The knock wasn't loud.
Just three taps—flat and final. Like someone asking a coffin to open.
Asher's eyes snapped open. He'd been awake already, staring at the ceiling. Listening. The air carried a pressure this morning. Not dread, not quite. But the kind of silence that knew something was coming.
The bunk creaked as he swung his legs over. Cold floor. Tight joints. Same ritual: shirt, boots, belt. The movement felt muscle-deep now, too trained to need thought. But today was different. Today his stomach tightened before his boots hit the tile.
Across from him, Ryvak groaned like a corpse waking up wrong. "What time is it?" he muttered, reaching blindly for his uniform, still half-crumpled on the floor.
Asher didn't answer. No one did.
Around the room, the others stirred the same way—like a hive blinking out of sedation. Some rubbed sleep from their faces, others just stood there, unmoving, hollow-eyed. No jokes. No yawns. Even the noble-born weren't smirking today.
Because everyone knew what this was.
The Sorting.
They hadn't been told. No announcements. No instructions. But after four trials, after the Mutation Chamber had laced glyphs into their blood, the silence itself had become a verdict. You didn't need to be told a knife was sharp. You just felt it.
Ryvak stumbled toward the washbasin and splashed water over his face, then dumped the whole canteen over his head like he was baptizing himself in stupidity. "I'm sweating already. This damn uniform's made of sandpaper and shame."
A few Initiates snorted. Someone clapped once, sarcastic.
Asher's mouth twitched. That was Ryvak—laughing when the rope creaked.
But not everyone laughed.
Morgan Kell stood in the corner, still as glass.
Barefoot. Shirtless. Staring.
He hadn't moved since the knock. He just watched—eyes locked on Ryvak. Not blinking. Not breathing. Just watching him like a puzzle he already knew the ending to.
Asher followed that gaze. Something about it made him itch. The way Morgan tilted his head—slow, birdlike. Studying.
Not curiosity.
Not judgment.
Something colder.
Hunger.
Asher shifted slightly. Just enough to put himself between them. Ryvak didn't notice. Still muttering about heatstroke and murder.
The second knock came sharper. Harder. A voice barked down the corridor.
"Move."
And just like that, the room came alive. Boots hit tile. Belts fastened. Hair slicked back. They weren't soldiers, not really. But they moved like ones now. Out of instinct. Fear. The need to look like they belonged—even if none of them did.
Asher fell in line behind Ryvak. They filed through the hall in twos, moving past the other barracks. Some rooms were still empty. Others held silent clusters of second-years who watched them pass with half-lidded eyes. The ones who had already been sorted. Already judged.
At the bottom of the stairwell, the hallway split.
To the right: the training yard.
To the left: the Grand Hall.
They went left.
No one said it aloud. But the moment they turned, every pair of boots slowed.
The hall leading to the Grand Chamber wasn't long—but it felt like marching through bone. The walls were lined with carvings, each one so worn by time it looked like faces melting. Three symbols repeated in a loop across the corridor: the eagle through flame, the serpent around a scroll, the dying rose wrapped in barbed wire.
Someone had carved a deep scratch through the rose's stem.
Fresh. Jagged.
They passed it in silence.
Ryvak leaned toward Asher as they neared the doors. "Just so you know… if I end up with the creeps, I'm killing myself. Not even waiting for nightfall."
Asher didn't answer.
He just stepped forward.
The moment he crossed the threshold, something shifted.
The air snapped tighter.
Like the room had lungs—and just inhaled.
The Grand Hall wasn't built for comfort. Or ceremony.
It was built to make people feel small.
The ceilings were too high, curved into a cathedral dome that flickered with faint Voidlight—glyphs pulsing just under the surface of the stone, like veins under skin. Columns lined either side, carved from black marble, each one wide enough to bury a man inside. Statues loomed above—soldiers frozen mid-scream, mid-charge, mid-death.
The walls weren't clean. They were scarred. Scratched. Burned.
No one spoke.
Even Ryvak, who always had a joke, shut his mouth the second the doors opened. His breath hitched as he stepped inside. The chill in the air was real. Not cold. Just wrong.
At the far end of the hall stood the raised platform.
Three steps high. Three thrones behind it.
Two of the chairs were empty.
But the middle one was occupied.
The Arbiter.
Oryn Vireon sat like stone. No movement. No breath. His black robe pooled around the chair like a shadow trying to escape. His face was clean-shaven, symmetrical. Almost too perfect. The kind of face you'd forget if it wasn't for the silence around it. A silence that didn't feel natural. Like the air had agreed not to exist while he sat there.
