The corridor was narrow and long. Much colder than the room they had left behind. The lamps along the walls flickered with sick yellow light, buzzing faintly like dying insects. Dust swirled in the air each time they stepped, stirred by the soft echo of their footsteps.
Myers walked ahead, boots clacking against the stone floor. He wore a new black coat, the fabric long and heavy with bronze buttons that caught the flickering light. Bronze plates curved over his shoulders in smooth arcs that gave the coat a rigid shape, and a matching trim lined the collar and cuffs. The bucket helm scattered the lamplight across the walls. His gloves were black leather, also marked with thin bronze seams that gleamed with each movement.
Seventeen followed a few paces behind, his new clothes clinging strangely to his skin. The sleeves were stiff from being rolled and the shoes pinched his toes, but he didn't complain. At least his feet were warm against the cold stone.
He focused on the corridor instead.
He had walked this path before. But back then he'd been starving, weak, and half delirious as he was dragged from a cell. This time everything felt sharper. The pipes overhead released slow groaning breaths. Steam hissed from a valve near the ceiling. Behind the walls, gears clicked in steady mechanical rhythms, like the heartbeat of the underground.
It was familiar, yet not familiar at all.
After a couple of twists and turns Myers slowed as they reached the first flight of stairs, glancing back once. "Keep up," he said, voice muffled by the bucket.
Seventeen nodded.
The stairs rose steeply into a dim shaft lit by erratic bulbs. Each step creaked under their weight. The air changed as they climbed, less metal in the scent and more dust, more ash, more something else.
Something open.
Halfway up, Seventeen hesitated. He didn't stop, but he slowed, brushing his thumb across the scar on it.
The last time he had been on the surface had been the beginning of hell. He was barely conscious. Hunger had drowned out everything else. He never got the chance to look around.
This time the world was going to be harder to ignore.
As they neared the top, distant sounds filtered down the stairwell. Muffled voices. The clatter of carts. Someone shouting in irritation. The faint ring of a bell.
Not loud. Not joyful.
Just alive.
Myers lifted a gloved hand and pushed against the final door. Metal groaned, hinges screaming as daylight, real daylight, cut a jagged line across the shadows.
The light wasn't bright. It was thin and weak, filtered through layers of smog and dust. Even so, it made Seventeen blink.
He stepped out behind Myers.
For the second time in his life, Seventeen stood on the surface.
The surface was louder than he remembered.
Not overwhelming, but constant. A low restless hum pressed against his ears the moment he stepped outside. The air was heavier with smoke and dust, a faint bitterness clinging to the back of his tongue. Even through the smog, the sun brushed over him with a gentle warmth. It wrapped around his shoulders in a way the pits never could, soft and steady, like the world was trying to welcome him back after forgetting he existed.
They stood at the edge of a narrow street carved between cracked stone buildings. Pipes ran along the walls like exposed veins. Steam leaked from joints in thin white wisps. Overhead, clotheslines tangled with cables swayed in a wind that barely reached the ground.
People moved everywhere.
Vendors shouted over each other from behind wooden stalls. Workers in stained uniforms hauled crates across the street. Children darted between adults with the ease of creatures born into chaos. A man hammered at a metal frame on the sidewalk, sparks spraying across his boots. A tired looking woman scrubbed blood from a gutter with a bucket of gray water.
Seventeen watched them all quietly.
No one paid him attention. No one spared him a glance. It was almost strange how easily he disappeared into the crowd when, hours before, he had been alone underground with only silence and old stone for company.
The world up here was alive in a way that didn't care whether he lived with it or not.
He took a small step forward.
The ground felt different beneath the worn shoes Myers had given him. Not smooth stone or hard packed dirt, but uneven stone warmed by weak sunlight. He looked up. The sky was pale gray, almost white, stretched thin under layers of smog. It wasn't pretty, but it was open. It felt endless and far.
He didn't know if he liked it.
Myers kept walking without slowing. People moved out of his way quickly, eyes dropping toward the ground when they noticed the bucket helm. Some whispered. Some stared only long enough to turn away.
Seventeen stayed close behind him, weaving around bodies and carts. He tried to stay small, unnoticed, just another shadow slipping through the crowd.
