The throne speaks, and the Hovnsgard listen.

  — Carved into the backrest of the imperial throne

  "...and you!" My heart skipped as I clung to the fleeting hope that the soldier’s finger was aimed at another. "Rise, thiwen! The empire demands your service!"

  I am not thiwen, I silently protested. Detaching the device from my temple, I lingered for a moment, clutching it in my hand as though it might anchor me to the quiet world within. But the soldier’s command left no room for hesitation. I stood reluctantly, my chair scraping against the ground, and the noise seemed deafening in the marketplace’s cacophony. Shopkeepers called to arms in the battle of commerce clashing above the crowd. The aroma of the market—bread fresh from the oven, meats crackling on the grill—invaded my senses, mocking the emptiness in my stomach with its promise of nourishment.

  As I stood, momentarily disoriented by the assault of sights, sounds, and smells, a sense of unease coiled within me. What service could the empire possibly demand from me now, amidst this sea of unsuspecting souls? The soldier's call, though directed at a single individual, seemed to echo a threat that hung over all our heads, a reminder of the ever-present reach of the empire's grasp.

  My legs felt heavy, each step toward the soldier dragging me closer to a precipice I couldn’t see. My breath quickened, but I forced myself to keep it steady. Don’t look afraid. Don’t look defiant. Just … look obedient. The empire demands your service. The words echoed in my mind like a death knell.

  The shopkeepers’ shouts for attention grew quieter near the soldier, their voices faltering under the weight of his presence. Eyes darted away, conversations dropped to murmurs, and those closest to him moved just slightly further from his path. The concourse pulsed with life, but his authority dulled it, like a shadow stretching over the sun.

  As I approached, the westfolk soldier's imposing figure became even more pronounced, standing as a beacon of authority amidst the crowd. His beard, a flowing mark of westfolk pride, was styled meticulously, framing the Giantridge emblem on his armor in a display of unyielding allegiance. The curls atop his head lent him an air of nobility that seemed almost out of place in the bustling concourse.

  Though to me, all westfolk bore a semblance of similarity, I found myself trying to trace this one’s roots. Was he a westonite, whose fierce reputation was etched into every strand of their storied history, despite their city's failure to dominate the lands they so desperately fought over? Or perhaps he hailed from the mountainfolk, architects of Giantridge and shapers of its destiny. My concern deepened at the thought that he might be estern, indicating a desperation within the Hovnsgard ranks I hadn't dared to imagine. The esterns' longstanding amity with the terie, though admirable, hardly prepared them for the brutal demands of Hovnsgard service. Such a development could only signify turmoil within the empire's ranks. A smirk that forced itself on my face felt out of place, a fleeting rebellion against the fear coiling in my chest. My hands itched to fidget, to grasp for distraction, but I forced them to remain at my sides. Don’t draw attention. Don’t give him a reason.

  Behind him, a motley assembly had formed: sixteen bewildered shoppers—predominantly westfolk, with a few thienians among them, their faces etched with confusion and concern. They seemed unexpectedly thrust into this scene, their usual market day disrupted. A concourse security officer, his expression stern and determined, stood ready to impose order, a silent display of the discipline expected here. Nearby, a pair of westfolk shopkeepers muttered their grievances, the discontent in their hushed tones barely concealing their frustration. Notably absent were any women, a curious omission given the directives of Protocol Eighteen: Gender, or lack thereof, does not disqualify duty.

  Having taken my place among them, I felt the soldier’s gaze sweep over us, an unspoken command for compliance that hung heavy in the air. He gestured toward a shadowed side hallway, its arched entrance swallowing the light like a maw. The concourse seemed to hold its breath as we hesitated, each of us imagining what might await us beyond that threshold, until one of the shopkeepers broke the silence with a murmur too soft to discern.

  The soldier turned sharply, his boots striking the ground with deliberate precision as he approached the shopkeeper. The air seemed to thin, and the buzz of the concourse faded into silence. Each step was a warning, a reminder that the empire did not tolerate defiance, no matter how small.

  The soldier straightened, his boots striking the stone floor as he stepped closer. His voice rang out, sharp and unyielding, cutting through the marketplace hum like a blade through silk: “Your emperor, the glorious Aldain, demands your service!” His words carried a gravity that seemed to root the bystanders in place, their murmurs dissolving into tense silence. The air itself seemed to shift under the weight of his declaration. “Do you dare defy his wishes? Must I question your loyalty to Giantridge?”

