The Selection had ended, but the faint scent of charred flesh lingered, clinging to the air like a ghostly reminder. A crowd, which only moments ago had packed tightly into the square, now drifted away, parents clutching their babies with expressions ranging from exhausted relief to barely concealed dread. Those who had not been chosen took no comfort in their luck, knowing that in fifteen years, the ritual would return, a cold hand that might reach into their lives once again.
In the shadow of the ceremonial platform, two infants lay silent and still, unaware that their fates had been sealed. The marks on their right shoulders, a brutal cross burnt into the flesh, were still raw. For the boy and girl born to different sects, chosen for different paths, this cross would be a lifelong scar—a symbol that they no longer belonged to themselves but to The Dominion. They were no longer their parents' children; they were warriors in the making, instruments of The Dominion's iron grip on humanity.
The Boy from Sector One
The boy's name was Elias. He came from Sector One, the Sect of Mind. His parents were intellectuals, well-regarded scientists who'd dedicated their lives to the relentless pursuit of knowledge. Elias had been born in a rare moment of softness, a brief deviation from his parents' rigid schedules. To them, his birth had been an unexpected joy—a reminder of something pure and uncalculated. In the sleepless hours of the night, his mother would cradle him, whispering stories from books long forbidden, tales of ancient worlds and distant stars.
But that morning, when she saw the soldiers approach, she had felt her world tilt and shatter.
Elias's mother had held him tightly, knowing that the sight of the Dominion's officers meant that he was to be taken, a choice that had been made before he was even conceived. She had heard stories of the selection, but no parent ever truly believed it would happen to their own child.
When the soldier took him from her arms, she felt a fierce, protective urge to scream, to grab him back, to resist. But her husband's hand rested on her shoulder, grounding her, reminding her that resistance was futile and that, in The Dominion's eyes, defiance would mean much more than losing a child. It would mean losing her life, and perhaps her husband's as well.
Without a word, they had watched as Elias was strapped down to the altar, the branding rod raised high and then pressed into his shoulder. The stench of burning flesh filled her nostrils, but she forced herself to watch, her heart breaking silently with every agonizing second.
When it was over, they didn't even get a moment to say goodbye. The soldiers lifted Elias from the platform, and without looking back, carried him away toward the towering, fortified transport vehicle that waited at the edge of the square.
Elias would never see his mother's face again. He would never hear the whispered stories of forbidden worlds, nor feel the warmth of her arms around him. From this moment forward, he was a product of The Dominion, a soldier-to-be who would learn to forget any life beyond the steel and stone walls that awaited him.
The Girl from Sector Three
The girl, Lira, had been taken from Sector Three, the Sect of Spirit. Her family were artists, musicians, and poets—creators whose lives revolved around the careful crafting of beauty. Her father, a sculptor whose works adorned public squares, and her mother, a violinist who played melodies approved by The Dominion, had always hoped that Lira would grow to love art as they did. Though they knew the restrictions imposed on them, they still found freedom within the boundaries of their creativity.
Lira was their only child, a small figure who often watched her mother play from a makeshift crib near their workbench. Her parents had cherished her, weaving dreams of a life that, in some tiny way, might allow her to feel the joy they hid behind disciplined expressions.
When the soldiers arrived at their doorstep, it felt like a nightmare come to life. Her father froze, his face a blank mask of despair, while her mother clutched Lira tightly, her hands shaking with the strain. But they knew there was no escape, no chance to bargain or plead. The Dominion's officers were like shadows, figures of absolute authority who moved through each home without emotion, taking what they came for.
Lira's mother struggled to keep her tears at bay as the soldiers took her daughter. The Dominion taught that showing grief was weakness, and that weakness would be punished. But her grief betrayed her. As they watched the ceremony, she trembled uncontrollably, her husband's arm wrapped around her shoulders, a gesture that seemed too fragile, too feeble to stop the weight of her despair.
They watched as Lira's tiny body twisted beneath the branding rod, her cries piercing the silent square. Her mother gripped her husband's arm so tightly her nails left marks on his skin. But she held her silence, not daring to risk a single sound, for fear that it would draw attention.
When the brand was lifted, Lira lay limp, her cries turned to exhausted whimpers. And just as Elias had been, she was swept away, carried toward the transport without a single glance backward.