And below him—on the stone floor—stood three people.
The Wardens.
Each stood in front of their respective House banner, flanked by silver-tipped staves. They didn't speak. They didn't move. But the pressure they radiated was unmistakable.
Warden Malvek Durn was first: a mountain of a man, one arm missing, replaced by a Void-forged gauntlet that shimmered even in the dark. His stare swept across the room like a blade looking for skin.
Warden Kaelin Vei stood to his right: thin, serpent-like. Her robes whispered around her ankles. Her smile was faint and constant—like she already knew every name, every placement, every secret they'd buried.
And at the end, leaning lazily on his cane, was Warden Brann Korr. His coat was threadbare, his hair a mess of silver and coal, and his eyes looked half-closed. But no one missed the way his fingers twitched near the blade at his waist.
This was not a stage.
This was an altar.
The doors slammed shut behind them.
Not slammed—sealed.
Asher spun instinctively, hand twitching toward his belt. No visible locks. No chains. Just a sudden pressure in the air and a low hum that made his molars ache.
Glyphs lit along the walls—barely visible, etched into the stone. Ancient. Alive.
Then the Arbiter stood.
No sound. Just motion.
One step forward. One hand raised.
The entire room fell still.
Not silent.
Still.
Even the air refused to move.
He didn't clear his throat. Didn't call attention.
He didn't need to.
"Sorting begins."
That was all he said.
Three words.
But they hit like verdicts. Like a gavel on bone.
The Wardens didn't move.
But a side door opened, and a tall woman entered with a tablet—her voice sharp and clipped as she read out names. One by one.
And the judgment began.
The first name was called before anyone could breathe.
"Valen Dresk—House Solvaris."
A tall boy with black rings under his eyes stepped forward. His posture rigid. His hands clenched behind his back like he'd been practicing this moment since birth. A few whispers followed him—heir to some minor northern family. The kind who wore family rings and walked like their blood carried weight.
He didn't flinch as Warden Kaelin Vei tilted her head and nodded toward him.
No words. Just that eerie smile.
Valen turned and joined a small cluster on the right side of the hall beneath the green and silver serpent banner.
Another name.
"Sera Tyne—House Drifters."
A girl with short-cropped hair and nervous eyes stepped out of line like she expected the floor to eat her. She flinched when her name was called, then again when Warden Brann Korr waved two fingers toward the left side of the hall—beneath the blood-withered rose banner.
She didn't cry. But she looked like she wanted to.
One by one, they moved.
Noble sons and daughters flowed into Solvaris.
Outskirt kids and orphans filtered into the Drifters.
Vetrax took only a handful—and each one was handpicked by Warden Durn himself. A slow nod. A grunt. A faint gesture of approval. Nothing more. No ceremony.
Asher watched quietly. Trying to read the pattern.
Ryvak leaned toward him, voice low. "This feels like auction day."
"What?"
"You ever see them sort livestock?" Ryvak smirked faintly, masking his tension. "They look at the bones. Teeth. Check for ticks. Then sort you based on how fast they think you'll die."
Asher didn't answer.
But he didn't disagree either.
The Initiates inched forward, one by one.
And then—
"Ryvak Elen—House Drifters."
The words rang out too loud. Too final.
Ryvak blinked. He looked like he wanted to argue—but didn't. Just muttered, "Figures," under his breath and stepped out.
Warden Korr met his gaze with something between amusement and warning.
When Ryvak reached the Drifters side, he gave Asher a small shrug and mouthed, "Don't die."
Asher almost smiled.
Almost.
The names kept coming.
"Raven Moore—House Drifters."
No one reacted. Most didn't even notice the girl at first—she stepped forward like a shadow detached from the wall. No noise. No expression. Just a flicker of black hair and sharp eyes that lingered, for a second, on Asher.
Then she turned and vanished into the Drifters line.
"Tiffany Young—House Drifters."
She flinched. A beat too slow.
As she walked, she rubbed her wrist—absently, almost like it was sore. Her smile cracked and reformed like she'd practiced it in glass. Her eyes didn't look at anyone.
The Drifters side was growing fast.
Solvaris stood polished and thin.
And Vetrax?
Still mostly empty.
Then:
"Juno Vail—House Drifters."
Asher froze.
The name echoed. Like it didn't belong here.
He didn't even know Juno was real—hadn't spoken once, hadn't reacted in the trials. But there he was, stepping out of the line like fog taking form. Barefoot. Pale.
Every step quiet.
The Drifters accepted him like a wound.
Asher's stomach twisted.
