I kicked the sand at my feet. It trickled unsatisfyingly against the wall. This is what I got for trying to be like my mother, using my words, when I should’ve been like my father.

“You’ll pay for this, Cion,” I cried. I paced back and forth. I pulled out my sword and skittered in circles, sending sand in wide arcs. “Come in here, and let’s see who’s the best once and for all.”

“Sit.” Cion’s voice sounded through the room from somewhere above me.

“And make myself an easier target?” I called out to the darkness. “I don’t think so.”

“Sit.” His voice echoed more forcefully this time.

I prowled the length of the small circle a few more times. Staring up into the darkness, trying to find where he was hiding, where the attack would come from.

Now I knew how the tigers felt in their cages.

“Sit,” he said one last time, “or you will fail initiation.”

I gripped and regripped the hilt of my sword. My instincts had been off since I’d left the shade of the city behind. I couldn’t tell what was a trick and what wasn’t.

I breathed heavily in and out of my nose. My throat scratched with thirst, and the more I paced, the more I’d wear myself out. I’d need my strength for whatever test or attack was coming.

I shoved my sword back into its scabbard and plopped down on the floor. Sand squished underneath me. I threw my arms up as much in frustration as to show I’d complied. I felt like a child waiting for instructions.

“Since Cintric founded the Desert Boys, we have dedicated our lives to helping our fellow members and those who need our protection most. We shed our lives, our wants, our pasts, and are made new in the desert.”

Sand pelted me from all angles. I protectively held up an arm. I sputtered and spit out some sand. As much as I wanted to leap away, I remained seated.

“The desert has claimed you as one of its own.”

Another blast of sand covered me.

“We claim you for our own.”

I didn’t flinch as another bout rained down around me.

This was like a version of the sand ceremonies we used for special occasions in the city. When a child was born, parents poured sand over the child’s head, not only to signify it was what we would all return to one day, but because it was also said that the amount the child cried during the sanding signified how hard their life would be. For marriages, couples tossed sand onto the head of their betrothed. The number of grains that hit their head and stayed through all the wedding festivities signified how many years of happiness they’d have together.

This sand was nothing like the fine, colored sand I’d seen for sale in the marketplace. This was coarse and unrefined, like the desert itself. It scraped against my skin as it trickled over my body.