Theron woke to the rattle of wheels over uneven ground.
His wrists were bound. Rough rope cut into his skin, tied to an iron ring bolted into the wagon bed. The wound in his chest pulled with each breath, a dull ache that spread through his ribs.
He tried to sit up. The rope snapped taut, forcing him back down.
The wagon was enclosed. Wooden slats formed the walls, gaps between them letting in thin strips of daylight. The air was stale, thick with the smell of unwashed bodies and old straw.
He wasn't alone.
Four other children sat against the opposite wall. Two girls, two boys. None of them looked at him. The youngest couldn't have been more than six. She stared at her hands, lips moving without sound. The boy beside her had dried blood crusted beneath his nose. His eyes were open but unfocused.
The wagon hit a rut. Theron's shoulder struck the floor. Pain flared through his chest. He bit down, swallowing the sound before it could escape.
No one reacted.
The journey lasted hours. Maybe days. Time blurred together, measured only by the occasional stop. When the wagon halted, boots approached. The door opened just wide enough for a waterskin to be tossed inside, then slammed shut again.
Theron didn't move for the water. Neither did the others.
The youngest girl wet herself at some point. The smell mixed with everything else.
When the wagon finally stopped for good, the light through the slats had turned orange. Sunset, or maybe dawn. Voices called out beyond the walls, orders shouted back and forth.
The door opened.
Two soldiers stood there, faces blank. One of them gestured. "Out. Single file."
The children moved slowly. The boy with blood under his nose stumbled on the step. A soldier caught him by the arm and shoved him forward.
Theron climbed down last. His legs threatened to buckle. He locked his knees and stayed upright.
They were in a courtyard. Stone walls rose on all sides, high enough to block out everything but the sky. Other wagons lined the perimeter, doors open, more children being herded toward a wide building at the far end.
A man in clean robes stood near the entrance, a wooden board in his hands. He didn't look up as the soldiers brought them forward.
"Line," one of the soldiers said.
The children formed a row. Theron stood at the end, wrists still bound, watching as the man with the board approached the first child.
He checked her face, tilted her chin up with one finger. "Name."
The girl didn't answer.
"Name," he repeated.
Still nothing.
The man sighed and made a mark on his board. "Unresponsive. Next."
He moved down the line. Some of the children gave their names. Others stayed silent. The man recorded each one with the same flat efficiency, asking follow-up questions that rarely received answers.
When he reached Theron, he paused.
"Chest wound," he said, not to Theron but to the soldier behind him. "When?"
"Three days ago," the soldier replied. "Found him with the bodies. Thought he was dead."
The man frowned. He leaned closer, eyes narrowing. "You're certain?"
"Blade went through. Saw it myself."
The man straightened and made a longer notation on his board. "Aberrant recovery. Flag for secondary examination." He glanced at Theron. "Name."
Theron's throat was dry. He swallowed once. "Theron."
"Family name."
He hesitated. "Cael."
Another mark. The man moved on without further comment.
They were led inside.
The building was larger than it looked from the courtyard. A long corridor stretched ahead, doors on either side, all of them closed. The air was cooler here, stone walls absorbing what little warmth the day had offered.
They stopped at the third door on the left. A woman waited inside, seated behind a narrow desk. Papers were stacked in neat piles across its surface. She looked up as they entered, expression neutral.
"Processing?" she asked.
The soldier nodded. "Six from the western sweep."
"Set them along the wall."
The children were positioned in another line. The woman rose from her desk and approached, carrying a metal tool that looked like a thin rod with a shaped end. She pressed it against the first child's forearm. There was a brief hiss, the smell of burned flesh, and the child flinched but didn't cry out.
She moved down the line, repeating the process. When she reached Theron, she paused.
"This one's flagged," the soldier said.
The woman glanced at the paper in her hand. "Aberrant recovery. Noted." She pressed the brand to his forearm. The pain was sharp and immediate. Theron clenched his jaw as the metal seared into his skin.
She pulled it away and inspected the mark. Satisfied, she returned to her desk and began writing.
The children stood in silence.
After several minutes, the woman finished. She separated one sheet from the rest and handed it to the soldier. "Take them to holding. Someone will collect them in the morning."
The soldier folded the paper and gestured toward the door. "Move."
They were led deeper into the building, down another corridor, then another. The walls narrowed. The light grew dimmer.
The holding area was a single large room with no furniture. Straw covered the floor. A bucket sat in the corner. More children were already inside, scattered across the space in small clusters. None of them spoke.
The door closed behind them. A lock turned.
Theron stood near the entrance, back against the wall. His arm throbbed where the brand had burned through his skin. The wound in his chest pulled with each breath.
He slid down to the floor and sat.
Across the room, the youngest girl from the wagon curled up in the straw and closed her eyes. The boy with the bloody nose stared at the wall. The others found their own spaces and settled into stillness.
Theron looked at his forearm. The brand was still red, the skin blistered around the edges. It was a simple design. A number.
7291