The Transport
The ride was long and dark, the interior of the transport as cold and sterile as the soldiers who watched over them. Both Elias and Lira, still infants, lay side by side in metal cribs. The pain of the branding lingered, a raw burn on each of their small shoulders. They cried out, but their cries went unheeded by the soldiers whose faces were obscured by visors, each soldier's expression hidden beneath the gleaming black glass.
The journey stretched on, with only the hum of the engine and the occasional jolt as the transport moved over uneven terrain. Every hour or so, a soldier would glance down at them, an indifferent gaze that lingered for barely a moment before returning to their own silence.
At one point, the transport slowed, and the silence became sharper, heavier. Through the narrow slits in the doors, a vast, desolate landscape loomed—a flat, featureless expanse of dirt and rock that seemed to stretch on forever. This barren land was the outer region, where no citizen was permitted to travel. For most, it was a forgotten wasteland, but for those within The Dominion's iron grip, it was a reminder of isolation and absolute control. This was where they would train, where the seeds of The Dominion's iron rule would be planted deep within their minds.
After what felt like hours, the transport finally halted in front of a dark, towering facility. This was the place where Elias and Lira would spend their formative years—a brutal compound hidden far from prying eyes, designed for one purpose only: to transform children into warriors.
The doors of the transport swung open, and the cold, sterile air of the facility rushed in, carrying with it a scent that neither child would understand for years—a faint trace of disinfectant, metal, and something sharper, an acrid tang that would eventually become synonymous with training, blood, and fear.
The First Night
Elias and Lira were carried from the transport, passed like objects between soldiers, until each of them was placed in a separate cell. Their cribs, once lined with soft blankets at home, were now hard, metal beds with thin sheets that provided little warmth. The rooms were small and gray, with walls that loomed cold and close. Here, in the shadow of The Dominion's cold machinery, the two children would begin their lives anew, their memories of warmth and love erased before they could even take root.
In these bare, windowless rooms, infants like Elias and Lira would spend the first night of their new lives alone, without the familiar scents or sounds of family. Each cell was dimly lit, the overhead lights casting harsh shadows that seemed to trap them within the room's bleak confines. For children who could not yet walk, who could not yet form thoughts beyond their immediate needs, this environment was meant to condition them from the very start.
In his cell, Elias lay staring at the ceiling, his small hand brushing against the raw, tender mark on his shoulder. He whimpered softly, the pain of the branding a throbbing ache that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. The room felt wrong, hollow and cold, so different from the small, warm crib he'd known. His cries echoed off the walls, meeting only silence in response.
Down the corridor, Lira lay in her own cell, her breathing shallow and fast as she clutched her tiny hand against the aching brand on her shoulder. She cried, but unlike at home, there was no soothing hand to comfort her, no soft voice to sing her back to sleep. She was alone, surrounded by shadows that seemed to press in on her, enclosing her in a darkness that felt both immense and inescapable.
Throughout the facility, other infants cried in similar cells, each branded, each taken, each stripped of family and thrust into a world designed to break them, to mold them into tools of survival, obedience, and violence.
The Dawn of a New Life
As dawn broke, the harsh lights in each cell flickered on, bathing the infants in a blinding white glow. For the first time, they would hear the voices of The Dominion's caretakers—sterile, calm tones that lacked the warmth and cadence of parents. These caretakers were not here to nurture. They were here to enforce discipline, to begin the rigorous process of shaping these children into weapons.
In the weeks and months that followed, Elias and Lira would grow within the confines of this facility, the memories of their parents fading into the recesses of infancy, replaced by the cold, unyielding reality of The Dominion's control. As they began to crawl, then walk, they would encounter a world devoid of softness, where every step, every sound, every glance was controlled and scrutinized.
Their names, whispered once by their parents in the comfort of dimly lit rooms, would eventually become nothing more than labels, stripped of the love and care they once carried. Here, they would be known not for who they were but for what they were meant to become.
Elias and Lira were the chosen, selected from birth, marked by The Dominion's unyielding grip. They were no longer children of mind, or spirit, or body; they were children of The Dominion itself, and their journey toward becoming warriors had just begun.