  The shopkeeper's face was a canvas of anxiety as he locked eyes with the Hovnsgard. “My stall...” he stammered, his gaze darting toward his storefront, where a small stack of goods teetered precariously at the edge of a table. He looked back at the soldier, his hands trembling slightly. “If I lose it…” His voice faltered as the soldier’s glare hardened.

  The soldier’s scoff was followed by a deliberate step forward. Though tall for a westfolk, he barely towered over the shopkeeper, his voice low and sharp. “Do you think the emperor concerns himself with your pathetic little stall?” His hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, the unspoken threat clear to all.

  The assembly seemed to shrink as the soldier’s voice cut through the air. One of the thienians glanced nervously at the security officer, while a westfolk shifted on his feet, his brow furrowed in quiet frustration. No one dared to speak, but their unease rippled through the crowd like a silent current.

  Within me, outrage flickered like a flame, dangerous and unwelcome. I forced my hands to remain at my sides, though they itched to clench into fists. Sorrow followed, heavier and colder, dragging my thoughts down. How many lives like his—like ours—were swallowed by the emperor’s endless hunger for control? How many struggles like this one were mere footnotes in the ‘grand design’ of Giantridge?

  I felt the air shift—a fragile balance threatening to shatter.

  The shopkeeper's eyebrow arched defiantly, his voice carrying a new edge of resistance. “Who are we fighting that warrants such sudden conscription?” he pressed. “Surely, if there were a threat, the Times would have informed us.”

  “The empire decides what is necessary for you to know,” the soldier shot back, his tone brooking no argument. “The emperor seeks to avert unnecessary panic among the populace—and your insolence tests his patience.”

  A few weeks prior, an Underground article had whispered of a war of expansion, its shadows stretching across the Greatdesert far to the south, skirting the edges of thiwen lands. That piece of forbidden knowledge had felt like a stone dropped into the still waters of my understanding, its ripples unsettling what I thought I knew. Now, facing the soldier's evasions, I wondered if this concealed conflict was the same war the empire wished to keep shrouded in silence.

  The group held its collective breath, the shopkeeper's words hanging in the air like a spark in dry tinder. A thienian shuffled uneasily, their hands clasped tightly together. One of the westfolk conscripts glanced toward the soldier, their lips pressed into a thin line, while another cast a fleeting look of admiration at the shopkeeper before quickly averting their gaze. Was it fear, curiosity, or a shared sense of foreboding that kept them silent? The weight of the empire's secrets pressed heavily upon us all, a reminder of the vast gulf between the rulers and the ruled.

  The shopkeeper's arms crossed defiantly, his vibrant orange beard a vivid contrast against the backdrop of his stance. “If the emperor deems it unnecessary to enlighten us about the war, then I find it unnecessary to sacrifice my shop’s welfare for it,” he asserted, his voice steady. “My livelihood, my family's sustenance, is far more pressing than any distant battle.”

  The group’s reaction was a tapestry of shock and awe. I couldn’t hide my astonishment—questioning a Hovnsgard was unthinkable even to those that quietly spited the name of Giantridge, yet here he stood, undeterred. “I am a merchant, through and through,” he continued, his conviction resonating in the crowded space. “Turning a blind eye ensures my business thrives. That’s my priority.” He sought an ally in his fellow shopkeeper, only to be met with a disapproving shake of the head.

  The soldier’s reply carried a weight of ominous foresight. “Perhaps your stall's daily earnings might not shake the empire,” he conceded, “but underestimate not the impact of a loss in the battle ahead. It threatens everything we cherish.”

  The shopkeeper’s resolve didn’t falter. For a moment, his gaze flickered toward his stall, as though considering the cost of his words. But then his shoulders squared, and his voice rose with finality. “Wage your war without me,” he declared, the finality in his voice cutting through the murmuring conscripts. “Dispatch me to the front, and I return to nothing. My stand is made.”

  Unspoken threats and the simmering possibility of retribution quieted our group. In that moment, the stakes of dissent became clear—not just for the shopkeeper but for all who dared to listen. His defiance stirred something within me—a tangled knot of admiration and fear. I envied his boldness, even as I wondered what price he would pay for it.