The Sorting was more than preference or talent. This was curation. Someone—or something—was choosing how this would break.
He glanced at Cain.
The noble boy lounged in the Vetrax corner like a bored prince, arms crossed, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. He hadn't even stood when called. Just sauntered to his banner without waiting for permission.
Of course he belonged here.
Of course Vetrax took him.
Asher tried to quiet his mind.
He wasn't noble.
He didn't have bloodlines.
His weapon was standard. His scores? Above average, maybe—but not exceptional. Every rational thread said he'd be placed with Ryvak.
He braced for it.
Let his shoulders slump. Prepared for the Drifters banner. For Warden Korr's disapproving grunt. For—
"Asher."
Silence.
Even the scribe hesitated.
Then: "House Vetrax."
The words hit like a thrown knife.
He didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Eyes turned toward him.
Not just Initiates.
Wardens.
The Arbiter.
Cain.
Asher stepped forward slowly, spine straightening on instinct. But inside, he was fractured. Why Vetrax? Why him?
He didn't even like the emblem.
The white eagle diving through fire.
It felt… wrong.
Like the fire wasn't a threat.
Like it was welcoming the burn.
As he crossed the hall, he caught Cain's smirk. That slow, amused sneer that said: I see you now.
But he didn't speak.
Not yet.
Warden Malvek Durn watched him. No smile. No nod. Just a long, unblinking look.
Then he turned away.
Asher reached the Vetrax side—and everything went quiet again.
He was here.
But he didn't feel placed.
He felt… tested.
Like something had shifted.
And someone was watching to see what he'd do next.
The ceremony ended shortly after.
No speeches. No oaths. Just names read, glyphs flared, placements made.
They were dismissed with a single gesture from the Arbiter—his hand cutting the air like he was snuffing out a candle.
And just like that, the doors unsealed.
The Initiates funneled out in silence, broken only by the sound of boots on marble and a few nervous whispers about placement.
Asher didn't look back.
He followed the Vetrax handler through a winding corridor—up two flights of spiral stairs carved from dark ironstone, across a narrow balcony with no railing, then into a long wooden hall that smelled of ash and old blood.
"This is your new home," the handler said, voice like he hated wasting syllables. "Don't break the beds. Don't kill your bunkmates. And if you're late to morning drills, Warden Durn will feed you to the Nyxroot."
He left without waiting for acknowledgment.
The door creaked open.
Six beds. Three on either side.
No banners. No velvet. Just thick wood, steel frames, and scorch marks along the ceiling like the room had survived a fire and wasn't sure it was over yet.
The first thing Asher noticed was the silence.
The kind that wasn't peaceful.
The kind that listened back.
Cain sat on the bed closest to the door, one leg crossed over the other, sharpening his blade like it was already routine. He didn't look up.
Caesar sat in the far corner, scribbling symbols into a leather-bound book so hard the ink was bleeding through the page.
Rainley was seated cross-legged on his bed, palms resting on his knees like he'd been meditating since the day he was born.
Morgan stood near the window.
Still barefoot.
Still shirtless.
Staring again.
At nothing.
Asher moved to the last empty bed without speaking. The mattress was stiff. The sheets smelled like ash and rust. His bag—already there. Someone had moved it while they were gone.
He didn't sit.
Just stood.
The others didn't welcome him.
Didn't threaten him either.
It wasn't tension.
It was something worse.
Expectation.
This wasn't a dorm.
It was a game board.
And the pieces were already moving.
Cain finally broke the silence.
"Took you long enough."
Asher looked over.
Cain didn't glance up. Just kept honing the edge of his sword.
"Was starting to think the Arbiter changed his mind."
"I didn't ask to be here," Asher said.
Cain smiled faintly. "Good. Makes it more fun."
Caesar scoffed but didn't look up.
Rainley opened his eyes—green and glassy—and just watched.
Morgan tilted his head again.
Like he was listening for something Asher couldn't hear.
Asher sat.
The bed groaned under his weight. Even the beds here knew how to shut up.
He leaned back, letting his eyes trace the ceiling.
It was wood, not stone. Charred in places. Marked with old glyphs. Burned-in names and half-erased numbers. Someone had written something in red near the center beam, then scratched it out so violently the ceiling looked wounded.
His hand drifted under his shirt—fingers brushing the edge of the stone embedded at his spine.
Still cold.
Still silent.
Still buried.
The Void hadn't spoken to him since the Hive.
Maybe it was waiting too.
He wasn't asleep.
He was waiting.
For the next knock.
For the coffin to open again.