The city stretched out below the darkened sky, sprawling and endless. Buildings rose in clean, geometric lines, each block nearly indistinguishable from the next, as if they had been stamped from a single template. Far above, hovering drones swept back and forth in measured, tireless arcs, their sensors absorbing every detail, scrutinizing every flicker of movement. Every citizen of The Dominion knew they were being watched, constantly. There was no room for mistake, no space for defiance. Order, precision, and discipline defined every moment of their lives.

This city, like all cities within The Dominion, was divided into three distinct sectors, each governed by one of The Dominion's ruling sects. Even here, in the cold glow of early morning, that division held sway. The first sect, known as The Castal, was a society of intellectuals and strategists who revered logic above all. Their city blocks, nearer to the center, were neatly arranged and almost austere. Those who lived in The Castal were known for their sharply defined uniforms, their quiet movements, and their reserved expressions that rarely betrayed emotion.

The second sect, The Veneris, resided to the west. Here, order was defined by tradition and ritual. Veneris' values centered on unity, loyalty, and devotion, and its citizens moved through life with a calm, almost reverent precision, like disciples of a shared faith. Their uniforms bore intricate emblems, each symbol woven with meaning and history. And finally, to the east, lay the third sect, The Ilmari, a people marked by their resilience, shaped to endure any hardship The Dominion set before them. Strength defined Ilmari, both in physical form and spirit, and every citizen here seemed molded from steel, their posture rigid, their gazes cold and sharp.

Together, these three sects formed The Dominion—a unified empire that had risen after centuries of chaos, war, and scarcity had finally culminated in a singular rule. Its founders, powerful leaders from each of the three sects, had extinguished the remnants of old nations and formed The Dominion to impose one unyielding order. To maintain their power, they imposed a relentless surveillance network that stretched across every corner of their world, penetrating each home, each classroom, each hospital, each public square.

They called it The Network, and in its gaze, nothing was private. Every word, every gesture, every fleeting look was captured, processed, and analyzed by the Network's vast algorithms. Any hint of dissent, any whisper of defiance, was enough to trigger swift retribution. The people of The Dominion lived in constant awareness of this truth, their lives tuned to the rhythms of quiet obedience.

At dawn, a hum began to fill the city. Across the three sectors, speakers crackled to life, and a somber, ceremonial tune rolled through the streets. The citizens, already preparing for their daily routines, halted and turned to face the nearest screen or loudspeaker. Today was no ordinary day. Today was Selection Day.

For weeks, anticipation and dread had built up, quietly simmering under the surface. Selection Day was the most sacred, and feared, of all Dominion rituals, a tradition older than the memories of any living citizen. Once every fifteen years, The Dominion held The Selection, a day when newborns were evaluated and marked—claimed as the property of the state.

Selection Day had its own set of rituals. The week before, each newborn was brought to the Ministry of Strength, a towering building in the heart of the city. There, they underwent rigorous examinations under the watchful eyes of The Dominion's most elite officials, who studied every detail, looking for potential, strength, and suitability. Today, those deemed worthy would be marked. Parents, stripped of all control, would have no choice but to watch as their child was taken from them and inducted into a life they could neither imagine nor escape.

Across the city, screens flared to life, displaying a single, stark image: a gleaming cross, the symbol of The Dominion, over a black background. The voice that followed was calm, emotionless, and unwavering. It belonged to Minister Kallan, the highest-ranking official in The Dominion, a man who was both revered and feared for his unyielding devotion to the state's principles.

"Today," Minister Kallan's voice rang out, "marks another chapter in the legacy of our great Dominion. For centuries, we have stood united as a people, unbreakable and unswayed by chaos. Through discipline, sacrifice, and strength, we have achieved a singular harmony that our ancestors could only dream of."

The words rolled across the crowd like a wave, empty and familiar. Every citizen knew these phrases by heart; they had been taught them from the moment they could understand language. Minister Kallan's speeches were practically scripture in The Dominion—a ritualistic affirmation of their unwavering loyalty.

