Chapter 1: Another Birthday
BEEP— BEEP— BEEP— Asher's eyes slowly fluttered open. Sitting up, he noticed his communicator watch blinking bright white. He was late, again. Asher groaned, tossing off the thin blanket and swinging his legs over the side of his bed. Maybe if he moved quickly he could avoid a reprimanding. Who was he kidding? That never happened.
The date was March 17th—Asher's 16th birthday. Asher frowned, he had never enjoyed birthdays; in fact he despised them. He never understood; why anyone would celebrate being thrown into such a cruel world. Maybe it was because he never received a present on his birthdays. Or maybe it was the reminder—The memory of that day. The day he lost everything.
Asher dashed out of his dorm room, grimacing as he looked down at his watch. It was 7:02 and he was already late. The school building was roughly half a mile away. Maybe he could make it before the doors closed if he ran. After all Asher had always been quite the skilled runner—though that didn't matter much when anything on the outside could outrun you with ease. Asher shuddered thinking about those things—those reapers—as if a simple mention of them could summon death. He stepped out the cold metallic doors of the dorm house, basking in the unnatural blue light of the tower. The sun was yet to rise and that faint, eerie, glow was all there was to illuminate the empty streets of the stronghold. Asher shivered as a cold wave of air washed over him. And then he was off. He had no time to lose. The flexible metal soles of his shoes clanked against the ground as he sprinted toward the distant silhouette of the school, the colossal ramparts towering over him. He had to move. Fast.
With each of Asher's steps the school grew closer. He could see the open front doors right there. He'd made it in time. Panting, he went through the doors and bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for air. Checking his communicator watch the time read 7:04.
"Under two minutes; not bad" Asher mumbled
An undeniable grin widened on his face. Asher stood up and began walking to his first class. However Asher's heart stopped as he suddenly heard a voice behind him.
"Mr. Locke—you're cutting it close." The voice boomed.
It was Elias Thorne, the headmaster of the school. Asher shuddered, feeling the headmaster looming behind him. He was a man of large stature with cold unfeeling eyes. His head was covered in a nest of grey hair with a matching beard on his chin. Despite Elias's age Asher never considered him old or frail.
"I greet the headmaster." Asher spoke, quickly bowing.
"you may stand." Answered Thorne "Care to explain your tardiness, Mr. Locke?"
"Just trying to squeeze every ounce of rest before another perfect day, Headmaster."
The sarcasm was subtle. Barely. But if Elias noticed, he didn't show it. Asher kept his face blank. Sometimes the only way to survive this place was to pretend the knife at your back was just part of the uniform.
"Very well you may go; but do not allow me to catch you again"
Elias dismissed Asher.
"Thank you headmaster"
Asher walked off briskly, not wanting to stand in the presence of that man any longer. Breathing a sigh of relief Asher glanced around at the alloy interior of the building, attempting to remember what class he had first.
"ah—Combat"
Asher groaned under his breath.
Every student at NESEC, North Eastern stronghold education center— A terrible name in Asher's opinion— was expected to learn, and become somewhat proficient in weaponry combat. Whether it be swords, spears or even daggers—the students needed a way to defend themselves against the creatures outside the walls. However, the school did not provide these weapons; instead, it was expected for families to buy them from a blacksmith, the richest even going so far as to give their children an energy weapon. It is for this reason Asher never practiced weaponry with the others; being an orphan he barely made enough credits to feed himself—let alone buy a quality handmade weapon.
dragging his feet on the ground, Asher walked into the courtyard. Glancing around and he noticed the only other orphan is his year, Kaelyn Dray. Kae had a wiry build, lean from years of scraping by. Her Short, spiky black hair streaked with silver dye gleamed in the sunlight. She wore a torn school-issued combat coat, modified with stolen armor plating and symbols painted in white—symbols Asher didn't recognize. A crude yet deadly-looking spear sitting quietly on her back. Her dark eyes were constantly flicking, scanning, like she was on edge.
"Late again, Locke? At this point, I'm convinced you're just trying to see how close you can get to death without kissing it."
She smirked.
"Bold strategy. Let me know how that works out for you."
Asher scoffed,
"Yeah, well, someone's got to keep things interesting around here."
He lets out a short, bitter laugh.
"And if I wanted to kiss death, trust me, I wouldn't need your help."
Kae waved him off, that irritating smile still plastering her face.
Asher and Kae weren't friends. They didn't talk often, and when they did it was usually an argument. But they found solace in each other. Solace in the fact they understood what it was like to be alone. But that never changed how much that damned smirk pissed him off.
The courtyard used for training wasn't small but neither was it too large. It wasn't necessarily meant for running; but Asher didn't have any other option. So he ran, his shoes scraping against the concrete, for seemingly endless loops. As he ran Asher would occasionally look toward the center of the courtyard, watching the students train.
The sword students and their tutors sparred in the front; behind them the spears and polearms practiced striking with their teacher. But not everyone was in a group; there were those like Kae and himself—who were on their own—scattered about, vigorously drilling techniques, or others who were conditioning strength.
