George had been summoned before Khilliarkos in his rooms.

“Your efforts in training have pleased me, Georges,” said Khilliarkos, moving his black lips slowly, the closest he had ever come to praising George. “It is time for your graduation ceremony.”

George now knew better than to speak unless he was being asked a direct question.

“First, and especially since you were originally a deserter,” Khillairkos continued, “we will need to brand you.” His lips lingered over the words.

George’s heart skipped a beat, but he forced his face to remain fixed in its serious, attentive expression.

“You will have been expecting this,” said Khilliarkos, “so you should be ready.”

That was when Doulos walked in with a red-hot poker, the end of it twisted into the shape of a snake. George fought hard not to recoil. He gulped. He bit his tongue. But he swallowed his fear. This was proper protocol.

Khilliarkos stood up and walked towards him, taking the poker from Doulos. “When we found you in one of pit-traps outside the slave houses, Georges, you were nothing but a snivelling little grub. But now, look at you. Now we have sculpted and moulded you into proper shape. Now we must brand you, and mark you as one of Echthros’s own soldiers.”

Doulos grabbed hold of George and held him still so that he wouldn’t give into the temptation to resist.

George almost screamed as Khilliarkos pressed the end of the poker into his forehead. But he managed to hold the scream back. He felt the most intense pain he had ever experienced in his life sear all across it. He nearly passed out, but somehow he managed to stay conscious. He took the pain and, as he had been taught, turned into hate, into rage, into strength.

Then the first horrible stab of pain subsided. His forehead still stung almost unbearably, but the initial burning had finished. Khilliarkos withdrew the poker and Doulos let go of him. George lifted his hands to his face to feel a new scar there, burnt into his scaly flesh in the twisted shape of a snake.

“Now you are truly ready to become a Shulite soldier!” said Khilliarkos. “Only one last obstacle remains to you. Bring in the prisoner!”

A door was opened and a couple of other soldiers walked in dragging someone who had their arms tied behind them and a sack over their head. They pushed the person down on the floor in front of George, where they knelt, visibly shaking. Doulos tugged the sack off of the person’s head. A young man looked up at George, his mouth gagged, his eyes wide with terror.

“A deserter slave,” said Khilliarkos. “Just as you were once. Not everyone is as lucky as you were, Georges—remember that. Not everyone gets a chance to re-prove themselves in the arena. Some we kill outright; some we save for occasions such as this.”

There was a sound of scraping metal as Khilliarkos drew a black sword from a sheath at his side. He handed it to George.

“Your final test. When you killed in the arena, it was because you were being attacked. Now we need to know you can kill in cold blood. There is no room in the ranks of Shul for ‘pity’, or ‘sympathy’, or, Echthros forbid it, ‘mercy’. Give this treacherous filth the death he deserves, Georges.”

George looked down at the sword. He looked at the kneeling, cowering man. The man looked at him, his eyes stretching and welling up with tears, as if to say “Please, don’t do it, please don’t kill me.”

George did not want to kill the man. Not really. He had been made to do many things during his training, but he had not yet had to kill again. The man was completely defenceless. He thought about himself, when he had been found by Khilliarkos and Doulos in the pit. He could easily have been in this man’s place. There was no reason for the man to die—George could easily see why someone would try to run away from being a slave in Shul, now that he had experienced some of it for himself.

He knew he had to make a decision fast or the commander would start to get impatient. He thought about turning on Khilliarkos with the sword, but he knew this would be futile. The commander was far more skilled and stronger than he, even after all his training. In his mind’s eye he saw Khilliarkos blocking his blow and turning his own blade back on him. He thought about running over and taking Doulos hostage. But that would be useless. The commander didn’t really care about his slave master, and George would only be killed eventually. He thought about his father, standing over him, punishing him if he didn’t do his homework properly in the holidays. He wondered what his father would do in this situation.

His forehead stang.

George was out of options. Really, deep down, he just wanted to go home and be away from this awful place. And to have a chance of doing that, he needed to stay alive, to graduate as a soldier in the Shulite army, to obey Khilliarkos. How he hated Khilliarkos. And yet, at the same time something in him had grown to want to please the commander. Khilliarkos had almost praised him just a moment ago, and George had wanted him to. The longing for approval stirred in him again now, making his body, which had turned black and scaly, tense all over. So he had to prove himself one more time by killing this innocent man? Fine! He would do it then! He would show them! Curse this man for being stupid enough to have been captured and for being in his way!

George struck swiftly and keenly, and the man’s head rolled on the floor.

Georges threw his head back and let out a roar. A bestial sound came out. He felt his tongue, which had become forked, flicking up through his fangs. Then it moved out of the way as a jet of fire emerged from his mouth, billowing upwards into the air above.

“Yes!” said Khilliarkos with delight. “YES! The transformation is complete! Welcome, Private Georges, Dragon-Soldier in the Army of Shul!”