  The soldier sighed, a heavy, almost regretful exhalation, as his gaze swept across the concourse. For a fleeting moment, he seemed tired. Then, his attention snapped to a passing figure—a bipedal machine, its stature modest against the backdrop of bustling thiwen and westfolk.

  “GOLEM,” he commanded, his voice sharp, betraying no hint of the sigh that had preceded it. “Initiate Protocol Four.”

  The machine halted, its body pivoting with mechanical precision to face him. “Hovnsgard presence detected,” it intoned, its voice deep yet devoid of emotion. “Protocol Four activated. Specify command.”

  With a deliberate gesture, devoid of hesitation, the soldier pointed at the shopkeeper. “Execute,” he stated simply.

  The GOLEM advanced, its movement unnervingly smooth. Around it, a crowd of shoppers and workers swelled, drawn by a mixture of dread and morbid curiosity. Many may never have seen a GOLEM’s adjudication. Three additional GOLEMs stood silent within the crowd, their watchful presence a reminder that resistance was futile.

  The shopkeeper's vibrant orange beard gleamed under the machine's cold gaze. Paralyzed by fear, he stood motionless as the GOLEM's hand reached out, closing around his neck with mechanical precision. The scream of pain was loud enough to quiet the entire concourse.

  I couldn’t look away. The GOLEM’s grip tightened, crushing flesh and bone with methodical ease. The shopkeeper clawed at the machine’s hand, but it was futile. A sickening crack echoed through the air, and his screams ceased.

  Gasps rippled through the thienians, while the westfolk erupted in cheers. My stomach churned. The GOLEM shook the lifeless body once, twice, before the head tore free. Blood splattered across the ground, staining the boots of nearby onlookers. The machine dropped the headless body unceremoniously, its attention shifting to the severed head in its grip.

  With a low hum, the GOLEM’s chest opened to reveal a hidden weapon. A burst of white light erupted, obliterating the shopkeeper’s skull and leaving a smoking crater in the concourse wall. The air smelled of burnt flesh and scorched stone as the GOLEM released its hold, letting what remained of the shopkeeper’s neck fall limply to the blood-slick ground.

  The crowd began to stir, some stepping away in silent revulsion while others returned to their tasks as though nothing had happened. Vomit stained the feet of a few nearby spectators, and a thienian in the front row held their hand tightly over their mouth, trembling. The westfolk among the crowd, however, seemed unshaken—some murmured approval under their breath, others offered sharp applause. Their cheers rang hollow in my ears, but their message was clear: this was justice, imperial style.

  “Command completed,” the GOLEM's voice cut through the lingering shock, its tone as devoid of emotion as the empire's decree. “Awaiting further orders.”

  The soldier’s gaze swept over us, cold and calculating, a silent challenge to any who might still harbor thoughts of defiance. We, a collective bound by fear, offered our silent acquiescence through shakes of our heads, a mute chorus of submission.

  “Good,” he acknowledged curtly, turning back to the machine. “Resume patrol. Thank you.”

  The GOLEM mimicked a bow and said, “May the empire shine forever.”

  The soldier’s demeanor softened slightly as he turned to a thiwen standing at the edge of the group. “The empire requires your service, thiwen,” he said. The thiwen’s head dipped in a nod, his movements sluggish with resignation. His shoulders tensed as though bracing for an unseen weight, his silent compliance sealing another unspoken contract.

  As the concourse slowly reclaimed its rhythm, the shouts of merchants and the hum of conversation wove back into the air. But the vibrancy felt hollow, as though the life of the space had been drained. Today’s horror would not easily fade into the tapestry of daily life. Instead, it would etch a deep scar in the memory of all who witnessed it—a scar that no amount of noise could fully erase.

  Glancing back, I caught sight of two thienian janitors moving methodically across the bloodstained stones. Their motions were practiced, almost mechanical, as they swept away the remnants of the shopkeeper’s defiance. The sight chilled me. How many times had they done this before? How many lives had they erased with their quiet, somber efficiency? Their work was a symbol of the empire’s power—not just to kill, but to erase, to make even the memory of dissent disappear.

  We followed the soldier away from the concourse, our steps heavy, our silence oppressive. Behind us, the world moved on, the horror of the day swallowed by the rhythm of routine. But I knew it would linger with us, a reminder of what the empire demanded and what it destroyed.

