As I rounded the corner, the bright, winding lights above cast strange reflections on the marble floor. I wondered how strict this place would be. I hoped I would get some slack as the son of you-know-who, but I was wrong.
The beauty of the manor's exterior shattered as soon as I knocked on the big brown doors—no one answered. When I stepped inside, a dozen pairs of eyes looked me up and down, like I was about to be cut open. They moved together in a weird way, their silence louder than any sound. I didn't fit in. I still had on the clothes I slept in, completely forgetting the uniform I'd been given yesterday.
A woman with thick, curly brown hair and skin white as snow stood in front of me. Her voice sliced through the quiet.
"Magite 35, you're late."
She sounded calm, but the air around her shook—not with fear, but with absolute reverence. Her presence was heavy, like it pressed the air from my lungs.
"I got lost," I said, lying.
"If you want to lie, you'll need plans and backup plans to fool someone like me, young man. Next time, no excuses—or make better ones."
The students behind her stayed silent, faces blank, eyes empty. Children turned into machines.
"Name," she said sharply.
"Morpheus," I answered carefully.
She smiled a little, muttering under her breath, "That name doesn't exist here."
"It does," I said quietly. "It exists because of what it means to me."
Something flickered in her eyes—not amusement, not pity. I couldn't tell. She stepped closer, her green high heels clicking against the polished floor.
"Memory isn't who you are. You'll learn that, or you'll break trying."
"I'm already broken," I said quietly.
"Good," she said. "Then you're ready to be fixed."
The silver-haired maid stood behind her, unmoving, eyes lowered like she was ashamed. When the instructor turned, her gaze met mine for a second. Was it fear? Apology? Maybe guilt? I couldn't tell.
"Magite 12," the instructor said. "Explain the rule."
A boy my age stood from the front row, voice steady but empty. "Magites are here to serve the Ministry. Names are gifts for citizens only. We have no past. Our only future is to follow orders."
The instructor nodded. "Very good. Magite 35, repeat it."
I looked at her. "No."
A quiet gasp rippled through the students.
She smiled again, slower this time. "Then you'll be the example."
Two guards moved before I could react. I didn't fight back. Pain was normal—almost comforting. When the whip hit, I didn't shout. I looked straight ahead—at the maid, at the ceiling, at the polished marble reflecting the children's faces.
The instructor waited for me to fall. I didn't.
"You'll learn discipline," she said. "But I have to say... there's something different about you."
Her words moved through me like smoke. I wanted to ask what she meant, but my mouth wouldn't open. She studied me like an insect pinned under glass.
"Dismissed," she said.
The others left, their footsteps falling into rhythm again. The maid stayed, biting her lip like she wanted to speak but didn't dare. When the instructor was gone, she finally whispered:
"You shouldn't have said your name."
"Then what should I have said?" I asked.
"Nothing," she breathed. "Here, silence keeps you alive."
I watched her turn away, the smell of lavender following her like a ghost. Silence keeps you alive. Maybe she was right. Or maybe silence was just another way to die.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks into something I couldn't count. Pain became normal; even the air felt controlled. The marble walls didn't shine anymore—they watched. Every morning the same bell rang. Every night the same whip cracked somewhere down the hall.
I learned when to speak, when to bow, and when to disappear. Silence became how I survived, and survival became a kind of worship.
Still, I kept a part of myself hidden—a quiet fire burning inside. Every night, when the lights went down, I whispered my name.
Morpheus.
A crime in a single word.
The maid—Lira, I learned her name by accident—didn't flinch when she saw me anymore. Once, she left a piece of bread on my bed. Another time, she whispered as she passed, "They're watching you more closely now."
I never asked who "they" were.
Rumors spread like shadows between punishments. A boy had tried to get past the serpent gates. They said he disappeared before he reached the trees. No body, no screams—just silence.
But I heard him.
Some nights, when I was half-asleep, his voice came from the walls: Don't forget why it hurts.
And I didn't.
I changed, yes, but I didn't fit in. My grades rose. My discipline was perfect. But every review ended the same way:
Might be unstable. Watch closely.
Then one morning, I got a message:
A private meeting. Instructor Veyra wanted to see me.
Veyra.
The same woman who had crushed me on my first day. The door to her room closed behind me with a soft sound, cutting off the hallway's noise.
The room wasn't what I expected. No marble, no lights. Just a wooden desk, two chairs, and walls the color of dried blood. The air hummed quietly, like the room itself was listening.
"Sit," Veyra said without looking up. Her voice was softer than I remembered, but still heavy.
I did what she said. The chair was cold. Everything here was cold.
She looked through a thin folder, the pages making a dry sound. "Magite 35," she said, "your progress has been... impressive."
The silence between us felt thick and heavy.
"You've learned fast. You don't fight back anymore. You act with precision. But…"
She closed the folder and looked at me, her green eyes shining like glass.
"...your obedience feels fake."
I looked back. "Maybe I've just learned what you wanted me to learn."
"That's the problem," she said, leaning forward. "You always do what's expected. Never more, never less. You've changed, but you haven't given up. There's a difference."
Her words hit me hard. She was right, and she knew it.
"Tell me," she said quietly. "When you close your eyes at night, what do you see?"
I hesitated. "The gates."
"The serpent gates?"
"Yes. They move."
She smiled faintly. "They don't move, Magite 35. They're made of stone."
"I know what I saw," I said.
Her smile stayed. "And I know what I see. You're scared."
"I'm not scared," I said, keeping my voice steady.
"Fear isn't weakness," she said, circling me. "It's proof you're yourself. That's why we erase it here—because being yourself breeds rebellion."
I stayed silent.
"Then why keep me alive?" I asked.
"Because we like chaos," she said. She stopped behind me. "And because you remind the Ministry of something they've forgotten."
"What's that?"
Her breath touched my ear. "Choice."
The word hit me harder than any whip.
She went back to her desk. The light flickered. She tapped a pen on the wood, making a steady beat. "Tell me, Morpheus," she said, using my name, "what would you choose, if you could?"
For a moment, the silence felt different. I looked at her and thought she seemed tired.
"I'd choose to remember," I said quietly.
Her pen stopped. "Interesting."
Then her voice changed, formal again. "Your meeting is over. Go to the courtyard at dawn. You've been moved to a different project."
"Moved?"
"Yes," she said, her face unreadable. "To Project Rebirth."
The room seemed louder. The lights turned red.
I stood up slowly. "What's Project Rebirth?"
She didn't answer—just gave me that same small smile. "You'll know when it starts."
The maid waited outside when I came out, her silver hair shining in the dim light. Her eyes were wide, like she'd seen a ghost. She mouthed one word before I could speak:
Run.
I didn't. Not yet. I'd learned too much. I'd watched, remembered, changed. And deep down, I still wanted to fight back.
The hallways stretched endlessly, the winding lights casting strange shadows on the marble. Somewhere, a whip cracked. Somewhere else, a door slammed. And in that rhythm, I felt change coming—scary, sure, but exciting.
Project Rebirth was starting. And I would face it my way.