Today was the day.
Coren Drax sat cross-legged on her narrow cot, staring at the faint crack in the ceiling of her apartment. The place was small, barely more than a box with a bed, painted in neutral colours with a desk and a single storage locker, but it was hers. Sparse, sure, but she didn't need much. She'd learned that years ago. Everything that mattered fit in a satchel she could sling over her shoulder.
But today wasn't about what she had—it was about what she might become.
She glanced at the calendar glowing faintly on the wall. The date was highlighted in bold, flickering letters: 1242 PS.063. Her 20th birthday. The day she would be tested for Fields compatibility.
The thought sent a flicker of excitement and nerves shooting through her. Selection Day was something every kid dreamed of. For most, it came and went without much fuss—just a formality, really. The majority of people didn't have the aptitude to bond with a Companion, and even fewer could connect with the Fields. But for those who did, the world changed forever.
Coren let out a slow breath and stood, brushing off the creases in her simple grey tunic. She turned in a slow circle, surveying the room. The desk was tidy, the cot made, her satchel packed and leaning against the wall. There wasn't much to look at, but this place had been her sanctuary for the past ten years. A far cry from where she'd started.
Her gaze lingered on the small holo-frame sitting on the desk. It was the one indulgence she allowed herself—a photo taken on the day Professor Varik had brought her to Solvix III. She was ten years old in the image, dirt streaked across her face, her hair a tangled mess, her eyes wide and uncertain. Professor Varik stood beside her, a protective hand on her shoulder, smiling gently.
That day had been the first time Coren had felt safe in years.
She could still remember the ruins of Earth, the endless grey skies and crumbling towers that pierced the horizon like jagged teeth. Her earliest memories were of scavenging with the other children, ducking beneath ancient machines and crawling through collapsed tunnels in search of anything they could trade. They were the forgotten tribes, nameless and invisible to the colonies orbiting far above. Life was brutal, fleeting, and fragile.
But Professor Varik had changed everything. She'd appeared out of the haze one day, a tall, sharp-eyed woman in a long coat, her boots crunching over the debris as though she belonged there. Coren had been watching her from a distance, hiding behind the rusted skeleton of an old transport hub. She hadn't known what to make of Professor Varik at first—scientists rarely came to Earth's surface, and when they did, they didn't linger.
Except the professor had lingered. She had asked questions to any tribe members she found, moving through the ruins with a deliberate patience that was so unlike the scientists who usually swept in and out of Earth's surface. Coren had been watching her from a distance, perched high on a rusted beam of wreckage, trying to decide if the woman was a threat—or an opportunity.
But she'd leaned too far, her footing slipping on a patch of crumbling debris. The fall wasn't far, but far enough. Pain had exploded in her leg as she hit the ground, her vision blurring as she scrambled to crawl out of sight.
That was when Professor Varik found her.
Coren could still remember the sharp crunch of boots on rubble, the shadow that fell over her as she lay there, breathless and trying not to cry out. She'd looked up, expecting the cold indifference of an adult who would pass her by, or worse, someone who might take advantage of her weakness.
Instead, she'd met a pair of sharp green eyes and a calm, assessing expression.
"You're hurt," Professor Varik had said, kneeling beside her. Her voice was steady, matter-of-fact, but there had been a gentleness to it that Coren hadn't expected. The professor didn't flinch at the sight of Coren's grime-streaked face or the fresh blood seeping through the tear in her pants. She didn't demand answers or scold her for being careless.
She just pulled out a medkit and went to work.
Coren had been too stunned to protest. No one had ever stopped for her before. Not like this.
"What's your name?" The professor had asked as she wrapped Coren's leg in a sterile bandage, her tone as casual as if they were having tea in one of Solvix's pristine courtyards.
Coren hesitated, her throat dry. It had been years since anyone had asked her that question, since anyone had spoken to her like she was a person and not just another scavenger.
"Erm… Coren," she'd finally whispered.
That day, Professor Varik had offered her a choice: stay behind with the tribes or leave Earth behind.
Coren hadn't hesitated. She hadn't even looked back.
Now, ten years later, she was here—standing on the precipice of something she'd barely dared to dream about.
