The assignment hall smelled of ink and old paper—and something sharper beneath it. Fear. The kind that sat in the gut and tightened the shoulders of every unchosen kid in the room.
Of course, the hall itself was beautiful. The rich loved vaulted stone and carved pillars, anything that made their power feel eternal. Banners of the gods hung from the rafters, heavy and watchful. Stained-glass windows spilled colored light across the floor, painting the crowd in reds, golds, and sickly celestial blues.
Angels burned in the glass overhead.
Gods loomed above them, smug in their victory.
History told by those who survived it.
Frankie stayed at the back where the light didn't bother reaching. Hood up. Hands tucked into her sleeves. Fingers resting against the grips of the daggers she'd stitched into her own leather. Not ceremonial. Not blessed. Just sharp.
Around her, whispers spread.
"Did you see Lorenzo's father? Brought three priests."
"Ares marked their bloodline."
"I heard the Bellinis bought a private blessing."
Money talked. The gods listened. Frankie kept track.
Information was the only thing in Novara Prime that didn't cost a fortune.
At the front, officers read names from endless scrolls. Every name was either a ladder upward or a shove toward the edge.
"Alessandro Visconti — Ares Cohort."
Cheers erupted. A tall boy stepped forward, smiling like hunger had never crossed his mind. His family clinked glasses from the balcony. A priest laid a hand on his shoulder, claiming him like property.
Frankie watched with cold clarity. He'd never see a Death Zone. Never drink poisoned air. Never sleep wondering if he'd wake up breathing.
Then the officer's tone flattened.
"Auxiliary Unit assignments."
The chatter died instantly. Even the blessed went quiet. Nobody liked looking at the meat before it hit the grinder.
"Francesca Rinaldi."
Frankie raised her hand. No cheers. No gasps. Just ink moving on a page.
"Auxiliary Unit Seven."
She stepped forward. Luca's name followed. He took his place beside her without a word, that steady look promising he wasn't going anywhere.
They were herded through a side door, away from stained glass and watching gods. The air cooled. The walls turned bare. The light dulled. They ended in a cramped chamber that smelled of damp and oil lamps. A room meant for crates, not people.
The others filed in—a boy who couldn't stop swallowing, a girl with raw red eyes, a tall lad whose hands shook despite his size.
All of them expendable.
The door slammed shut.
An officer waited. No shining armor. Just a coat frayed at the cuffs and a sword that had seen real work. His eyes belonged to a man who'd watched too many kids not return.
"You know why you're here," he said. No speech. No ceremony. Just fatigue. "Twenty years ago, the sky broke. Angels came down to cleanse the world. That's us, in case you're wondering."
He leaned against a table. "The gods built the walls. They saved what they could. But the angels keep the wastes. And the wastes rot. If the corruption reaches the walls, we're finished."
The shaking boy tried to speak. Nothing came out.
"That's where you come in," the officer continued. "Purity sweeps. Burn the growth. Cull the scavengers. Map the shifts so the blessed units know where to point their pretty spears if things go wrong."
He pointed to a pile of gear. Pathetic. Fuel canisters. Salt sacks. Iron stakes. Cheap steel daggers still slick with factory oil.
"Your equipment. Not divine. Barely adequate. But it's what you've got."
The red-eyed girl found her voice. "Mortality rate?"
"High."
No comfort. No lies.
"If you live, you're back in three days. If you don't, your family gets coin. Enough to cover rent. Not enough to escape the gutters."
Frankie almost laughed. Even their deaths had a budget.
"Bravery gets you killed," the officer added, heading for the door. "So does pride. Your job isn't to be heroes. It's to make sure the city doesn't notice you were gone."
He paused at the threshold.
"If you see something that shouldn't exist—ruins that move, light that bends wrong—don't touch it. Curiosity kills faster than angels."
Then he was gone.
Silence settled, broken only by the boy's quiet sobbing. Luca sat beside Frankie and handed her one of the daggers. Cold steel. Warm skin.
"We'll watch each other's backs," he said.
Frankie nodded, testing the blade with her thumb. She didn't believe in gods or angels or anything that demanded prayer.
But she believed in the grit under her nails.
If the world wanted her dead, it was going to have to work harder than this.