"Today," the Minister continued, "we honor the chosen, the ones born to carry our strength, our resilience, and our future. They are our warriors, our defenders. Today, they become the property of The Dominion, consecrated in loyalty to the only power that ensures our survival."

At his words, a chill settled over the people. They had heard it all before, but each repetition felt like the tightening of a noose. For the families of newborns, the weight of these words was unbearable. Hidden beneath stoic expressions, parents gripped their children tightly, willing themselves not to tremble as they waited for the inevitable.

In the Ministry of Strength, where the Selection ceremony took place, the atmosphere was tense and reverent. Rows of parents stood in silence, holding their newborns in their arms as guards ushered them forward, one by one. The Ministry's hall was a cold expanse of metal and stone, adorned only by a series of banners emblazoned with The Dominion's symbol—the cross.

At the front of the hall stood a row of officials, each dressed in a deep, imposing black. Among them was Evaluator Liza, a woman known for her cold, calculating precision. Her gaze swept over the parents, lingering on each child for a moment, as though assessing their worth with a mere glance.

"Step forward," she intoned, and the first family obeyed, their faces pale.

Evaluator Liza examined the child, a boy with a quiet, steady gaze. Without a word, she marked something on her tablet, and the guards took the baby from his parents' arms. The mother stifled a gasp, her face blanching as she reached out instinctively, only to be restrained by a firm hand.

The branding process was swift, efficient. A metal rod, heated until it glowed red, was pressed to the child's shoulder, leaving a cross-shaped scar—a permanent mark, both physical and symbolic, of their fate. The boy let out a piercing cry, his small voice echoing off the stone walls, but none dared react. The child was returned to his parents only briefly; in a matter of days, he would be taken to a facility far from his home, where he would begin his training.

For the children selected, life would be a narrow corridor of pain, endurance, and strength. They would be stripped of all connections, all memories of home, and raised to become The Dominion's warriors. The cross on their shoulder would be their only identity, their only heritage. In time, they would learn to see it as a badge of honor, a mark that set them apart, even as it chained them to a life of brutal control.

As the Selection continued, the atmosphere grew darker, each child's cries mingling with the silent despair of their parents. Yet, none dared object. To object would be an act of defiance—a crime punishable by imprisonment, or worse. They had been taught their entire lives that loyalty was survival, that The Dominion's power was absolute and unassailable.

From the perspective of The Dominion, The Selection was necessary. It was the foundation of their society, the pillar that supported their strength. Without warriors to defend them, without strength to keep chaos at bay, The Dominion would fall. And so, the people submitted, trading their children for a promise of peace.

In the shadows of the Ministry's hall, Watcher Tyre, a member of The Dominion's covert surveillance division, observed the ceremony. His task was not only to ensure order but to monitor the parents' reactions, looking for any signs of resistance, however subtle. As he watched, his eyes narrowed. One mother, standing at the edge of the crowd, seemed frozen, her gaze fixed on her child even as she was led away. Tyre made a mental note—her reaction was barely perceptible, but it was there, a flicker of something that bordered on defiance.

Tyre knew that even a trace of defiance, even a hint of resistance, could grow. He had seen it before, rare as it was, and he understood the danger it posed. The Dominion's strength relied on absolute loyalty, and there was no place for those who dared question its rule.

The day wore on, with each family stepping forward, their children marked, their fates sealed. By dusk, the last family had gone, and the hall was empty, the cries of infants fading into the silence. The officials moved with practiced efficiency, cleaning up the remnants of the ritual, their expressions cold and unfeeling.

Minister Kallan's voice returned over the speakers, addressing the city one final time.

"The Selection is complete," he declared. "Today, our warriors have been chosen. They will protect us, they will strengthen us, they will uphold the legacy of The Dominion. We are unbreakable. We are eternal."

The screens across the city went dark, leaving the people in silence. For a moment, the citizens stood still, absorbing the weight of the day. Then, one by one, they turned and returned to their lives, their faces blank, their movements mechanical.

Yet, beneath the surface, something lingered—a quiet, buried tremor.