A damp, heavy fog rolled through the early morning streets of Sector Three, cloaking the city in a gray, oppressive silence. The Dominion, a vast global empire stretching across every land and ocean, had installed in its citizens a habit of quiet—a pervasive stillness that marked every day. Under its rule, silence was survival. People moved carefully, eyes averted, lips pressed tight, as though one stray word or misplaced look might invite retribution. And perhaps it would.
The Dominion was everywhere. Its presence echoed through tall towers bristling with surveillance nodes, in the low hum of drones patrolling the streets, and in the small, glassy eyes of automated watchers stationed on every corner. This silent, omnipresent surveillance marked every part of life. Even a stray glance upward would catch the glint of a camera turning in response, tracking every step, every move. A faint mechanical click—a lens shifting or a microphone activating—was all it took to remind people to keep their heads down and walk faster. Here, autonomy was a myth, a relic of a long-gone era.
But today, that silence held a new, charged kind of weight, almost electric, as though something fundamental was about to shift. Because today was The Selection. And though it came only once every fifteen years, it left a scar as deep as those branded onto the chosen.
The Dominion's Rise
It was whispered that, long ago, humanity had lived in separate nations, governed by leaders with competing ideals, cultures, and ambitions. Conflict, resource scarcity, and ideological wars had plagued humankind until, from the chaos, The Dominion had risen, promising unity, peace, and progress under one single banner. The history of how one force overtook the world was forbidden knowledge now, veiled in carefully curated propaganda that painted The Dominion as the great unifier, a savior from humanity's own self-destructive tendencies.
A century of global struggle had splintered countries and divided communities until peace itself became a desperate need. And so, The Dominion was born—one nation for the whole world, one empire from sea to sky. Yet, in the process, individuality had been stamped out, identity erased. Each city was now a perfect echo of the last, an industrially immaculate replica, governed by the same laws, surveillance, and oppression.
The Three Sects of The Dominion
In the unification, humanity had been divided and assigned into three distinct sects—each with its own purpose, identity, and responsibility within The Dominion. Each sector operated with different roles, philosophies, and expectations but remained united under one truth: all lived, breathed, and existed solely to serve The Dominion.
Sector One: The Sect of Mind
Sector One, also known as the Sect of Mind, housed the thinkers, scientists, engineers, and philosophers—the intellectual elite. The people of Sector One were conditioned from birth to believe that knowledge and innovation were powerful tools, but only so long as they served The Dominion's aims. Education here was rigorous and unrelenting, focused on mathematics, technology, and philosophy, yet all avenues of inquiry were carefully guarded. Forbidden topics, ideas that diverged from the empire's strict ideology, were met with swift, unyielding consequences.
People in Sector One lived under constant pressure to create and innovate, to push the boundaries of science and technology. However, every discovery and invention was scrutinized and controlled. Even the brightest minds knew they were not free, that every breakthrough they made would serve The Dominion's power rather than their own curiosity or humanity's betterment.
To serve the Sect of Mind was to live in the comfort of intelligence, but in the prison of boundaries. Here, citizens were bound by the invisible chains of thought, watched for even a glimmer of questioning, which would be seen as nothing less than rebellion.
Sector Two: The Sect of Body
Sector Two, the Sect of Body, was the workforce—the builders, the laborers, the soldiers. This was where strength mattered above all else, where every citizen learned to perfect the art of physical endurance and obedience. The Dominion regarded these people as its spine, the labor force that powered cities, built monuments, and, most importantly, defended The Dominion from all threats, both internal and imagined.
In Sector Two, citizens rose before dawn and fell into bed exhausted long after sunset. Rigorous daily regimens of physical training were imposed, conditioning both body and mind to withstand fatigue, pain, and hardship. Those who lived in Sector Two were raised to be physically powerful, fiercely loyal, and utterly obedient. Even the smallest defiance was met with swift punishment.
Here, life was harsh and routine brutal, but the people of Sector Two bore their burdens with a strange pride. They had been taught that they were the protectors, the soldiers, the backbone of The Dominion. To question was weakness. To rebel was treason. Their strength was their identity, yet it had become the very thing that chained them.
