The massive metal doors hissed open as the children were herded into what seemed to be a massive white room, a little too white.
It appeared to be a vast white hall, with silver rune lamps lighting up the enclosed space. Its size spanned approximately 100 meters in width, 110 meters in length, and nearly the same in height.
It looked as though they were dolls tossed into a massive white box, the only difference being that they were very much alive... and breathing.
They had all been clothed in white garments now, each with a black number, that is, after being given a thorough bath, a little too thorough. While it did wash away all the dirt and grime from their bodies, it almost felt as if the black-robed women who bathed them were trying to wash their pasts away as well.
As the last of the children walked into the hall, the massive metal doors behind them slowly began to close shut. Its creaking sounds attracted their gazes, and they all watched in mild horror as the only known path to the world they had somewhat considered their home was sealed shut right behind them.
There was silence, complete and utter silence. The totality of it was unnerving, so much so that some of the children began to whisper a silent prayer, despite knowing there was no god that would answer.
One would expect children of their age to panic in such a situation. While they were indeed afraid, the seriousness of the current situation seemed to pale in comparison to a day in the life of a slum rat, uncertain of what they would eat or where to sleep.
Elias hesitated before stepping closer to Thorn. The sound of his bare feet against the cold white floor echoed faintly, too loud in a place that seemed to swallow sound.
The others were scattered, silent, their gazes fixed anywhere but at one another. Fear had a way of making everyone strangers.
Thorn sat apart, his knees drawn close, his white robe hanging loosely around his thin frame. The sterile light from the rune lamps gave his silver hair an almost ghostly sheen. He wasn't looking at anyone, just staring at the floor as if the answer to their fate might be written in the tiles beneath them.
Elias crouched beside him, lowering his voice. "Thorn."
No response. Not even a blink.
Elias frowned, shifting closer until their shoulders almost touched. "Back there… on the wagon. When you opened that hatch and saw those kids," he paused, searching Thorn's unreadable expression, "what was that look on your face? You froze. You've never done that before... you've never done that before, even when we went up against all those crazy adults in the slums."
Thorn's jaw flexed. For a long time, he said nothing. The silence pressed between them, heavy and uncomfortable.
Finally, he exhaled, his voice low and dry. "Because I'd seen it before."
Elias blinked. "What do you mean?"
Thorn's eyes lifted, dull red meeting Elias' uncertain blue. "That cage. Those marks. The runes on their arms. I've seen them once. Long ago. Before you and I met."
Elias's stomach tightened. "You were—"
"Sold," Thorn said, cutting Elias off. "By my parents."
Elias froze.
Thorn's eyes stayed on the floor, his fingers curling against the smooth white tile. "They were starving. Everyone was. I don't even remember how old I was, six, maybe seven. They sold me to a caravan for a sack of grain and half a loaf of bread." He gave a hollow laugh that didn't sound like one at all. "Guess I was worth a meal back then."
The words suddenly made the air thicker between them, sharp and cold as the air itself. Elias wanted to say something, anything, but the right words didn't exist. Sympathy felt insulting. Pity would've earned him a punch.
Thorn went on, eyes distant, voice quieter. "They put a collar on me. Said it was to 'keep me safe.' I believed them for a while. Then the beatings started. The branding. The chains." His jaw tightened, and for a moment, the mask slipped, the faintest tremor of something buried too deep to name. "When I opened that hatch and saw those kids… it was like looking at myself again. Same eyes. Same fear. The same damn runes."
Elias's throat felt dry. "Thorn, I—"
"Don't," Thorn muttered. "It doesn't matter now. That was a long time ago." He finally looked at Elias, his red eyes glinting in the sterile light. "But one thing I learned back then, people don't buy children to save them."
Elias swallowed, hardening his eyes, trying to be courageous as he spoke. "Alright."
Suddenly, a mechanical sound came.
A heavy CLANK echoed through the chamber, followed by the grinding of gears buried deep beneath the floor.
The children stiffened, their heads turning toward the far end of the vast white hall. A low vibration coursed through the ground, rattling their bones as a large section of the floor began to shift.
Panels slid apart, revealing a rising platform that carried with it a smaller door embedded in the pristine wall behind it. The air grew colder, the sounds of gears making the tense air feel even more unbearable.
Elias's breath paused. Mira's hand instinctively reached for Lutz, pulling him close. Thorn stood slowly, his expression blank, though his shoulders tensed.
Then the smaller door opened, hissing softly, like a beast exhaling.
From the misted threshold stepped a man.
He was tall, his presence commanding without effort. His hair, dark brown streaked with faint traces of silver, framed a face that was both calm and unsettlingly serene.
But it was his eyes, pitch black, empty of warmth, that silenced every whisper in the room.
He wore robes of black and white, tailored in the ancient style of a bishop, an attire that once symbolized faith and divine service.
But here, in this godless age, such garb was heresy of the highest order.
To wear it was to declare allegiance not to humanity, but to the very gods who had damned it.
At his side walked a woman, graceful yet cold, her robes similar to his, white with lines of black embroidery. A silver chain hung around both their necks, from which dangled a peculiar charm: a broken silver scale, the two halves uneven and jagged, as if torn apart by divine judgment itself.
The man's gaze swept across the gathered children. Not with cruelty—worse. With indifference.
The woman spoke first, her voice soft, almost prayer-like. "They're younger than the last batch."
The man gave a small nod, his tone calm, measured. "Good. Fresh vessels are more receptive to El'tham resonance."