Voices spilled around him, sharp and tired.
Someone argued over the price of fish.
Someone cursed at a broken wheel.
Someone called out for lost children.
Someone begged a passerby for spare coin.
Every sound pushed against him. Not harsh enough to hurt, but enough to remind him that up here, life didn't slow down for anyone.
A pair of kids ran past him, laughing. One bumped his shoulder. The touch was quick, barely a brush of fingers, but it made him stiffen. The boy shouted something about getting to the bakery before the line grew too long.
Everything moved around him like a river he wasn't used to stepping into.
Myers stopped at an intersection, waiting for a cart piled with metal scraps to rattle past.
Seventeen looked down the street.
Far off, the buildings faded into a haze. Smoke curled from chimneys. More voices drifted, more smells mixed with the air. Cooked meat. Burning oil. Mold. Sweat. Life.
A strange feeling settled in his chest.
Not fear.
Not comfort.
Something in between.
They walked in silence for a while, boots tapping over stone. Snatches of conversation drifted around them like scraps.
"Did you hear? One of the Blessed was born in Valmyr. Light poured straight into the street."
"They say he shook like he was going to burst. Skin red as molten gold. The priests said it was justice itself burning through him."
"I heard he danced. Arms up, face to the sky, laughing like he always knew he would be chosen."
Myers kept walking, shoulders steady, bucket tilted forward. He didn't slow. Seventeen stayed behind him, listening.
Another voice, from a stall to the left:
"Thalenwood too. The Verdant Heart woke. The forest bowed to her, they say. Every tree, every leaf, bending to lay flowers at her feet."
"I heard the Worldtree itself lit up. Roots glowing like rivers of gold. Animals circling her without fear. Even death itself turned away."
"Of course it did. That is what a true blessing looks like."
More footsteps. Another voice, this time closer:
"And Gravann. That one is terrifying. They say he was beaten half to death in the arena, bones broken, blood everywhere. Then Draveth's fire crashed down on him."
"After that, he stood and fought the crowd. Hundreds against one, and he didn't fall."
"Would have killed anyone who dared turn their back. That is a real champion."
Seventeen's fingers drifted to his scarred thumb again. The stories sounded too big. Too clean. Too bright. The gods chose them. Light filled them. The world bowed.
When the sky lit up, he had woken up in trash.
They turned a corner.
The noise sharpened.
Ahead, a small crowd was gathered in a tight half circle, pressed against a raised stone platform near the center of the street. A few children stood on crates. Someone perched on a barrel, leaning forward for a better view. An iron pole rose from the platform, its base stained a dark, dried color that was not paint.
Myers didn't look that way. He shifted his path slightly to skirt the edge of the crowd.
Seventeen's eyes caught a flash of movement.
A figure knelt on the platform, hands bound behind their back. A cloth gag pulled tight across their mouth. Their clothes were plain, stained from blood, sweat, and other bodily fluids. His face was puffy and bruised and his legs were marked purple with large gashes across them showing obvious signs of torture. Around their neck hung a loose collar of metal, etched with symbols Seventeen didn't recognize.
A sigil burned across the air in front of them, held by a priest in white and bronze. The priest's voice carried over the murmurs.
"Blasphemy against the Redeemer. Conspiracy with the Unbound. Refusal to pay proper Penance. For these sins, judgment is carried out."
The name pricked his ear.
Unbound.
He didn't know what it meant, but the word stuck.
He watched as one of the Collectors tightened their grip on the prisoner's shoulder. The condemned person tried to speak through the gag. Only a muffled sound came out.
Someone in the crowd spat.
Others yelled in cheer as they watched the man who had committed blasphemy to their god about to be executed.
"Fools. They think chains can be cut by whispers."
Another muttered, softer, "At least they tried."
"Quiet you idiot they'll hang you for speaking like that."
Myers walked past without slowing.
"Keep your eyes ahead," he said, voice quiet, just loud enough for Seventeen to hear.
Seventeen obeyed, though the image of the person on the stone stayed pressed in his mind. The crowd swallowed them as they passed, their voices fading into noise.
Behind them, the priest's words rose in one final litany.
"May the Redeemer cleanse this soul of rebellion and return them to proper order."
