Morning came like an unwelcome guest, dragging the day behind it. I awoke to the clink of chains and the shuffling of feet, the kind of dismal wake-up call that makes you long for the comfort of nightmares. A grizzled soldier—a veteran of too many battles, his face a roadmap of scars and bitter memories—stood at the cage door. He had the look of someone who'd seen it all and decided none of it was worth giving a damn about. With a flick of his wrist, the gate swung open, and the cold morning air rushed in, biting and unforgiving.
"Line up into two separate lines," he barked, his voice like gravel underfoot. "Men in one, women and children in the other."
We shuffled forward, bodies jostling against each other, each step dragging us closer to whatever fresh hell awaited. His eyes swept over us, sharp and calculating, like he was sorting cattle at the market, not people. I felt his gaze pass over me, quick and dismissive, like I wasn't even worth the effort of proper scrutiny
In front of us, at a rickety table that looked like it would collapse if you so much as sneezed on it, sat a The boy with the ledger sat there like he was doing the world's most boring paperwork, sharp edges and sneers carved into his face. Probably had never smiled in his short, miserable life. He had the look of someone who'd been kicking stray dogs for sport since he could walk. Cold, calculating eyes, the kind that measure the weight of meat, whether it's hanging in a butcher's shop or standing right in front of them. Every scratch of his quill sounded like a death sentence, or worse—an inventory count. Names, ages, worth… all reduced to the flick of his wrist. How many of us would be marked down as nothing more than 'expendable'? What a joke.
"The mines. Next!" His voice grated, dripping with the kind of disdain only a man with too little power can wield like a sword. He didn't even look up, not that he needed to. We were cattle, after all. Just another batch to be sorted and slaughtered.
A man stepped forward, hunched and hollow-eyed, already dead inside. A walking corpse, waiting for the dirt to finish the job. The soldier glanced at him, the way you might glance at a fly before swatting it. "Another unawakened," he muttered, as if bored of the whole affair. "Send him to the mines."
Another one down, like tossing a scrap of meat to the dogs. The man didn't even fight it. No resistance, no dignity. Just an acceptance that his fate had been carved into stone the moment he woke up this morning. Maybe he was the smart one. After all, fighting would just mean more pain before the end.
"Next!" barked the soldier, already moving on, his quill poised to destroy someone else's life. We shuffled forward, all of us too scared to make eye contact. Fear smells, you know? Thick in the air, clinging to your skin, and these bastards soaked it in like it was a fine wine.
Then she stepped up. Gray in her hair, but a fire in her eyes that made me wonder why she hadn't been snuffed out yet. There was defiance in the way she squared her shoulders. Not that it would matter. The system breaks all of us in the end. But there's always one idiot who thinks they're the exception.
"Name and class?" the soldier asked, and for the first time, his tone shifted. A flicker of curiosity, like a cat spotting a particularly interesting mouse.
"Stella," she said, voice strong, steady. "I'm a blacksmith."
The sneer that curled his lip could've curdled milk. "I asked for your class, not your profession, fool." That quill hovered like a dagger above her fate. "Try again."
And just like that, the fire flickered. Uncertainty crept in, the reality sinking into her bones. "I—I am a priestess of Teris. I specialize in making holy weapons."
"Priestess of Teris," he repeated with mocking emphasis, scribbling it down as if her life was worth less than the ink he used. "Level?"
"Twenty-five," she said, her voice a little softer now. Bracing.
"To the forge." The words hit like a hammer. Final. Cold.
She stood there, the defiance still battling the weight of what just happened. She opened her mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to beg, but the guards were already closing in. One look at them, and she swallowed her words. Smart. At least smarter than the dead man walking.
"Next!" The soldier was back in his rhythm, like nothing had happened. One more name, one more body to the pile.
And then it was the boy's turn. My age, but taller. More confidence in him than was healthy. You could tell by the way he stood that he had no idea how deep the shit really was.
"Name, boy?" the soldier asked, and I couldn't decide if I should be jealous or pity the fool.
"James Goldham," he said, chest puffed out like a rooster in front of a hungry fox.
"And your class?"
"Battle Mage, sir," he said, proud as you like.
Battle Mage, huh? Well, isn't he special. Awakened. A class. The kind of power I'd kill for right about now. Or would I? He'll be on the front line by tomorrow. Maybe in pieces by next week. Funny how being 'special' just makes you a bigger target. So, who's the lucky one here?
"Level?" the soldier asked, barely interested, probably already knowing what was coming next.
"Two," James replied, and I could almost hear his pride crumble under the weight of reality. He might as well have said 'soon to be dead'.
"Front line," the soldier said, sealing the boy's fate with a flick of the wrist. A few strokes of ink, and there it was. Dead man walking.
Then another boy stepped up, older, bulkier. A farmhand by the look of him. The soldier barely lifted his head this time. "Unawakened. Age?"
