The sun had barely moved, but Caliste felt like he had aged a decade.
"Alright, nap time's over," Daimon said, kicking Caliste's boot. "Let's move on to Phase Two."
Caliste opened one eye. "There's a Phase Two?"
"There's a Phase Twenty. Now get your ass up. I didn't survive the Massacre of Thandor by babysitting fainting squirrels."
That probably wasn't a real thing.
Probably.
Caliste groaned as he rolled to his feet, limbs trembling like jelly. His shirt was torn, his pants burned at the edges, and his once-proud boots had been reduced to sad, flappy leather socks.
Daimon led him to what looked like a giant hamster wheel. Except it was made of rusted iron, covered in spikes on the inside, and about five times too big for any sane creature.
"Behold. The Wheel of Fortitude."
"…That name already hurts me."
"Good. Now climb in. You're going to run in it while it spins downhill."
"Wait—did you say downhill?"
