

He didn't respond, instead giving me a flat unimpressed look.

"Okay maybe I am. What happens if I come up against someone with a sword?"

He shrugged. "Don't."

"Right. Okay. Helpful."

"Hopefully we'll 'ave more time to go through it all but you'll be alright against a bad sword wielder with what you know so far. If I can find some makeshift swords, I'll bring them with me next time and we can 'ave a look but it's not likely. The best thing you can do is engineer a situation where you get a spear, and you only need to go through conscripts to escape. Now, let's have a proper spar."

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