  We ventured down the corridor, a passage that felt as though it burrowed through time itself, leaving behind the vitality of the concourse for a silence steeped in history. The dim lights overhead, battling the shadows with waning vigor, cast our procession in a ghostly hue. As we passed door after identical door, the distant commands of soldiers to unseen conscripts echoed like a grim chorus, underscoring our march toward an unknown fate.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Our leader, a figure of authority and symbol of the empire's reach, stopped before an unassuming door and pushed it open. Inside, the room was caught between the shadows and the faltering light, creating a tableau both eerie and somber. At its heart stood a table bearing the uniforms of our impending conscription, their fabric catching the dim light in muted defiance. Though devoid of the soldier's regal purple, they bore the unmistakable mark of our new reality: the empire's emblem, a symbol of its industrial might, paired with the Bloodsword crest, a reminder of the lineage that now claimed our service.

  As I stepped into the room, the weight of what these uniforms represented settled heavily upon me. They were not just clothing but symbols of a life and identity prescribed by the empire—a future I had not chosen but was now compelled to embrace. The ancient stone of the corridor behind me felt like a barrier to my past life, one I was crossing under the watchful gaze of history and the unyielding expectations of the empire.

  A sharp voice cut through the heavy air. “By the realms, what took you so long?”

  I spun around to see another westfolk in the doorway, her stature and presence unmistakably westonite. Her voice carried a tone of contempt and frustration as her sharp gaze bore down on the soldier.

  “My apologies, Lord Commander,” the soldier responded, his bow deep and deferential. “We encountered a dissident.”

  Her snort of derision echoed in the dimly lit room. “The commotion in the concourse was your handiwork, then, Udak?” she asked. As she stepped into the room, the shadows seemed to bend around her, drawn to her imposing presence. Closing the door, her gaze swept over us, landing on Udak with a furrowed brow. “I'd heard rumors of your corruption, but to see your choices laid bare...” She trailed off, her disappointment evident. “It's disheartening you chose only males.”

  Udak's admission, “Yes, Lord Commander, I am well aware of my corruption,” he said, his voice steady but his gaze avoiding hers. The silence that followed was heavy, but short, the meaning of their exchange hanging just beyond my understanding.

  Standing among the other conscripts, I couldn’t help but feel a surge of curiosity and unease. The dynamics at play—the whispered accusations of corruption, and the pointed critique of Udak's selections—spoke volumes about the empire's internal contradictions. As the Lord Commander's gaze briefly met mine, I wondered about the stories and struggles that shaped these individuals, and how they, in turn, would shape us—the newly conscripted.

  “Were these not desperate times, Udak, I'd have your head for this,” the Lord Commander's voice cut through the tension, her frustration with Udak growing. She approached me directly, her critical gaze scrutinizing, as if she could discern my worth with a mere look. Her uniform, echoing Udak’s but distinguished by the elite insignia of the Hovnsgard, marked her as a figure of considerable authority. The ironsteel swords on her arms, a sharp departure from the standard empire emblem, spoke volumes of her rank and the elite unit she represented.

  “Apologies for my scrutiny,” she began, her voice commanding and devoid of warmth, “but in times such as these, every detail matters. Might you be of thienian descent?”

  The weight of her question hung heavy in the air. I paused, aware of the gamble in my response. “No, madam,” I replied with as much respect as I could muster. “I am yanthi.” Admitting my heritage felt like stepping into a chasm, fraught with danger but also potential. The desperation I sensed in her confrontation with Udak emboldened me—perhaps my yanthi blood offered me a semblance of protection, or value, in this precarious moment.

  Her eyes lingered on me a moment longer, seemingly reassessing my presence among the conscripts. The significance of being yanthi in this empire, where heritage could be both a curse and a commodity, was not lost on me. In her gaze, I read a mixture of calculation and curiosity—a hint that my gamble might just pay off.

  The Lord Commander and Udak exchanged a brief look before she directed him to fetch something from next door. He gave a traditional Hovnsgard salute, a closed fist to the shoulder, as he exited the room.

  Her eyes lingered on me, sharp and probing, as though peeling back my layers to examine what lay beneath. “Interesting,” she said, almost to herself. “My reports show you didn’t flinch at the GOLEM’s horn earlier."

