The stone benches in the waiting hall were cold even through fabric.
I knew that because I'd shifted three times already, testing different positions as if one of them might somehow be warmer. None were. The benches curved just enough to keep you upright, the smooth limestone pressing insistently against my spine. Rest wasn't forbidden here—just discouraged.
The walls were pale, polished stone, uninterrupted by banners or ornamentation. No inscriptions. No dates. Not even the Accord's sigil. This room didn't need to announce itself. Everyone sitting in it already understood where they were.
Placement halls never wasted effort on reassurance.
I sat with my hands folded in my lap, fingers laced together, thumbs pressed tight enough to feel the pulse beneath the skin. My jacket was the standard Placement issue—gray, stiff at the shoulders, cut close through the arms. It smelled faintly of soap and metal, like it had spent too long sealed in a locker. I'd brushed my hair back that morning and tied it low at the nape of my neck, neat and unremarkable. The way instructors preferred.
Across from me sat a boy from the southern districts.
I didn't know his name, but I recognized the soil ground into the seams of his boots. Southern dust stained everything red; it never quite came out. He was rubbing his palms against his trousers over and over, as if friction alone might burn the nerves out of his hands.
Every few minutes, his eyes flicked toward the tall black doors at the far end of the hall.
The doors never opened while anyone was watching.
That wasn't superstition. Just pattern.
I'd been sitting here long enough to notice.
The boy caught me looking once and froze, embarrassment flushing up his neck. He dropped his gaze to the floor immediately. His hair was uneven, cut in a hurry, and his shoulders were broad in the way that came from labor rather than training. Strong, but unguarded. His knee bounced constantly, heel tapping softly against the stone.
He was scared.
That didn't make him unusual.
No one spoke in the waiting hall. Not because we weren't allowed to, but because talking felt wrong. The space swallowed sound strangely. Even the soft scuff of boots faded too quickly, as if noise itself was being absorbed. When you spoke here, your voice sounded too loud, too exposed.
I breathed in through my nose and counted.
One breath.
Another.
The instructors always said Placement Day was the most important day of your life.
They never said it would feel like waiting to be filed.
A Warden moved along the wall to my left.
Her uniform was darker than ours, the fabric thicker, reinforced at the seams. No decoration, no rank markings—just a small silver Accord pin at her collarbone. Her hair was pulled back so tightly it smoothed the skin at her temples. She didn't look at any of us as she passed.
She didn't need to.
We were already contained.
"Myra Jansen."
A name was called. Someone stood. The doors opened and closed again.
Then—
"Imara Vale."
I stood immediately.
That, at least, I had practiced.
As I passed the boy from the southern districts, he glanced up again. His eyes were a pale brown, almost gold at the center, wide with something that wasn't quite panic and wasn't quite hope either.
On impulse, I gave him a small nod.
He blinked, startled, then nodded back.
It felt like something we weren't meant to do.
The doors opened silently as I reached them and closed behind me just as smoothly.
The assessment chamber was circular, the floor etched with faint concentric rings that caught the light when I moved. The air smelled cleaner here—filtered, stripped of anything unnecessary. A single chair sat at the center, its metal legs bolted directly into the stone.
I sat.
Three figures stood on the raised dais opposite me, faces partially obscured by the bright panels behind them. Placement Authorities didn't wear uniforms. Their clothing was deliberately plain—dark fabric, simple cuts—so you couldn't tell whether they were administrative, military, or something else entirely.
That ambiguity was intentional.
"State your name," one of them said.
"Imara Vale."
My voice sounded steady. I held onto that.
"Age?"
"Eighteen."
There was a pause. I imagined someone reviewing my file, though there were no visible screens.
"You have been observed for consistency," the Authority said. "Your assessments indicate emotional regulation, adaptability, and tolerance for prolonged psychological strain."
I kept my gaze level.
I'd heard this phrasing before. It meant I didn't panic easily. It didn't mean I was exceptional.
"Do you understand the purpose of Placement?" another Authority asked.
"Yes."
Placement existed to maintain balance. That was the phrase they used. Balance between expansion and loss. Between who was sent beyond the borders and who was kept within them.
Placement wasn't about what you wanted.
It was about where you fit.
"For the duration of your service to the Accord," the first Authority said, "you have been Placed as an Anchor."
The word settled into the room quietly.
Anchor.
I didn't react. Relief flickered low in my chest before I could stop it, followed immediately by guilt for feeling it.
Anchor wasn't glorious.
But it wasn't a death sentence either.
"Do you acknowledge this Placement?" they asked.
"Yes."
"Do you understand the function of an Anchor?"
"Yes."
Anchors stabilized expedition units. We absorbed strain—emotional, psychological—so others could continue functioning. We prevented internal collapse long enough for missions to complete.
We were not fighters.
We were not leaders.
We were there so others could be.
"You will be assigned to a unit shortly," the Authority said. "Until then, you are to remain available."
Available.
The chair released with a soft click. That was my dismissal.
The corridor outside the chamber was narrower, the stone walls closer together. I leaned back against one and let my shoulders drop for just a second.
Anchor.
The word fit more easily than I wanted it to.
I had never been loud. Never first. I didn't draw attention unless I meant to—and I rarely meant to. Survival, as far as I could tell, depended on knowing when to be visible and when to disappear.
A Warden approached with a slim data tablet.
"Unit assignment."
She didn't ask if I was ready.
She turned the tablet toward me.
Expedition Unit Seventeen.
Projected viability: Low.
Casualty expectation: High.
My pulse quickened, but I kept my expression neutral.
"Departure at dawn," she continued.
"Eastern staging area. Equipment will be issued on-site."
"Yes."
She hesitated, just slightly.
"Stay close to your unit."
It wasn't advice.
It was a warning.
Unit Seventeen was already assembled when I reached the staging area the next morning.
Seven figures stood near the perimeter gate as the sky lightened above the walls. Four Vanguard in reinforced dark gear. One Tactician with a narrow satchel slung across his back. One Artisan adjusting the straps on a supply case.
And me.
A Vanguard woman with a scar tracing her jaw looked me over quickly. Her gaze was sharp, efficient.
"Anchor?" she asked.
"Yes."
Her eyes flicked to my boots, my hands, the lack of visible weapons.
"Stay behind us," she said. "If this goes wrong, you won't last long up front."
"I understand."
One of the Vanguard snorted. "They never send us good ones."
"They send what we're assigned," the Tactician replied.
No one argued.
The gates opened without ceremony, and we crossed beyond the border into land the Accord referred to as unstable.
The quiet there was different.
Not empty—just restrained, like sound itself had learned where it wasn't welcome.
I adjusted my pace to match the unit's without being told. No one checked to see if I was keeping up. They didn't need to. I had been placed to do exactly that.
As we moved forward, something small and uncomfortable settled into my thoughts.
No one had explained what happened to Anchors who survived.
Not where they went.
Not how long they stayed.
Just that they were… still needed.
I tightened my grip on the strap of my issued pack and kept walking.
Whatever survival meant here, it wasn't the same thing as leaving.