"Sixteen," the boy said, his voice tight with fear. He knew.
The soldier clicked his tongue, shaking his head like the boy was already in the ground. "The Accord." Another life signed away with a breath, and the boy was hauled off, shaking but silent. Resistance was pointless, after all. If the mine doesn't kill you, The Accord will.
And then... she stepped forward. My mother. A warrior in her own right, and yet there was something in the way she moved now, something that screamed caution. She knew the game, and the odds were always stacked against you when you had something worth fighting for.
"Awakened," the soldier muttered, his eyes sharpening, like he'd just spotted a prize. Of course, he'd be excited. Someone with real power to exploit. The gleam in his eyes made my stomach churn.
The grip she had on my hand tightened, a reminder that no matter what happened, I had to endure. Survive.
"Name?"
"Nyara," she said, calm, strong, but I could hear the tremor underneath. She wasn't afraid of him. No, she was afraid of what would happen to me.
"Class and level?" He practically licked his lips, anticipation oozing from his voice.
"Level thirty-five, Blade Dancer," she said. I saw the flicker in his eyes. Oh, he liked that.
"Blade Dancer?" The soldier's sneer deepened. "How quaint." He chuckled, already deciding how to destroy her.
My stomach knotted, the dread like a stone in my gut. The world slowed to a crawl.
And then I made my mistake.
"No!" I shouted. "You can't take her!"
Stupid. So stupid.
The moment the word left my mouth, I knew I had made a mistake.
The soldier's sneer deepened, and his gaze shifted from my mother to me. His eyes were cold, predatory, as if he'd just been offered a far more entertaining distraction. "Oh? And who's this?" His voice dripped with mockery. "The little one has some spirit, does he?"
I felt my mother's grip on my hand tighten painfully, a silent plea for me to stay quiet, but the damage was done. The older soldier's expression darkened, and he gave a slight nod to the guards flanking us. One of them stepped forward, grabbing me by the arm, yanking me away from her. I tried to resist, pulling back with everything I had, but I was no match for him. He dragged me forward as if I weighed nothing, my feet skidding along the dirt.
"Don't," my mother's voice cut through the air, sharp and desperate. "He's just a child!"
The soldier holding me smirked, unfazed by her words. "Children grow up fast in the pits," he said casually, then glanced at the officer who had been scribbling in his ledger. "Shall I mark this one for the mines too?"
The words hung in the air like the threat they were, a promise of pain, endless toil, and an early death. The soldier's grip tightened on my arm, a cold, iron vice that squeezed the breath from my lungs. I could barely keep my feet under me as he yanked me forward, dragging me closer to the sneering officer with the ledger.
I could feel my mother's eyes burning into me, her voice still pleading, but not for long. Nyara, Blade Dancer, level 35. But what good is a Blade Dancer against monsters you can't kill? Against men with ledgers who have your life penciled into the margins as a footnote?
"Not yet," the officer said, raising a finger. The sneer on his face deepened, that thin veneer of bored authority slipping, revealing something uglier underneath. A vulture circling fresh meat. He turned back to me, his gaze slow and deliberate, a man savoring the taste of his own cruelty. "How old are you, boy?"
"Fourteen," I managed, though it came out more like a croak.
My mother spoke for me before I could answer, her voice taut as a bowstring. "He's fourteen," she repeated, and I could hear the edge of desperation in it. A mother's desperation—sharp, dangerous, but ultimately futile. She had always been the strong one, hadn't she? The one who could face the worst and still stand tall, even when the world collapsed around her. Until now. Now, even her strength seemed brittle, ready to crack under the weight of inevitability.
The officer glanced at her, annoyed. "Why is she still here?" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. With a lazy flick of his wrist, he summoned two more guards. They moved in like wolves, silent and efficient, one of them gripping her other arm, the other shoving her from behind.
"Mark her for the dungeons. Minerals extracting," he said, his voice dripping with disinterest, as though my mother were no more than a piece of equipment. "And seal her stamina," he added, almost as an afterthought. "We don't want any… accidents."
The dungeons. Not just pits or mines, but deep, monster-filled caverns, crawling with horrors that made death look like a mercy. Where the unlucky souls who ventured too far often never came back. And even if they did? They weren't the same.
"Stay strong Llyris. Remember my teachings.Survive. Whatever happens, you survive. Do you understand?"
It was all she could give me—no false hope, no promises of rescue, just the cold, hard truth that survival was the best we could hope for. Get through today, suffer through tomorrow, and find a way to keep breathing even when every bone in your body is begging you to give up. Because in this world, that's all they couldn't take from you—your will to endure, even if it meant swallowing your pride until you choked on it.
"I'll be okay," I lied, my voice small and trembling as she was dragged further. "I'll be okay."