  The weight of her statement hung in the air, not quite a question but laden with expectation. I straightened slightly, aware of how much was riding on my response. The truth, I decided, was my best weapon here—carefully framed.

  “I’ve encountered GOLEMs in the field before,” I replied, keeping my tone neutral. “I served as a detective for the Imperial Justice Society. It was part of my work to be around them. I no longer hear the horn.”

  Her gaze sharpened at this, her calculating interest unmistakable. “A detective,” she repeated, testing the word as though measuring its worth against the room’s heavy air. “And you were able to remain calm simply from experience?”

  “Not just experience,” I admitted, gesturing slightly above my neck. “A control circuit was implanted here. It enables me to hear the GOLEM’s voice and, in some cases, command them. It was necessary for my role.”

  She tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing—not with suspicion, but with a deep, calculating interest. “Your background is more intriguing than I anticipated,” she said, her tone cold yet precise. “Such capability is … invaluable.”

  The way she said it, clipped and exact, sent a ripple of unease through me. In her eyes, I was no longer a conscript or even a former detective—I was a tool, an asset to be wielded at her pleasure. Though I remained but a minion in this coming conflict, I couldn’t help but feel the faintest glimmer of hope amid the unease. My skills might indeed shield me from the Gates, at least for a while.

  But as her gaze lingered on me, calculating and cold, I wondered if my value was just another kind of cage.

  Her voice broke the silence again. “Fear is a weakness we cannot afford, especially now. I wonder … what other uses the empire might find for an anomaly such as yourself—a yanthi detective with access to the GOLEMs.”

  Though she didn’t smile, there was something almost predatory in her expression.

  I dipped my head in silent acknowledgment, knowing better than to speak further. Her words lingered in my mind like a shadow. Whatever role she envisioned for me, I doubted it would be one of safety—or comfort.

  The Lord Commander's smile widened slightly. “So, a master of combat as well?” she probed.

  “Not a master, madam,” I corrected with a calm humility I didn’t entirely feel. “But proficient. My training as a detective emphasized ranged weapons for disabling fleeing suspects. It was practical. Efficient.” I allowed a brief pause before adding, “But I always found myself drawn to the immediacy of close combat.”

  Her head tilted, curiosity flashing in her sharp gaze. “Drawn to it? An interesting choice of words. Most in your line of work would appreciate the safety of distance.”

  “Perhaps, madam,” I replied, my tone measured. “But melee combat demands a different kind of precision. Up close, every movement, every breath matters. The outcome is immediate, and it leaves no room for hesitation.” Memories flickered in my mind: the crack of a fist against my jaw in a dark alley, the satisfying feel of disarming an assailant with a single twist. A faint smirk tugged at my lips despite myself.

  Her gaze lingered on me, unblinking, as though she were weighing my words. “A detective who prefers close combat,” she murmured. “Unusual. Your enemies, I imagine, have become well acquainted with the Shepherd when he meets them at the Gates.”

  The edge in her tone made the statement feel more like a judgment than praise, but her faint smirk mirrored my own. There was a flicker of acknowledgment in her expression, as though she understood—or perhaps respected—the path I had chosen.

  A brief flicker of pride stirred within me, but it was tempered by the weight of her scrutiny. This wasn’t admiration. It was calculation. I was fully a tool for her now, and her smirk carried the promise that she would use me when the time came.

  Before I could respond, Udak returned, stepping through the doorway with a rigid salute. Her attention shifted to him, her appraisal of me seemingly complete.

  “He will do,” she said to Udak, her tone sharp and final. “Perhaps there is value in your corruption after all.”

  Her words were a dagger cloaked in mockery. Udak’s jaw tightened, but he gave no reply, his expression carefully neutral.

  The Lord Commander’s gaze flicked back to me, lingering for a moment longer. Her smirk remained, heavier now with the weight of unspoken plans. Whatever role she envisioned for me, I doubted it would be simply—or safe.

  The Lord Commander moved on to the next recruit—the loyal shopkeeper—leaving Udak to guide me toward the table with the uniforms. “Pick one,” he said curtly.

  I scanned the options before settling on one that appeared to match my size.

  “Change,” he instructed. My eyes darted around the room, searching for a dressing area, but Udak shook his head with a smug grin. “Right here, yanthi.”

  The look in his eyes, hungry and predatory, sent a ripple of disgust through me. I clenched my fists, steadying my breath before reminding myself that any outward reaction would only encourage him. Composure was my shield, even now.