A sharp crack echoed through the street followed by cheers of the crowd as their own justice had been served.
Seventeen didn't look back.
The city didn't slow down. One horror bled into the next without room to breathe. Voices about miracles rose in the same air where a man had just died.
More conversations drifted by.
They moved farther from the pit's entrance. The stone and metal gave way to wider streets. Gone were the vendors as cleaner and newer stores took their place. Voices grew louder. Somewhere a bell rang again, sharper this time, joined by a second, then a third.
"And the one in Vel'kaar? The god of tricks blessed a boy who laughs at priests. They say he stole Narethos's own face. Mocked him to his eyes and was rewarded for it. They say he even made Narethos himself laugh!"
"Isoryn's chosen scares me the most. They say she can look at you once and know your whole life. Every lie. Every secret. Every sin."
"And Eldranveil's boy? Hah! The wind bowed when he made his promise. Some say the whole world bent its head for his grief."
A man near the back scoffed loud enough for a few heads to turn. He slapped the side of a crate he was sitting on, the hollow thump cutting through the noise just enough to pull more attention his way. When he noticed eyes drifting toward him, his grin widened.
"You are all missing the biggest part," he said, leaning forward with a knowing tilt of his chin. "Every dominion is whispering it."
That sentence alone pulled even more people in. Conversations stalled. A few curious faces turned fully around. Even the ones who had been ignoring him shifted a little closer, waiting. He stayed seated just long enough for anticipation to tighten.
"Come on, hurry up and tell us you damn narcissist!" someone yelled.
Seventeen listened.
The man's grin widened as the attention sharpened around him. He rose onto his feet with a flourish, arms spreading as if he were unveiling a miracle. He drew in a dramatic breath, chest swelling.
Then he shouted loud enough for the whole street to hear:
"All the blessed children! The ones chosen by the gods themselves! The champions of every dominion, each bearing a blessing forged by divinity!"
His voice crashed over the noise like a wave. Stalls went quiet. Conversations froze. Even the hammering in the distance paused for a heartbeat.
The crowd turned toward him as one.
He had them now.
"THEY ARE ALL 16!"
The crowd paused.
Frozen in both thought and movement.
As if the air itself was preventing them from breathing.
Then they exploded in shock.
"WHAT!"
"THAT'S IMPOSSIBLE!"
"IT CAN'T BE!"
"YOU MUST BE MISTAKEN!"
The man was bombarded with questions, speculation, and raw disbelief, but he stood there as if he were savoring every second of it. He lifted one hand, slow and deliberate, signaling for silence. The crowd caught the gesture instantly. They could tell he had more to say, so most fell quiet at once. The few who didn't were quickly smacked by their neighbors to shut them up.
"Cough, cough. Ahem."
He exaggerated the clearing of his throat, milking the attention now fixed entirely on him.
"Not just that, Ladies and Gentlemen!" he announced, lowering his stance and spreading his arms wide, as if unveiling some grand revelation.
"In one month exactly, our glorious Redeemer will finally present his own blessed! The Archian Archipelago will finally have its VERY OWN CHAMPION!!!" he screamed, voice cracking with blind devotion, as though simply speaking the Redeemer's title filled him with holy fire.
This time the crowd didn't just erupt in shock, but in joy, reverence, and trembling hope.
People cried one after another.
Some in Joy.
Some in Reverence.
Others in pure adoration as if they were saved from the pits of hell itself.
"Our God The Redeemer thank you!"
"Glory to the archipelago! Glory to our champion! Glory to our Redeemer!"
"WE'RE SAVED!"
His chest tightened. Not enough to show. Not enough to slow him. But enough.
Why them?
The thought slipped in before he could stop it. A small, quiet, shameful thing.
He hated himself for thinking it.
But it didn't leave.
He glanced down at his stiff rolled up sleeves, too tight shoes, borrowed clothes. His fingers curled into the fabric.
For a moment he just stood there, stuck inside the number echoing in his skull.
Sixteen.
It pressed behind his ribs, slow and heavy, until the shouting around him drifted away. People cheered, argued, pushed toward the storyteller, but none of it reached him right. It felt distant, muffled, like he was hearing it all through thick glass.
