A pair of overseer guards flanked Devvyn the moment he stood up from the arena floor, guiding him toward the heavy iron gate without a single word. His legs felt like lead, every step jarring a dull ache in his knees and lower back.
He was escorted down the torchlit stone corridor that led back to the candidate barracks—the long, cold hall lined with narrow cots and thin wool blankets where they slept.
The barracks were nearly empty. Only a handful of candidates were scattered across the room. Some sat on the edges of their cots, staring blankly at the floorboards, while others lay curled toward the stone walls, completely unresponsive.
Devvyn walked the length of the central aisle, scanning each cot.