Sector Three: The Sect of Spirit
Finally, Sector Three, known as the Sect of Spirit, held the artists, the musicians, the poets, and the dreamers—or, at least, those who had once dreamed. They were the architects of The Dominion's culture, the voices that spread its ideology through every song, every painting, every poem that was allowed. It was here that culture itself was forged, yet every creation was carefully filtered, designed to glorify The Dominion and silence individual expression.
People in Sector Three were taught that creativity was a gift, but one that belonged to The Dominion. Every artist knew the bitter truth: they painted not what their souls whispered but what the empire commanded. Sculptors molded statues of unity and loyalty, while poets penned verses about the greatness of The Dominion. Art was a weapon, twisted to inspire loyalty rather than truth, submission rather than beauty.
Though they lived in a place of color and expression, those in the Sect of Spirit were perhaps the most oppressed of all, forced to stifle true creativity under the oppressive hand of The Dominion. Even a brush stroke out of place or a chord too dissonant could be seen as a whisper of rebellion.
The Ceremony of The Selection
It began at dawn, as it always did, the streets lined with guards draped in the dark gray cloaks of authority. Each guard's gaze was hidden behind reflective visors, stripping them of any humanity and rendering them as part of the city's brutal machinery. Families gathered in tense silence, cradling their infants, while a monotone voice crackled through speakers positioned along the city streets, breaking the early morning stillness:
"Today, we honor the fifteenth Selection since The Dominion rose. Today, two chosen children from each sector will be marked for greatness, branded as warriors of unity."
The voice, devoid of emotion, echoed through the cold air, settling heavily on the crowd. Behind these sterile words lay a brutal truth: their children could be taken from them, transformed into agents of The Dominion, raised for violence, destined to fight in battles that symbolized unity at the cost of their innocence.
Across the square, soldiers moved methodically through the crowd, their visors casting reflections of worried, tear-streaked faces. In each sector, two children—a boy and a girl—would be chosen. And those selected would wear the mark forever, a cross-shaped scar branded into their right shoulders. The mark was a permanent claim, a declaration of ownership by The Dominion, binding these children to a path that had taken them from their families before they could even speak.
The Marking
As the soldiers carried the infants away, an older man in ceremonial robes entered the square, holding an iron branding rod, its end twisted into a cross. He moved slowly, with a heavy formality, savoring the power his role held over these helpless lives. The crowd parted instinctively, making way for him as he approached a small platform at the square's center.
One by one, the chosen infants were strapped down on a stone altar, the hard surface cold and unyielding beneath them. The man heated the branding rod over a portable flame, the metal tip glowing a bright, menacing orange. The crowd watched, mesmerized and horrified, as he pressed the glowing metal to the boy's shoulder first. A sharp, heart-wrenching scream erupted from the child, piercing the silence with an intensity that made some in the crowd flinch. The boy's mother stifled a sob, her body rigid with the effort of holding herself together.
Each child was marked, the cross-shape etched deep into their flesh—a permanent scar that would forever bind them to The Dominion's will. The brand was not just a physical mark but a psychological one, a constant reminder of their purpose: to fight, to survive, to serve.
The Legacy of Fear
When the crowd dispersed, families returned to their homes, mothers clutching their unchosen infants with a mix of relief and dread, knowing that fifteen years from now, The Selection would return, and it could be their child's turn. The mark of The Dominion extended beyond the branded infants; it bled into every corner of society, embedding a legacy of control that transcended generations. No one could escape its reach, not even those who did not bear the mark.
As the sun climbed higher, casting a pale, harsh light over the square, it revealed only traces of the morning's events—a smoldering iron rod, the faint scent of burned flesh. Life resumed, but beneath the ordinary bustle lay the silent acknowledgment of The Dominion's power, an unspoken understanding that, at any moment, lives could be claimed, branded, and remade.
The world was no longer wild or free. It was bound, shackled by an authority that had stripped it of freedom in the name of unity, that had taken innocence and transformed it into a tool. And beneath the surface, the people knew: if The Dominion could reach into the cradle, what other freedoms could it strip away?
As shadows lengthened over the city and the last traces of the ceremony faded into memory, the branded children traveled, as all chosen before them, toward a life none could imagine, toward futures shaped entirely by hands they would never control.