  As I reached for my pocket, I paused, realizing something with a jolt: my datapad was no longer with me. I had left it behind on the chair where I had been sitting earlier. A cold wave of frustration washed over me, but I quickly forced it aside. What was done was done. The listening device, still in my pocket, felt unnecessary now. Any secrets it might have revealed about the empire were already plain to me—and to keep it would only raise suspicion. Without a word, I placed it deliberately on a nearby table, letting go of it entirely.

  When I turned back, Udak was watching me closely, his crooked grin widening. He gestured with an impatient wave of his hand.

  I pulled my shirt free from my pants and began to unbutton it, careful not to let my revulsion show. His gaze followed every movement, his grin twisting into something uglier as I removed my shirt and stepped out of my pants. I refused to meet his eyes, focusing instead on the uniform.

  As I reached for it, Udak’s voice cut in.

  “The underwear as well,” he said, his tone mockingly polite, as though he were doing me a favor.

  My jaw tightened, but I complied, rolling my eyes as I removed the last layer.

  He muttered, almost to himself, followed by a low, suggestive chuckle. I ignored him, reaching for the uniform, but when I bent to step into it, a sharp slap landed across my rear.

  “Mine,” Udak whispered under his breath, but I forced myself not to react. His game was clear, and I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a response.

  As I adjusted the uniform, the coarse fabric scratching against my skin, I focused on steadying my breath. This is nothing. You’ve endured worse. Don’t let him see you falter.

  “Yanthi are always born male, right?” Udak asked, his voice cutting through the silence. His tone was casual, but the malice beneath it was unmistakable. “Who do you even use that with?”

  “With other yanthi,” I replied sharply, refusing to let my disgust seep into my tone. “Or I would, if the Bloodswords hadn’t ensured none were left to stand by my side.”

  The grin fell from his face, replaced by something colder. “Protocol Two serves the empire’s purposes,” he said, his voice clipped and sharp. “Or would you prefer to join your kin in the Gray now?”

  I met his gaze evenly, my voice steady. “I’ve survived this long in an empire that seeks to erase my existence. The Shepherd will see to my rebirth. You and your brethren will face your own ends without such grace.”

  Udak’s scowl deepened, and for a moment, I thought he might lash out. Instead, he mimed drawing a weapon and fired an imaginary shot at me, his mouth forming an exaggerated explosion sound.

  “Try it,” I said, my tone calm but my gaze unflinching. “I have faced and felled creatures far greater than you.”

  A guttural laugh escaped his throat, harsh and mocking. “Regardless,” he said, his grin returning with a sinister edge, “after your service is complete, I am fouring you before I invoke Protocol Two.”

  “Fouring?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

  Udak’s grin widened, his discolored teeth glinting in the dim light. “Recite Protocol Four for me,” he demanded.

  “The Hovnsgard speak with the Emperor’s voice,” I replied, the words bitter on my tongue.

  “That’s right,” Udak said, his voice low and smug. “I can invoke Protocol Four and make you do anything. Fouring is a bit more … personal.” His lips curled in a grotesque imitation of a kiss, and he let his tongue dart out briefly.

  The meaning of his words settled over me like a weight, and I felt a surge of nausea rising in my chest. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing my disgust. I turned my focus back to the uniform, forcing myself to block him out as I continued to adjust it.

  The process was slower than I wanted, and the fabric scratched uncomfortably against my skin, but after a few moments, I zipped the uniform up and fastened the belt around my waist.

  Udak’s interest in me seemed to fade the moment I was fully dressed. “Good,” he muttered, almost as if to himself, before moving on to the next recruit.

  I exhaled slowly, the tension in my chest finally easing as his gaze left me. My eyes flicked toward the table where I had left the listening device, now useless to me. Whatever role the empire intended for me, I could no longer afford distractions.

  For now, I had survived this moment, but Udak’s threats lingered like a shadow on my back, a reminder that his game wasn’t over.

  As I made final adjustments to the uniform in front of the mirror, seeking confirmation of its fit, the air around me shifted subtly. I caught glimpses of the other conscripts doing the same—their movements hesitant, their gazes fixed on the empire’s emblem stitched into the fabric like a brand. The weight of this identity settled on each of us differently. Some bore it with quiet resignation, others with visible unease. I noticed a thienian nearby, their hands trembling slightly as they fastened the belt around their waist. Another conscript, a westfolk with a defiant glare, seemed to stare daggers at Udak as he passed.

