The vast halls of the Ministry of Strength were colder than they appeared. Though designed to exude power and control, every inch of the towering building was shadowed by a sterile stillness that seemed to sap the warmth from any who entered. Talia, a girl of barely a year, gazed around with wide, uncomprehending eyes from her mother's arms. Her mother, Lina, held her close, trying to steady her own breathing while whispering soft, repetitive words to comfort them both.
Lina was from The Veneris sect. Her whole life, she had been taught the importance of discipline and devotion, of loyalty above all else. But even that doctrine had done little to prepare her for this day. Today, her daughter would be taken from her, branded with the cross-shaped scar of The Dominion—a permanent mark that would define her life as one of the chosen warriors.
Lina's mind flickered with memories of the past year, from Talia's birth to her early steps, each memory infused with an ache she hadn't known was possible. As she looked around, she saw the same expressions mirrored in the faces of other parents, each one holding their child close, knowing that after today, their families would be forever changed.
A shrill sound rang through the hall, and the crowd shifted, inching closer toward the line of officials standing at the front. They moved in silence, each step laden with dread, as they approached Evaluator Liza, the stoic official who presided over the Selection. She was flanked by guards whose faces remained as impassive as stone, their presence a constant reminder that resistance was not an option.
Across the hall, another family from The Ilmari waited in the growing line. Marek, an infant with a sturdy frame and dark, piercing eyes, rested in his father's arms. His father, Josiah, stood with his chin held high, his stance mirroring the resilience expected of Ilmari men. He had always known this day would come, had even told himself he was prepared for it. But now, as he held his son, he felt his resolve beginning to fracture.
Josiah's grip tightened unconsciously, as though his grasp alone could shield Marek from what lay ahead. Beside him, his wife, Leta, held his hand, her face a mask of stoic acceptance. Ilmari mothers were known for their strength, their unflinching loyalty to The Dominion's doctrine. But even Leta's hand trembled slightly, betraying the heartache she felt as she stared at her son's solemn face, wondering if he could sense what was to come.
The line moved forward, family by family. Each parent took their turn, each child was inspected, and the chosen were marked with a searing brand, their cries echoing through the hall. Marek's gaze remained fixed on the officials as though he were studying them, his quiet stillness in stark contrast to the panic in his parents' eyes.
Talia's turn came first. Lina moved forward, her steps slow and hesitant as she approached Evaluator Liza. Talia squirmed in her mother's arms, reaching a small hand toward Lina's face, blissfully unaware of the significance of this moment. Lina blinked back tears, refusing to let them fall. She had to be strong, if only for Talia.
Evaluator Liza extended a hand, her gaze cold and clinical, and nodded to the guard beside her. He stepped forward, reaching out to take Talia from Lina's arms.
"Please…" Lina's voice was barely a whisper, and her words trailed off as she looked at Liza, hoping, perhaps irrationally, for some hint of mercy.
Liza's expression remained unchanged. "Release the child."
Lina's grip tightened involuntarily before she forced herself to loosen her hold, her hands trembling as she let the guard take Talia. The child squirmed, her face scrunching up as though sensing her mother's distress.
Evaluator Liza took a small, heated branding iron from the guard. Its tip glowed red, casting a sinister light that flickered across the room. With practiced efficiency, Liza pressed the iron to Talia's tiny shoulder. The child let out a scream, her voice piercing and desperate, echoing through the hall as her mother's hand flew to her mouth, stifling a sob.
When the iron was removed, the cross-shaped scar remained, bright and raw against Talia's skin. The guard returned her to Lina's arms, but Lina knew that this was only a temporary reprieve. In a few days, she would lose her daughter forever.
Across the room, it was Marek's family's turn. Josiah and Leta approached Evaluator Liza with measured steps, their expressions carefully blank. To show weakness was a sin in the eyes of The Ilmari. Marek watched the officials with wide, unblinking eyes, his calmness unnerving even his father.
When the guard reached for Marek, Josiah felt a surge of defiance rising within him, a wild, primal urge to pull his son close and shield him from the fate awaiting him. But Leta's hand on his arm was firm, grounding him. She gave him a single look—a reminder of the consequences.
With a reluctant sigh, Josiah surrendered Marek to the guard. The branding iron met Marek's shoulder with a sharp hiss, and the boy's silence shattered into a shriek of pain. Josiah's fists clenched at his sides as he watched, his heart pounding with a helpless fury.