Coren shook herself, forcing her thoughts back to the present. She walked to the desk, brushing her fingers over the holo-frame before picking up her satchel and slinging it over her shoulder. The straps felt familiar, comforting. She picked up one of the breakfast bars nearby to eat on the way. She was ready for the day.
She turned toward the door, catching a glimpse of herself in the faintly reflective surface of the wall panel. Her dark hair was pulled into a practical braid, and her sharp blue eyes stared back at her with quiet determination. There was a faint scar along her jawline, a souvenir from her years on Earth.
She wasn't a frightened little girl anymore.
Today, she would face the test. She didn't know what the outcome would be, but that didn't matter. Whether she became a Fieldwielder or left Selection Day empty-handed, Coren was ready. No matter what happened, her path was clear—she would become an archaeologist and join Professor Varik on her expeditions, uncovering the secrets of Earth and the ruins of humanity's past. Except deep down, she couldn't shake the hope that, for once, the universe might just give her a break.
As she stepped out into the hall, the sunlight of Solvix's twin suns poured through the high windows, warming her skin. She paused for a moment, looking out over the academy grounds. The sight always took her breath away. Solvix III was so unlike Earth—clean, orderly, alive. The buildings gleamed beneath the suns, their spires rising into the endless sky. The air buzzed faintly with the energy of ancient machines humming somewhere far below, a reminder of the invisible systems that kept their world turning.
Coren made her way through the academy's inner courtyard and into the city proper, her heart thudding in her chest as she approached the testing grounds. The grounds themselves were considered sacred, a relic of the ancient past. The closer she got, the more the atmosphere changed, an invisible current of energy that prickled at the edges of her awareness.
The testing building stood at the heart of the city, its surface gleaming in the light of Solvix's twin suns. Made from some long-forgotten alloy, the structure seemed to shimmer and move like it was alive, reflecting the sunlight in an iridescent dance of colours—blues, purples, greens, and golds that shifted with every step she took. It was beautiful and imposing, a reminder of the knowledge humanity had lost after the Severance. Coren hoped that one day this building wouldn't be such a mystery to her or humanity.
In front of the tall, polished door stood a familiar figure. Coren recognized her instantly, and a grin broke across her face despite the nervous energy building inside her.
"You ready for this, Coren?" Professor Varik asked, her arms crossed casually as she leaned against the frame.
"Of course, Professor," Coren replied, stopping a few feet away.
Processor Varik sighed, though her smile softened the gesture. "Coren, we've talked about this. Outside of class, please just call me Lyra."
"Ahh Sorry, Professor," Coren said, her grin widening mischievously. "I still can't get the hang of it."
Before Lyra could respond, a red orb appeared out of thin air, hovering just in front of them. It pulsed faintly, as if amused, and Coren tensed instinctively.
"Coren," the orb said in its smooth, melodic voice, "please go easy on Lyra. She's been worried about you all week."
"Lex!" Coren hissed before catching herself and glancing around. She lowered her voice. "Are you sure you should be showing yourself out here?"
Companions like Lex were revered, yes, but they were also envied. The bond between a person and their Companion was sacred and rare but came with many benefits which often led to jealousy and shunning—or worse. Most bonded kept their Companions hidden in public unless absolutely necessary.
"It's fine," Lyra interjected, her voice calm but reassuring. "Everyone here already knows I have a Companion."
Coren looked around and noticed the only other people nearby were the guards stationed at the edges of the testing grounds. They stood at attention, clad in sleek uniforms marked with the emblem of the Enforcers—a field of silver and black with the faint outline of a starburst. Fieldwielders, every one of them.
Satisfied, Coren relaxed slightly, though her heart still beat fast.
"Now go do your test," Lyra said, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper. "I have a surprise for you after you're done."
Coren arched an eyebrow, her curiosity aroused despite herself. "A surprise?"
"You'll see," Lyra replied, her smile mysterious.
As Coren turned toward the gleaming doors, Lex floated closer to her, its light shifting subtly as if it were adjusting its mood to hers.
"Relax, Coren," the orb said gently, its tone warm and steady. "You'll be fine."
