To whoever finds this journal after I'm dead—hello from the grave! I'm Alden, though I wasn't always called that. This is my first entry, and honestly, I decided to be an optimist and write it. Since I'm now stuck in the Grimoire Company (or the Hundred Eleven, as they're officially known), I might as well document the blood, guts, and occasional moments of glory before some enemy soldier splits my skull open.

  Let me catch you up on who I am. Born as Sadim—a name I was eager to ditch—I jumped at the chance to rename myself when I joined this band of killers. The Hundred-Eleven, gets its name from its exact headcount: one big boss called the Centurion, ten squad leaders they call Deans, and a hundred regular soldiers like me, divided ten to a squad. Neat and tidy, until you see what we actually do for coin.

  Before all this, I spent six miserable years on the streets of my town, my stomach constantly screaming for food. I stole what I could, begged when I couldn't steal, and slept wherever I wouldn't get my throat cut—doorways, alleys, abandoned shacks. Winter was the worst. My toes turned blue so many times I lost count. So when the Hundred-Eleven, came recruiting, promising regular meals and a bedroll that wasn't crawling with lice? I practically ran to sign up. Little did I know I was trading one kind of hell for another, much bloodier one.

  Of course, my real plan was to stuff my face, catch up on sleep, and see the world on their coin. When the fighting started, I'd be long gone, leaving those sword-swinging idiots in my dust. But life loves to kick you when you're down, doesn't it?

  I was shuffling through Tullanon's main square, my toes squishing in wet boots, when I spotted this weird tent I'd never seen before. Two guys with nasty-looking spears stood guard like they were protecting treasure, and a wooden sign out front screamed: "RECRUITING MEN!" in blood-red paint.

  "Hey, street rat! What're you staring at?" One of the guards yelled, jabbing his spear in my direction. "Wanna be part of the baddest mercenary crew in the whole damn world?" He puffed out his chest like a rooster.

  My stomach chose that exact moment to growl so loud the entire square probably heard it. My socks were soaked through, my fingers numb from the cold. I would've joined a group of dancing monkeys if they promised a hot meal.

  Inside the tent, this round guy with arms like tree trunks fired questions at me while I dripped rainwater all over his fancy carpet. Where was I from? Could I fight? Had I killed before? I lied about everything except my name.

  "You'll do," he finally grunted, scribbling something on a piece of paper. "Now for The Ritual."

  The way he said it—like it was spelled with capital letters—made my skin crawl. First real warning sign that I was stepping in deep crap, but my brain was too busy dreaming about bread to care.

  Four soldiers appeared out of nowhere and surrounded me. Each carried those same weird spears with hooked blades that could gut a man faster than you could blink. They marched me toward another tent, bigger and darker than the first.

  "What's with the second tent?" I asked, trying to sound casual while my heart hammered. "Couldn't fit all your stuff in one place?"

  They just stared straight ahead like I hadn't spoken. One shoved me forward when I walked too slow. That's when I started to wonder if I'd made the biggest mistake of my miserable life—and that's saying something.

  The four men marched me outside the city to a small camp. Six tents stood in a perfect circle with a bigger one smack in the middle, like some weird flower. A group of soldiers huddled around a fire, most barely glancing at me. But that smell—gods, that smell! My empty stomach twisted into knots as the rich scent of meat stew hit my nose. Two whole days without food made my knees weak.

  "Move it," growled one of my guards, shoving me toward the middle tent.

  Inside, wooden chests lined the walls, and those nasty hooked spears—at least twenty of them—leaned against each other in bundles. But what caught my eye was the thing on the table in the center. A book. Not just any book, but the creepiest damn thing I'd ever seen. It was wrapped in what looked like human skin, all stitched together with thick black thread. The leather—if you could call it that—seemed to pulse slightly, like it was breathing.

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  "Place one hand on the Grimoire and swear allegiance to it, lad," ordered the tallest soldier.

  I laughed nervously. "What? The book? Is that... is that actual human skin?"

  "Just do it," another snapped, hand moving to his sword hilt.

  I hesitated, looking from the book to the exit. Four armed men versus one starving street rat—those weren't good odds. Besides, how bad could touching a book be?