The cross-shaped scar was barely visible against Marek's skin, but it was there, a symbol that would shape his life, his future, his very identity. Josiah took his son back from the guard, holding him close for a moment, memorizing the weight of him, the warmth of his small body, knowing that soon, this memory would be all he had left.
In the days that followed, Lina and Josiah clung to their children, knowing that their time together was slipping away. The knowledge lingered like a shadow, darkening every moment, making every glance, every touch feel both precious and painful. They didn't speak of the impending separation; the words seemed too heavy, too final.
For Lina, each second with Talia felt stolen. She found herself studying her daughter's face, memorizing every detail, every expression. She lingered on the way Talia's nose scrunched when she laughed, the soft curls that framed her face, the way her tiny fingers wrapped around Lina's thumb. She knew that soon, she would have nothing but these memories to carry with her.
For Josiah, the separation was an agonizing test of his resilience. He had always prided himself on his strength, on his loyalty to The Ilmari, but now, holding Marek, he felt that strength faltering. Each day, he took his son out to the training grounds, teaching him the basics of Ilmari resilience—even though Marek was far too young to understand.
"Strength is survival," he would say, as though the words could somehow prepare his son for what lay ahead. Marek would look up at him, his dark eyes wide and serious, as though absorbing his father's words even without fully understanding them. Josiah felt a surge of pride mixed with heartbreak, knowing that his son would grow to embody the Ilmari spirit—but that he would do so without him.
The day of separation arrived all too soon. A convoy of black vehicles rolled into the heart of each sector, their engines silent as they lined up in the central squares. Families gathered in clusters, holding their children close as guards moved among them, checking names and verifying identities. The air was thick with unspoken grief, a collective ache that pulsed through the crowd like a heartbeat.
In The Veneris, Lina clutched Talia to her chest, her face pale as she watched the guards approach. She could feel Talia's small heart beating against her own, a rhythm that seemed to echo her own panic. When the guard reached for Talia, Lina resisted, pulling her daughter close.
"Please," she whispered, her voice trembling. "She's…she's all I have."
The guard's expression remained blank, unfeeling. "She belongs to The Dominion now."
With a sharp tug, the guard pried Talia from Lina's arms. The child screamed, reaching out for her mother, her small hands grasping at empty air as Lina's world seemed to collapse around her.
In The Ilmari, Josiah stood with his shoulders squared, his expression a mask of rigid control as he handed Marek over to the waiting guards. Leta clung to his arm, her face pale but composed, her eyes fixed on her son as though willing him to feel her presence, even from a distance. Marek's gaze remained steady, unflinching, as though he had already accepted his fate.
The guards led the children to the waiting vehicles, their cries and protests swallowed by the sound of engines. One by one, the families watched as their children were taken from them, knowing they would never hold them again.
Inside the vehicles, the children wailed, their cries mingling with each other, filling the confined spaces with a raw, unfiltered grief. Talia's tiny hands beat against the cold metal of the seat, her face flushed and tear-streaked. Marek remained silent, his wide eyes scanning his surroundings, his small hands gripping the edge of the seat.
The journey felt endless. The windows were dark, giving the children no view of the outside world, as though The Dominion sought to erase all traces of familiarity from their lives. Eventually, the vehicles slowed, and the children were led out into a sprawling facility surrounded by towering walls topped with razor wire. This would be their home, their prison, their training ground.
As the guards led them inside, the children's cries quieted, replaced by a hushed, fearful silence. They could sense the weight of this place, its cold, clinical atmosphere pressing down on them, stealing away any remnants of warmth or comfort.
Talia looked around, her gaze flickering from one unfamiliar face to another. She reached for Marek's hand, her small fingers intertwining with his. Though they were strangers, they shared an unspoken bond—a silent understanding of the loss they had both endured.
Marek looked down at their joined hands, his expression unreadable, but he didn't pull away. For the first time since the journey began, he felt a small flicker of reassurance, a reminder that he was not entirely alone.
That night, the children were placed in small, sterile rooms, each one separated by thick walls. The rooms were devoid of comfort, their only furnishings a small cot and a thin blanket. Talia lay curled up on the cot, her tiny frame trembling as she cried herself to sleep, her mother's face etched into her mind.
Marek lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His expression was calm, his eyes dry, but inside, a storm raged. He could feel the weight of the scar on his shoulder, a constant reminder of the life he had left behind. He clenched his fists, a flicker of defiance stirring within him. He didn't understand why he had been taken, why his family had been torn from him, but he knew one thing: he would survive.