She took a deep breath, steeling herself as she approached the entryway. The massive doors opened slowly, the alloy surface parting soundlessly to reveal a dimly lit chamber beyond. For a brief moment, the reflection of the light in the doorway danced across Coren's face, painting her in shades of violet and gold. She turned back to look at Lyra one last time. The professor gave her a small nod, her expression proud but tinged with something else—concern, perhaps, or hope.
Lex drifted up beside her again, pulsing faintly. "You've got this, Coren," it said.
She nodded, her nerves settling into something steadier. Determination.
And with that, she stepped into the chamber, the doors closing silently behind her.
As Coren stepped through the towering doorway, the faint echoes of her boots on the smooth alloy floor made the space feel impossibly vast. The chamber beyond wasn't the testing grounds themselves—she knew that much from her research. This was only the antechamber, a holding area where candidates could gather their thoughts before beginning the trials.
She stopped in the centre of the room, her eyes drawn to the intricate carvings etched into the walls. Flowing patterns and unfamiliar symbols adorned the metallic surface, shifting and catching the light as though they had been freshly inscribed. They were ancient—another artifact of the past humanity no longer understood.
Her heart was pounding, though she wasn't sure if it was nerves or excitement. Probably both.
She had spent years researching what the test would entail. Every interested young person did, obsessing over rumours, dissecting every fragment of information they could find. And while Coren knew a little of what to expect, the descriptions had always been vague. Frustratingly so.
The first test was the Hall of Music. No one knew why it was called that but that was what the ancient writing said above the doorway. Coren had read about it, of course. A room filled with pillars, each as tall as the ceiling and carved with strange, ancient patterns. That much was common knowledge. What happened inside, though, was another matter entirely. Those who weren't Field-sensitive usually reported… nothing. They walked through the hall, felt no change, and moved on to the next stage. But for those who were sensitive, the experience was said to be undeniable.
No one ever explained what "undeniable" meant.
It frustrated Coren to no end. The idea that something so significant, so life-changing, could happen in that room, and yet no one would share what it was? It was maddening.
The second test was clearer—or at least, the process was.
The Pool of Reflection.
Coren knew she'd have to sit in the pool and meditate. The Pool of Reflection was where you could form a bond with a Companion. If one of the Companions chose you, they would introduce themselves and perform the bonding ritual. She wasn't entirely sure how that worked, either—what kind of connection happened, or how the ritual functioned—but the result was undeniable. She had seen it with her own eyes. Lyra—Professor Varik—had her Companion, these living, thinking orbs that shared a deep symbiotic bond with them. Lex was proof of what the Pool of Reflection could give her. Those that gain a Companion gained insights and knowledge as well as a longer life span but they would be bonded for life.
That was the part Coren couldn't stop thinking about.
The idea of having a Companion, of forming a bond with something so ancient and powerful—it was thrilling and terrifying all at once. Would a Companion choose her? Did she want one too? She wasn't sure what it would feel like, to be bonded to something so completely. She imagined it would be like having someone else in her head, always there, always watching.
But what if she sat in the pool and nothing happened? What if no Companion appeared, no bond formed? She hated the idea of being tied to someone for life, but she couldn't deny the fear of rejection was even worse.
The final test, though—that was the most confusing of all.
The Mirror of Self-Reflection.
Coren frowned slightly, crossing her arms as she leaned against the wall. The stories about the mirror were the most vague, and even after hours of research, she still didn't understand its purpose. You would enter the room, look into the mirror, and... what?
No one seemed to know or the descriptions were all different.
Some said the mirror revealed your true self, stripping away all the lies you told yourself about who you were. Others believed it showed your potential—who you could become, for better or worse. And there were darker theories, too. Some whispered that the mirror forced you to confront your greatest fears, or that it could even deny you if it found you unworthy.
The idea of standing in front of the mirror made her stomach twist. The Hall of Music and the Pool of Reflection were tests she could imagine—tests she could prepare for, at least mentally. But the mirror? It was too abstract, too mysterious.
Coren had no way of knowing what she might see.
She exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the tension building in her chest. This was what she'd wanted, wasn't it? The chance to prove herself. The chance to become something more than an orphan scavenger from the ruins of Earth.
But first, she had to pass through those doors.