The Veil-tech transport began to slow, its once-steady hum softening to a subdued purr as the towering silhouette of Viremonth Bastion came into view.
Steel and stone forged into jagged perfection. The fortress stood like the blade of a war god driven into the frontier. High above, walls lined with sentry turrets loomed, humming with blue veins of Veilflux, glowing faintly as the early morning wind hissed through their coils.
And above the gates…
An emblem shimmered—an ever-watching eye encircled by nine stars. The mark of the Accord.
This was it. The threshold of the Blue Zone. The western bulwark. And beyond it… the train that would carry them toward the capital—toward the place where lives were rewritten.
Viremonth Bastion.
No one inside the vehicle spoke. Even Lyra, who could never sit still, was silent. Her wide golden eyes were fixed on the gate as it approached—equal parts awe and tension written on her face.
"…Is this really happening?" she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else.
Alaric didn't answer. He couldn't.
As the transport passed the first checkpoint, armored patrols stepped into view—men and women clad in Veil-forged plating, their weapons glowing faintly at the edges. Mechanical scanners swept across the vehicle, beams of light crawling like cold fingers along every surface.
The gates peeled open, one after another, in slow mechanical succession.
Then came that voice again.
The same soldier from earlier. His tone didn't waver.
"You'll be processed here. Registration and orientation. Then you board the train. The Obsidian Spine."
His lips curled ever so slightly. Was it amusement? Contempt?
"It leaves for the Sovereign Capital at dusk. Until then—follow orders, keep quiet, and don't embarrass the Zone you crawled out of."
The Obsidian Spine…
The name planted itself in Alaric's mind like a buried blade. It didn't sound like a train—it sounded like a weapon. A spear pointed toward the heart of the world.
As they disembarked, the sheer weight of the place pressed down on him. The air here was sharp, metallic. The roads shimmered faintly with embedded alloy veins. People moved like clockwork—efficient, measured. Nothing like the Duskwatch Ward, where chaos and decay were the norm.
Then the officials came.
Uniformed, silent. They moved in formation, holding glowing slates.
"State your name. Wrist."
One by one, slates lit up. Identity badges were issued in flashes of cold white light.
Alaric looked down at his own when it activated.
CITIZEN PROSPECT #A-918ORIGIN: Ebonreach Orphanage, Duskwatch Ward, Yellow ZoneCURRENT STATUS: Zero-ClassDESTINATION: Sovereign CapitalPURPOSE: Rite of Ascendancy
Zero-Class.
The term sat like lead in his stomach. He clenched the slate harder than necessary.
Orphans. Refugees. The forgotten.
No right to education. No claim to safety. Not even the right to move freely. The only reason they stood here at all was because the Rite was government-mandated. A formality. A gesture.
Not an invitation. A test.
He remembered the old soldier who used to sit by the orphanage fence, whispering lessons no teacher would give.
"The Fifth-Class are laborers. You'll see them cleaning pipes and hauling parts, but they're not allowed weapons."
"Fourth-Class—technicians, healers, traders. Civil-tier. Better rights, but still on a leash."
"Third-Class—that's where Lords begin. That's where the climb starts."
"Second-Class? They lead squads. Command projects. They've proven themselves."
"First-Class—the Exalted. Overseers. Legacy founders."
"And Prime-Class?" The soldier's voice had dropped then. "Sovereigns. Rulers. Chosen by fate… but still bound by Nytherion."
The Balance itself. The eye that watched over all.
To rise through the Tiers meant blood. Grit. Genius. Results.
To fail?
You were either sent back to your Zone… or vanished into the warfronts.
"They didn't even hesitate." Lyra's voice broke through his thoughts. She had that familiar scowl. "Scanned and tagged us like freight crates."
"Because that's what we are," Alaric said quietly. "Luggage. Until the Rite."
The processing hall was a steel-gray chamber, chilled and sterile. Narrow windows filtered in only thin lines of light. At the front, a massive projection screen hummed silently, displaying the Accord's emblem.
Carts rolled in. Uniforms stacked in coded rows. A silent signal.
Names were called. Candidates stepped forward.
Each was handed a travel cloak, reinforced trousers, and a tight-fit tunic stitched with a Citizen Class insignia. Plain black and gray. Durable. Dehumanizing.
Alaric's fingers curled around his set. Over the chest: a dull, diagonal-marked circle.
Zero-Class.
Lyra's jaw tightened. "They branded us before we even started."
"It's a reminder," Alaric muttered. "Where we came from. And where we're allowed to go."
Then the soldier returned.
He was tall. Composed. His cloak flowed like a shadow behind him, his badge gleaming—Second-Class. A man who had climbed at least two rungs above them.
And the room fell silent.
"Prospects."
His voice cut like a blade. Measured. Sharp.
"You are not Lords. Not yet. Not even close."
He scanned the room, eyes pausing ever so slightly on those clustered at the rear.
Alaric felt that gaze land on him. It was like standing in a storm.
"You stand at the bottom. Forgotten. Untrained. Most of you will return home—if you're allowed to."
The silence deepened.
"At dusk, you will board the Obsidian Spine. It will carry you to the Sovereign Capital, where you will face the Rite of Ascendancy."
Behind him, the screen flickered.
A new image appeared: a monolithic tower bathed in ethereal blue fire—Nytherion's Gate.
"The Rite does not make you equal. It reveals the truth. Those with potential… rise. Those without…" He paused, letting the silence finish his sentence. "…will disappear."
Gasps were stifled. Some looked away.
"And as for you," he added, glancing again at the Zero-Class section. "Be grateful the government remembered you existed long enough to offer this. Don't waste it."
He stepped back. The screen dimmed. Overhead, an automated voice began playing instructions for boarding.
Alaric stared at the screen without blinking. His hand gripped the uniform so tightly his knuckles turned white.
That man… he could decide the fate of someone like Maevra. Someone like Lyra.
He'd seen it now. Power. Not just in strength—but in presence. In weight.
And if he wanted to protect those who had no one else…
He needed that power.
No—he needed more than that.
Lyra slipped her hand into his.
Her fingers were warm. Steady.
"You still with me?" she whispered.
Alaric nodded.
His voice was quiet, but firm.
"Always."