Neither of us believed that. She was off to die in some pit, and I was… what, exactly? A survivor? If that's what you'd call it.
The guards were rough, dragging her away like she was nothing more than a sack of grain. I watched, helpless, a fourteen-year-old still unAwakened, powerless. All I could do was stand there, pretending I wasn't shattering inside. Her last words weren't soft farewells or hopes for a brighter tomorrow. No, they were an order. Survive.
I was yanked back into the present by a sharp voice.
"Fourteen and unAwakened."
Ah, yes. That lovely phrase. No gifts, no powers. Just a boy waiting to be carved up by the world. The guard's smirk twisted as he added, "Good. The Accords—he matches their requirements."
The Accords. The name dropped between us like a stone in a pond, ripples of dread spreading out in all directions. Everyone knew about The Accords, even if they didn't want to admit it. Whispers at campfires, drunken ramblings behind locked doors, the haunted looks of those who'd survived their grasp. The Accords was an institution —an arrangement between the Empire and the University, designed to chew up the unAwakened and spit out whatever was left.
The Empire needed soldiers— strong, trained fodder to throw at their enemies. The University needed subjects for their experiments—fresh bodies to twist and break in the name of progress. And The Accords? They were the convenient, grim bridge between the two, taking in those without power and seeing if they could force something useful to emerge.
Or, you know, just discard them when they didn't make the cut. Efficiency at its finest.
They shoved me forward, and I stumbled, catching myself before face-planting into the mud. Typical. Nothing says "welcome to your new life" like a well-timed push into the dirt. My mother's words echoed in my head. Survive. Sure. Easy. Just keep breathing. An easy goal to achieve right?
But this? This was different. Survival was one thing, but this felt like being tossed into the storm and told to enjoy the rain. Not drown, mind you, but enjoy it. If you're lucky, you'll make it through soaked to the bone. If not, well… there's always another poor soul to take your place.
"Next!" the soldier barked, already done with me, his attention fixed on the next sad sack in line. I wondered if he even remembered our little interaction or if I was already slipping into the fog of forgettable faces. A nameless wretch to be forgotten by tomorrow, if I was lucky.
Luck. That cruel, fickle whore. She'd never been kind to me, not once. Always dealing me just enough to keep me alive but never enough to get ahead. I had wit, sure, and a sharp tongue when I needed it. But Luck? She was in someone else's bed. Whispering promises of fortune and favor to the truly undeserving while I got the scraps.
They hauled me to a wagon. It creaked under the weight of its own insignificance, as though it too realized it was just another tool to ferry lambs to the slaughter. The other kids were already inside, their eyes hollow, like they'd seen the end and were just waiting for it to come.
The bard's song came to mind, the one they sing when they're trying to scare childrens.
Children torn from hearth and kin,
To the Accords, where nightmares begin.
They twist the weak, break the small,
Most will perish; few stand tall.
That verse hung over me like a funeral shroud, the kind they drape over the dead before anyone's had the decency to say a word. "Welcome to the big leagues," I muttered under my breath, the words barely scraping past my lips. It was either that or laugh, and let's be honest—laughter had lost its taste a long time ago. These days, it was all bitter.
I slid to the back of the wagon, away from the shuffling, the nervous fidgeting, and the stifled sobs of children who still thought crying might fix something. I settled onto the hard, unforgiving planks and looked back one last time. My mother's face, twisted in pain and resolve, being dragged away, still seared into my skull.
"Be smart," her voice whispered in my mind.
Not be brave. Not be kind. Be smart. That was my inheritance. Not a locket, not a family home, not even the warmth of a loving memory—just those two words. The final gift from a mother who experienced life.
Something shifted inside me, slow and deliberate. A cold calm settled over me, like the sky before the heavens crack open in fury. I wasn't scared anymore. Fear, after all, was a luxury. A treat for those who still clung to the idea of happy endings. And me? I'd stopped believing in those the day the Empire rolled into our village and took everything.
No, I wasn't scared. I was angry. A cold, simmering rage that sat low in my gut. The kind that keeps you sharp, makes your heart beat slow and steady while everyone else is losing theirs. I'd promised her I'd survive, and I would. But not because I believed there was anything worth surviving for. Not for hope, not for love, not for some grand future where things might turn out alright.
No, I'd survive out of spite. Every breath I took would be another nail in the coffin, not mine, but theirs. I'd endure because breaking wasn't an option—at least not for me. They could break others, snap them like twigs, but not me. Not the soldiers, not the Empire, not the robed vultures at the University who saw us as nothing but meat for the grinder. Each breath was an act of defiance, and one day, when the time was right, I'd return every injustice back tenfold. Every bruise, every insult, every sneer—they'd all come back to haunt them.
They had no idea what kind of monster they were creating.
But they'd learn. Oh they will learn.