Chapter 3 - The Rigged Rope
The rope obstacle was supposed to be routine. Climb, cross, descend, move. I had done harder courses in rain, cold, mud, and darkness. Dry dirt and afternoon sun were not the problem.
The rope was.
I felt it the moment my hands closed around it. Too much slide. Not enough bite. Someone had treated part of the line with something that made dust cling strangely to the fibers. When I shifted weight near the upper beam, the anchoring gave half an inch.
Half an inch is enough.
My right hand slipped. My shoulder slammed into the wooden pole. I dropped hard, rolled badly, and hit the dirt with enough force to knock the air out of me.
The formation reacted first with surprise, then laughter.
Mercer let it run.
I stayed down for one breath. Two. My ribs were fine. My wrist hurt, but not badly. Pride was not an injury, and I had learned long ago not to treat it like one.
Mercer walked over slowly. “Having trouble, Cross?”
I looked at the rope.
He crouched beside me, voice lower. “Some people just aren’t built for this.”
I pushed myself to my feet. “The rope was altered.”
His eyes sharpened for a second.
Then he smiled.
“Careful,” he said loudly. “Accusing staff when you fail is a bad look.”
That was the moment I knew it was not just harassment.
It was a setup.
He wanted me angry. He wanted me loud. He wanted me to swing first, refuse an order, or crumble in front of the younger soldiers so he could turn sabotage into a lesson about weakness.
May you like
So I said nothing.
And Mercer mistook silence for damage.