Sixteen.
Chosen.
Loved.
Powerful.
Sixteen.
Starved.
Forgotten.
Thrown away.
The excitement around him kept buzzing, voices rising and overlapping, like the street had pulled back from him even as he stood in the middle of it.
Then the noise shifted.
Not faded. Focused.
Voices cut off. Feet stilled. A collective breath tightened the air.
Before Seventeen even understood why, the bodies around him were already moving in unison.
People dropped to their knees one after another.
Thunk
Thunk
Thunk
The sound rolled across the street like a single heartbeat.
Seventeen glanced to his left. Myers was already kneeling, bucket tilted forward, shoulders bowed low in practiced motion. No hesitation. No confusion. His hands slid together in front of him, palms up, as if offering something invisible.
Seventeen copied him a beat late, lowering himself to the ground. The stone was cold under his knees. The air tasted like smoke and dust. Around him, dozens of bodies shifted forward, pressing their foreheads close to the ground. They moved with the ease of habit, like their muscles had done this a thousand times.
Some faces looked tired.
Some looked empty.
And some smiled faintly, whispering the words before they even began, warmed by devotion.
A breath passed through the crowd. The stillness sharpened. Everyone waited.
Then Myers spoke first.
His voice cut through the quiet, low and steady.
"Redeemer who raised us from ruin, hear the voices of your children."
The crowd repeated in perfect unison.
"Redeemer who raised us from ruin, hear the voices of your children."
Myers continued.
"Take our toil."
Their voices rose behind him.
"Take our toil."
"Take our faults."
"Take our faults."
"Shape us into better hearts."
"Shape us into better hearts."
"Let your mercy fall upon us as morning follows night."
The words rippled outward, dozens of voices layering over his.
"Let your mercy fall upon us as morning follows night."
Seventeen stayed still. He didn't speak. His hands followed the gesture, his forehead lowered, but the words sat heavy in his throat. He didn't know them, not truly. He only listened as the prayer washed around him, a tide of voices rising and folding in on itself.
When the last line faded, the silence returned, deeper than before.
A heartbeat passed.
Then another.
And then the people around him exhaled a single word.
"Velisar."
It was not loud. It was not forced. It was something they all knew to say, something that lived in their chest and rose the moment silence asked for it.
Seventeen lifted his head slightly.
Nothing shifted in the world.
But the people around him seemed lighter, as if speaking that one word had opened a small place inside them where hope could breathe.
The crowd began to rise in slow, practiced waves. Hands lowered. Foreheads lifted. Cloth shifted softly as people straightened their backs and breathed out together.
At first they looked at one another, as if making sure the prayer was complete.
Then their eyes drifted toward the one who had begun it.
Toward Myers.
Dozens of faces turned.
Some curious. Some grateful. Some stunned.
A woman near the front pressed a hand to her mouth.
"Is that…" she whispered.
A man beside her swallowed hard. "It is. It has to be."
Another voice, softer and almost afraid, said, "The bucket. Look at the bucket."
Myers stood still while the attention settled around him. The bucket on his head caught the weak sunlight and scattered thin streaks of light across the street. He didn't speak. He only gave a small nod as several people dipped their heads toward him in silent thanks.
One brave soul stepped forward and murmured, "Forgiveness upon you."
Myers offered a single nod in return.
Seventeen watched all of it. The way people's eyes widened. The way they stared at Myers as if they were seeing something sacred standing in the dirt with them. The way awe softened their features even though fear lingered underneath.
Myers finally turned. His gloved hand twitched once at his side, then he looked straight at Seventeen.
"Come," he said quietly.
Seventeen followed as Myers stepped back into the moving crowd. People parted for him, some bowing their heads again as he passed. A few whispered his name or something close to it.
"Is it really him"
"It has been years"
"He led the rites himself"
Seventeen stayed behind him, the murmurs brushing past like cold wind as they walked away from the prayer circle.
The surface world pulsed around them.
Alive. Watching.
And for the first time, Seventeen understood that Myers was not just another worker in the pits.
Up here, he was something else.
Something people remembered.
Something people respected.
The whispers and chatters didn't stop even as they kept walking further away.