  I turned my attention back to the room, my gaze falling on the Lord Commander. She moved among the conscripts with precision, her sharp eyes assessing each one. Her focus was unwavering, and I couldn’t help but wonder how many such groups she had assembled in the past. How many people had been forced into service under her watch?

  Her voice cut through the quiet murmur of the room. “Each of you has been chosen for a reason,” she began, her tone sharp and commanding. “Whether by skill, by heritage, or by necessity, you now serve the empire. Wear this uniform with the knowledge that it binds you to something greater than yourself.”

  Her words hung in the air, heavy and deliberate. I caught a brief glance from her as she spoke, a flicker of calculation in her gaze that made my stomach twist. She saw us not as individuals but as tools, pieces to be moved on the empire’s board.

  A faint hum interrupted her speech, a vibration that seemed to emanate from somewhere deep within the walls. It was subtle at first, a low-frequency tremor that I felt more than heard. The conscripts began to exchange uneasy glances. Even Udak, lounging by the doorway, straightened slightly, his grin faltering for the first time.

  The Lord Commander’s expression darkened. “What now?” she muttered, more to herself than to anyone else.

  The hum grew louder, resonating through the floor and walls, as though the very room had been awakened. A moment later, the overhead lights flickered, their glow faltering as an oppressive silence fell over the space. My instincts kicked in, years of investigative experience urging me to observe, to piece together the patterns in the chaos.

  Then, without warning, the corner of the room erupted into a radiant, piercing light.

  The light was blinding at first, saturating the air with a brilliance that seemed to push against the walls themselves. It shimmered like liquid energy, pooling in the space before us. Every gaze turned toward it, the intensity of its presence holding us captive.

  From within the glow, a figure began to emerge, its form shifting and coalescing. It was both aged and ageless, marked by the passage of time but untouched by it. Its hair moved gently, as though suspended in water, and its stillness radiated a quiet yet undeniable power. The light bent and pulsed around it, as though it were less a being and more a force made flesh.

  I felt the presence before I could fully comprehend it. It pressed against me, not physically, but in some deeper, more intimate way—a sensation that stirred something primal and unnameable within me. Memories I didn’t recognize flickered in the back of my mind, fleeting and fragmented, like echoes of another life.

  The being spoke—not aloud, but directly into the recesses of my mind. Its voice was a tapestry of sound and silence, a vibration that resonated through my very bones.

  “It has arrived,” the being proclaimed, its words reverberating through the room like a tolling bell.

  The proclamation sent a ripple of tension through the room. The conscripts froze, their faces a mixture of awe and terror. I forced myself to remain still, though my mind raced, trying to parse the meaning of its words. What had arrived? What did this being want?

  The Lord Commander stepped forward, her movements precise and deliberate. Her gaze flicked to me, and for a moment, I saw a glimmer of calculation in her expression. She gestured toward me with a subtle nod. “This one,” she said, her tone cool but authoritative. “Yanthi. Mixed heritage.”

  I hesitated, but under the weight of her scrutiny, I responded. “A thienian mother. A yan father.”

  At my words, the being shifted slightly, its light intensifying. For a moment, I felt its presence settle fully on me, an impossible weight of attention that seemed to pierce through my very existence. Something ancient stirred within me, something I couldn’t name. It was fleeting—gone before I could grasp it—but it left behind a strange sensation. Was it unease? Or something closer to belonging?

  The Lord Commander’s gaze lingered on me briefly before returning to the being. “Fascinating,” she murmured, though whether it was directed at me or the presence, I couldn’t tell.

  Udak stepped closer, motioning for the others to do the same. The being’s light flared, flooding the room with an intensity that blurred its edges and reduced it to pure energy. It was less a figure now and more a convergence of forces, alive yet formless, its purpose intertwined with something far greater than us.

  I could feel the tension from the others—murmured prayers from the shopkeeper, a sharp intake of breath from a thienian recruit. We were bound together by the overwhelming sense that whatever had arrived was not just beyond our understanding, but beyond our world.

  The Lord Commander’s voice cut through the rising tension, sharp and commanding. “Who among you is familiar with the scorps?”