  "Fine, fine," I muttered, stepping forward. "Creepy skin book it is."

  The leather felt warm under my palm, almost like touching someone with a fever. I cleared my throat, trying to hide how much my hand was shaking.

  "I swear allegiance to the Grimoire," I said quickly, rolling my eyes to show how stupid I thought this all was.

  Nothing happened. The soldiers stared at me, waiting. I was about to make a joke when the book began to glow purple—not a gentle glow, but a harsh light that burned my eyes. I yanked my hand back like I'd touched hot coals.

  That's when the real pain hit.

  Imagine every bone in your body being crushed at once. Imagine your skin peeling off while your insides twist themselves into knots. My legs buckled. I tried to scream but couldn't even get enough air to make a sound. It felt like the book had reached inside me and was rearranging everything it found.

  "He's taking it better than the last one," I heard someone say, as if from miles away.

  The purple light crawled up my arm in glowing veins, spreading across my chest. My vision blurred. The last thing I remember was thinking, "I'm going to die for a bowl of stew," before blessed darkness swallowed me whole.

  I woke up feeling like someone had stuffed my mouth with desert sand. My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth, and my throat burned when I tried to swallow. I blinked a few times, trying to figure out where the hell I was.

  A dirty canvas tent. Great. I pushed myself up on wobbly arms, my head spinning like I'd chugged ten ales. My stomach lurched, and for a second I thought I might puke all over the ratty sleeping bag beneath me.

  Three guys sat cross-legged on the ground nearby, playing cards by the weak light of an oil lamp that filled the tent with greasy smoke. One of them—a burly man with a scar cutting through his left eyebrow—looked up and nudged his buddy.

  "Well, well! Sleeping Beauty finally decided to join us!" he called out, showing off a mouth with at least three missing teeth. "Thought you might've died on us. That would've been a waste of good beer."

  He stood up, his massive frame blocking what little light there was, and stomped over to me. Up close, he smelled like sweat and something metallic—blood, maybe. The thought made my stomach flip again.

  "Here," he said, shoving a wooden mug into my hands. Beer sloshed over the sides. "Drink this before you fall over. Latrine's out back if you need to hurl or shit yourself."

  The beer tasted like piss but felt like heaven on my throat. I drained half the mug in one go.

  "Thanks," I croaked, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else.

  "Don't thank me yet, fresh meat," he snorted. "You're in for a world of pain once training starts tomorrow."

  I tried to stand, but my legs felt wrong—like they weren't mine anymore. Looking down, I noticed something that made my blood run cold. Black tattoos covered both my hands, with the numbers "111" inked into my skin. Like I was branded cattle.

  "What the—" I started, but Scar-face cut me off.

  "That's your number, kid. You're soldier one-hundred-and-eleven now. Property of the Grimoire."

  "Property?" The word hit me like a punch to the gut.

  After emptying my bladder and splashing some water on my face at the latrine—which was just a hole in the ground surrounded by a flimsy screen—I stumbled back to the tent. The card players were waiting for me.

  "Sit down before you fall down," said the shortest one, who had a nose that had clearly been broken multiple times. "Let me explain your new life to you."

  What followed was the most terrifying explanation I'd ever heard. That freaky book—the Grimoire—had literally bound my soul to it. I was magically chained to that thing forever. In exchange, I'd heal faster, fight better, and live longer than normal men—as long as I kept killing to feed the book's hunger.

  "What happens if I try to run?" I asked, already knowing the answer wouldn't be good.

  All three men laughed like I'd told the funniest joke they'd ever heard.

  "The book finds you," said Scar-face, tapping his temple. "And what the book finds, it destroys from the inside out."

  I looked down at my marked hands, at the tent full of killers, at the life I'd just signed away for a warm meal.

  "What the fuck did I just get into?" I whispered.

  The third man, who hadn't spoken until now, pushed a bowl toward me. "At least the stew is good," he said with a shrug. "Eat up. Might be your last decent meal for a while."

  He wasn't wrong. That stew was the best damn thing I'd ever tasted. Too bad it cost me my soul.