Merza couldn't make sense of it, no matter how many times he turned it over in his head.
Why had he passed?
He'd had his face hammered into the dirt. Thrown down like a sack of wheat and pounded until he could barely breathe. There was no glory in what he did. He hadn't won. He hadn't even come close.
So why? he wondered, brow furrowed, lips curled in confusion. Did they just want us to fight hard? To not run away?
He might've sat brooding all night if not for the sharp shove in his back and a nasal voice that followed, rough and irritated:
"Move your ass, man! We're starving here!"
Merza blinked back to reality. The line ahead of him had already cleared, and he was the last one still standing dumbstruck. The men behind were restless, some nursing split lips and swollen cheeks, all of them hungry.
Mumbling an apology, he stepped forward and held out his wooden bowl. The cook didn't even glance at him, just sloshed in a ladle of steaming soup.
