Jaxon barely slept.

  Even as the dim lights of the dormitory flickered into their night cycle, he lay awake, staring at the steel ceiling. The weight of Uthman’s words pressed down on him.

  Some of you will die.

  He had heard threats before. Instructors back on New Canaan had barked about discipline, about the Imperium not tolerating weakness.

  But this didn’t feel like a threat.

  It felt like a fact.

  They would be dropped into the wild.

  Alone.

  No support.

  No second chances.

  He turned his head slightly, catching the faint outline of Holt lying in the bunk beside his. His breathing was steady, but Jaxon knew his friend wasn’t asleep either.

  “Still awake?” Holt whispered.

  Jaxon exhaled quietly. “Yeah.”

  A long pause.

  Then—

  “Do you think we’ll make it?” Holt’s voice was quieter than usual. Not joking. Not sarcastic.

  Jaxon didn’t answer right away.

  Would they?

  He swallowed, staring at the cold ceiling. The words sat on his tongue, heavy and bitter.

  “I don’t know,” he muttered finally. “But I don’t want to die.”

  Holt let out a long, hard breath. “Yeah. Me too.”

  A beat of silence. Then a small chuckle.

  “If we survived Makon and Canaan, we can survive anything.” Holt’s tone was light, but Jaxon could hear the tension beneath it.

  “Don’t worry, Jaxon. We’ll make it through this.”

  Jaxon turned onto his side. “Any idea who we should add to our team?”

  Holt let out a sigh. “I don’t know, but definitely not Lucian.”

  “I was thinking about Gideon,” Jaxon said. “But I doubt he’d want to join us. Then I thought about Guthrie.”

  Holt scoffed. “The crier?”

  “Yeah,” Jaxon responded.

  Holt hesitated. “He’s strong, I’ll give him that, but won’t his… nature hold us back?”

  “We won’t know unless we try,” Jaxon muttered, though even he wasn’t convinced.

  Holt sighed again, rubbing his forehead. “Fine. But if he panics the moment things go wrong, it’s on you.”

  Jaxon didn’t argue. Guthrie might be strong, but fear made people unpredictable.

  “Who else?” Holt asked.

  Jaxon exhaled, rubbing his eyes. “No idea. Everyone good will probably be claimed fast.”

  Holt scoffed. “So, we just grab whoever’s left? Sounds like a great strategy.”

  “It’s not like we have many options,” Jaxon muttered.

  He turned his gaze back to the ceiling, ignoring the hunger pangs in his stomach and willing himself to sleep.

  But one thought wouldn’t leave his mind.

  Who wouldn’t make it back?

  Jaxon pushed the thought aside and closed his eyes.

  Still, sleep didn’t come easily.

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  The dorm was silent, but not truly still.

  He could hear the soft rustle of fabric as others turned in their bunks, the occasional cough, the low murmur of someone whispering a prayer.

  He didn’t pray. He just counted his breaths.

  Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

  Somewhere in the distance, a ventilation unit hummed.

  He wasn’t sure when exhaustion finally won.

  The klaxons blared, dragging them from their restless sleep.

  Jaxon was already moving, pulling on his fatigues and fastening the vest over his chest. The others stirred around him, all moving with the same tense energy.

  Holt yawned, dragging himself up. “So much for beauty sleep.”

  Jaxon turned, scanning the room. The other initiates were already forming into groups—some pulling friends close, others moving purely based on instinct.

  Lucian had already gathered his team. He stood near the center, smirking, with Orion and Marek—his two lackeys from Canaan—flanking him.

  Jaxon’s gaze flicked to the fourth member, someone he didn’t recognize.

  But it wasn’t them that made his stomach tighten.

  It was Gideon.

  Jaxon was certain Gideon hated his guts. So why had he joined Lucian?

  Had Lucian promised him something?

  Or had he chosen strength over his own principles?

  Holt nudged him. “Guthrie’s alone.”

  Jaxon glanced toward the trembling boy. He stood awkwardly by himself, eyes darting nervously between groups.

  Jaxon hesitated.

  He needed a third.

  “Guthrie,” Jaxon called.

  The boy flinched. His wide eyes darted between them before he hurried over.

  “You… you want me on your team?”

  “Can you fight?” Holt asked bluntly.

  Guthrie swallowed. “I—I’ll try.”

  Jaxon sighed. “Good enough.”

  That made three.

  They needed two more.

  A shadow loomed behind them.

  “I’ll join you.”

  Jaxon turned—and found himself looking up at a tall figure.

