Page 5

FOUR

TYSON

INITIATION

One of them

Senior year at Barrington University

I kneel with my arms cuffed behind my back, a metal collar is around my neck and attached to the wall behind me. It allows us no wiggle room. We are secured for a reason, so we can’t fight them. It signifies our trust. We must willingly give them our bodies to mark. It’s a privilege we’ve made it this far.

“Lords,” Lincoln calls out to our audience that is dressed in their cloaks and masks. “These men have completed every task we’ve asked of them. Tonight is the night that we celebrate them and their loyalty to us.” He turns to face me and the other men who are secured to the wall inside of the Cathedral on the second-floor balcony.

A fire roars to life where the baptism pool usually is. They’ve drained it, filled it with stacks of wood and lit it on fire. I can feel the heat from where I stand. The sweat rolls down my back and forehead.

The men place the branding irons into the fire to heat them up. I try to pull myself off the wall, but all it does is choke me. Wiggling my arms, I try to relieve the tightness in my shoulders really quick. It’s also useless. They’ve been doing this for years. Each one is different, but the result is the same.

I knew going into this that it would be painful. They push you as far as your body and mind will go just to see how much you can endure. It’s the ultimate test. Every Lord that is present in this room is here because of their last name. The blood in their veins got them this ticket, but we have to prove we deserve it. My freshman class at Barrington started with fifty. We’re down to twenty-two. They’re the lucky ones though. They got to walk away.

Once I’m branded, the only way out is death. And it will come. The question is, will it be because of me or them? Only time will tell.

The lower classes of Lords at Barrington watch from the pews. It’s a way to remind them why they can’t fuck for three years. This is where they want to be. What they’re training for.

The man standing in front of me turns and holds the branding iron by my face. The blazing end heats up my skin, and I pull away the best I can. My body tenses, every muscle already aching. It’s that natural fight or flight kicking in.

“Tyson Crawford, are you ready to be a Lord?” Lincoln asks.

“Yes, sir.” I nod, taking in a deep breath, ignoring my heart pounding so hard I fear it may rip through my chest.

“Silence him,” he orders, snapping his fingers. A man walks down the row, shoving a cloth into my mouth to bite down on. I’ve watched it enough over the last three years to know what’s coming.

Without warning, he shoves the hot iron onto my bare chest—a reminder that I will now live and die for them.