Asher wasn't sure for how long he'd been running; although it must have been fairly long. Long enough for the courtyard to start emptying. Long enough for the burn in his legs to settle into a dull ache. Then his feet slowed—because he didn't have a choice. Three students blocked his path. Sword wielders. The one in the center, clearly the leader, stepped forward with a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Look who finally stopped running—must be tough when it's the only thing you're good at."
"Go back to your handler"
Asher muttered, his voice low and flat
The smirk vanished from the leader's face.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you"
Asher caught the flicker of movement too late. The leader's hand darted out, fast and practiced.
A sharp crack.
Asher hit the ground hard, the breath ripped from his chest. His head rang. There was a painful sting spreading across his cheek. He blinked up at the sky.
Something warm dripped down his skin.
He raised a hand to his face. His fingertips came away red.
Blood.
Asher clenched his fist—smearing the warm, red, blood across his palm.
Laughter. He could hear the swordsman laughing to his friends. Laughing at him.
Asher exhaled. Calm. Cold
He pushed off the ground—and drove a punch straight into the leader's eye, while his back was turned.
His fist connected with a satisfying crunch
But when Asher looked up again , he wasn't smiling.
Two longswords were now pointed directly at his throat.
"Dammit... how'd I let this happen?"
The leader staggered back, hissing
"Struck. By the likes of him."
He pressed two fingers to his rapidly swelling eye, disbelief and rage swirling behind them.
"You've got a good arm, I'll give you that. We'll see how it works when it's broken."
A gruff voice cut in behind them and a third sword clashed down, knocking the others aside.
"Sir Ross. There is no honor in a 3-on-one fight."
It was the sword tutor.
Asher smiled, cold and bitter. By some divine twist, he'd gotten lucky.
The tutor pointed at him.
"You. Get to the healer. Get the blood off your uniform."
He paused.
"And try not to cause any more trouble"
He didn't sound like he was defending Asher, just enforcing rules.
As Asher turned to leave, Ross spat under his breath.
"Useless coward."
Asher's eye twitched, but he kept walking, pretending not to hear.
. . .
Asher winced as he stepped out of the infirmary, the stitched gash still burning. Of course, no regen pod. "Only for life-threatening injuries," they said. But he'd seen rich kids walk out good as new after paper cuts. Just another rule that bent for the right last name.
There was no point in going back to class—the stitching had taken hours and the day was almost over anyway. No one would notice if he left just a little early. Asher slinked out a side door and onto one of the pathways that wound around NESEC.
The sun was high, burning away the haze. For a moment, Asher let it warm his face. The central tower's eerie glow faded under that light—just for a second, the world didn't feel so hollow.
Then came the shadow. Asher had stepped beneath the city's great barrier—stone and steel rising endlessly above him. He hated it. Hated how it imprisoned him like cattle. But what it kept out was worse.
The walls were built to be impenetrable. Everyone knew that. But it didn't help him sleep better at night. A single heavy gate stood in the front of the citadel. The only way in. The only way out. On both sides of the gate stood two casemates which contained the largest manned turrets Asher had ever seen. They were controlled by the military, making sure nothing—less than human made it through.
In reality there was nothing stopping anyone from leaving. The gate would open for those who wished to leave. But the thought of what was outside kept everyone inside the walls—safe. The infected baned that were said to roam the forests beyond the walls—and the looming threat of the reapers.
Glancing to the families walking the streets, the children playing, practicing—He shuddered. If the creatures ever made it through the gates, there wouldn't be anything left to protect.
Asher was encroaching on the orphan dorms. He hated the military, sure—but even he had to admit the orphan dorm was a mercy. For kids like him—too old to adopt, too young to dump on the streets—it was the only place to land.
Asher rounded the bend and the orphan dorms came into view—quiet, squat buildings tucked near the edge of the grounds like someone had tried to forget they existed. He slowed. No drills echoing from the courtyards. No laughter. Most of the others were still out, grinding through lessons or pretending they had homes to return to.
He hated the military—but even he had to admit the dorm was... something. A roof. A bed. A place for the ones no one picked. Too old to adopt. Too young to cut loose.
It wasn't home. But it was better than nothing.
Asher had two roommates—neither were ever around, and today was no different. But the moment he stepped inside, something felt wrong.
His bed. It wasn't how he'd left it.
Sitting atop the wrinkled blanket was a crate. Not the standard-issue alloy containers used for supplies—this one was matte black, edges beveled like a military drop case, but small enough to carry with one hand. Cold. Out of place.
Asher froze in the doorway. His eyes swept the room, the hallway beyond—nothing. No sound. No movement.
The hairs on his neck rose. A prank? A setup? Or something worse.
He took a step closer, heart thudding louder with each inch. The crate looked untouched, but something shimmered on the top. Letters, etched cleanly into the surface.
"Happy 16th Birthday, Asher."
His breath caught. The words hit harder than they should've.
No one knew. No one remembered. Not in years.
And yet... someone did.
Asher stared, hands curling into fists. He didn't know what was inside the box. But whatever it was—it wasn't just a gift. It was a message.