  Dain.

  He was one of the taller boys in Canaan, his shaved head and sharp features gave him a permanent scowl. Unlike Lucian, he wasn’t cocky, nor did he talk much. And he had been one of the better fighters during the first test.

  Holt raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you’d be the team-playing type.”

  Dain simply shrugged. “I don’t trust the others.”

  “And you trust us?” Jaxon asked.

  “I don’t,” Dain responded, “but you’d be the easiest to handle if you turned against me.”

  Jaxon nodded reluctantly. “Alright. You’re in.”

  At the last minute, another boy—Sera—joined them. Or rather, no one else wanted him, so they asked, and he said yes.

  Uthman entered moments later, his presence sending a chill through the space.

  “Gather your teams,” he ordered. “You have five minutes.”

  Jaxon and Holt exchanged a look.

  Uthman led them to an open hangar, where ten black dropships waited. The air was thick with the scent of zeta fuel and burning ozone. Massive blast doors yawned open, revealing the reddish wasteland beyond.

  Megiddo.

  Jaxon’s first real look at it sent a cold weight into his stomach. The sky was a dead, hazy orange, the land stretching out in endless dunes and jagged rock formations. The wind howled, kicking up swirls of dust.

  It looked… lifeless.

  Uthman stepped in front of them.

  “Each ship will drop you at different points,” he announced. “You will have seventy-two hours to reach the extraction zone. There will be no outside assistance.”

  A pause.

  “You have fifteen minutes to retrieve a supply pack from the armory.” Uthman pointed toward a door at the back of the hangar. “After that, you will board.”

  The hangar exploded into motion.

  Jaxon sprinted with the others toward the armory, heart pounding. Inside, rows of equipment lined the walls. The selection wasn’t generous, but it was practical.

  Each survival pack contained:

  ? Dried meat

  ? A single water canteen

  ? A data pod

  ? A combat knife (shorter than the ones in their sheaths)

  ? A compact rifle

  When Jaxon picked up the rifle, it felt heavier than he expected. The metal was cold, the weight unfamiliar in his hands. He had seen rifles before—his father had one and some instructors used them—but holding one himself was different.

  His fingers instinctively curled around the grip, but it felt awkward, unnatural. He adjusted, trying to find a comfortable hold. The stock pressed against his palm, but it wasn’t quite right. Was it supposed to feel this unsteady?

  His thumb traced the safety switch, and he hesitated. A weapon meant power, meant control. But right now, it felt like an unfamiliar tool—one he didn’t know how to use, yet one he’d be expected to rely on.

  Uthman must have noticed the reactions in the hangar.

  “You have never fired a rifle before,” he stated. It wasn’t a question.

  Most remained silent. A few nodded hesitantly.

  Uthman exhaled.

  “Then listen carefully.”

  He grabbed a rifle and effortlessly chambered a round, the motion practiced and smooth.

  “This weapon is not complicated—at least not as complicated as gauss rifles . You pull back the bolt.” He demonstrated, the metallic click-clack of the mechanism sharp in the air. “You load a round. You push the bolt forward.”

  Another click.

  “Then you aim, and you fire.”

  Uthman turned without warning and fired a single shot at a random target across the hangar. The bang rang out, startling several initiates. The round struck the target with a deafening clang, leaving a deep but narrow dent.

  Uthman lowered the weapon.

  “You will learn the rest in the field,” he said coldly. “Or you will die.”

  Jaxon swallowed hard.

  Holt let out a breath. “Well. That was reassuring.”

  Jaxon checked his weapon. The bolt felt stiff, and he struggled for a moment before getting it into place.

  Holt muttered beside him, “Bet Lucian’s acting like he’s an expert already.”

  Jaxon didn’t have to look. He already knew—Lucian was probably smirking, pretending he was a born marksman. Or maybe, just maybe, he still felt the sting of Uthman’s last lesson.

  Five minutes later, they were strapped into their drop seats inside the ship. The metal walls hummed around them, the engines roaring to life.

  Jaxon took slow breaths.

  Uthman’s voice crackled over the comms.

  “The data pods given to you outlines a path it is not guaranteed to be a safe path but it will get you to where you need to be”

  “Survive”

  Then—the ship jolted.

  “The bay doors slammed open, and a blast of cold air tore through the cabin, yanking at Jaxon’s jumpsuit.”

  Jaxon barely had time to suck in a breath before they were ripped into free-fall.

  “The wind swallowed their screams as the void yawned below. The hunt had begun.”