The Citadel greeted him with silence.
Not the silence that reigned in the slums at night, when everyone hid in corners and feared to show themselves. This was a different silence. Majestic. Oppressive. The silence of order, iron discipline, and absolute power.
The cart rolled along a wide paved road. The stones beneath the wheels were perfectly fitted together, without a single gap. High walls of the same black basalt as the outer fortifications stretched on either side. But here, they were polished to a mirror shine. Syn saw his reflection in them. A dirty, ragged boy in shackles, sitting on straw.
"I am a stranger here."
The thought was obvious, but no less heavy. Everything around him screamed that he did not belong to this place. Too clean. Too orderly. Even the air was different. Not stinking like in the slums, but fresh, with a slight taste of metal and stone.
The cart passed the first gate and entered an inner courtyard. Syn raised his head and saw what he had only glimpsed from afar before.
The buildings of the Citadel.
They towered over him like mountains. Towers of black stone and steel, adorned with patterns of glowing quartz. Some reached such heights that their peaks were lost in the red sky. On the balconies stood statues of resonators, frozen in battle poses. Their stone faces looked down, cold and indifferent.
Syn felt something tighten in his chest.
"Lian was here. Walked these streets. Looked at these towers."
He clenched his fists, feeling the cold of the shackles.
"She was part of this world. And then they sent her to die."
The cart stopped before a massive building with columns. A sign with golden letters hung above the entrance: «Administrative Center. Resonance Sector.»
The patrol commander dismounted and opened the cart's grate.
«Out.»
Syn rose and jumped onto the cobblestones. His legs buckled slightly, but he steadied himself. Two soldiers grabbed him by the elbows and led him to the entrance.
Inside the building, it was cool and spacious. High ceilings, walls of white marble, a floor of polished basalt. Benches lined the walls, on which people in grey uniforms sat. Administration clerks. They were writing in thick books, speaking in quiet voices, not raising their eyes to those passing by.
Syn was led through several corridors, then up a spiral staircase. They climbed for a long time. Syn counted steps to distract himself from the dull pain in his wrists. The shackles chafed his skin.
Finally, they stopped before a door of dark wood. The commander knocked.
«Enter,» a voice came from inside. Female, dry, without inflection.
The commander pushed the door open and gestured for the soldiers to bring Syn in.
The room was small but furnished with cold elegance. A massive desk of black wood, a high-backed chair behind it. A map of the Empire hung on the wall, dotted with red points. Wastelands. A bookshelf with books and scrolls stood in the corner.
A woman sat behind the desk.
She looked to be about forty, perhaps a little more. Hair grey, pulled into a severe bun. Face thin, with sharp features. Eyes grey, cold as steel. She wore the dark blue uniform of the Administration with silver insignia on her shoulders. A sign of high rank.
She looked up from the papers she was studying and surveyed Syn. Her gaze was appraising, almost indifferent. As if she were looking not at a person, but at an inventory item.
«Is this him?» she asked the commander.
«Yes, Mistress Aren. Branded. Came to the outpost himself this morning.»
The woman, Aren, raised an eyebrow.
«Came himself?»
«Yes, ma'am.»
She rose from the desk and approached Syn. Her movements were smooth, confident. She stopped a step away from him and extended her hand. Her fingers were slender, with manicured nails. She took him by the chin and turned his head, exposing his neck.
Syn gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to pull away.
Aren studied the Brand in silence. Her fingers slid over the pattern, cold and impersonal. Syn felt the Brand quiver under her touch. The skeletons stirred, as if awakening.
Aren abruptly withdrew her hand. Her eyes narrowed.
«Unusual,» she murmured. «Very unusual.»
She returned behind the desk and picked up a pen. Began writing something in a ledger.
«Name?»
Syn was silent for a moment, then answered:
«Syn.»
«Surname?»
«No.»
She looked up.
«Parents?»
«Don't know.»
«Relatives?»
Syn pressed his lips together. To speak of Lian? Or remain silent?
"If I say I had a sister who was a resonator, they might start digging. Find out I'm looking for her. That complicates things."
«No,» he lied.
Aren wrote something else. Then set the pen aside and folded her hands on the desk.
«Where did you receive the Brand?»
«Sector nine. An Outburst.»
«When?»
«Last night.»
«Do you know what the Brand means?»
«Yes.»
«And yet you came to the outpost voluntarily. Why?»
Syn met her gaze. Grey eyes looked at him without emotion. He understood she was looking for something. Weakness. Fear. Motive.
"Tell the truth. But not all of it."
«I want to find someone dear to me. For that, I need power. The Brand grants power. The Order trains resonators. Therefore, I need the Order.»
Aren tilted her head slightly.
«Pragmatic. But naive. Do you think the Order is a school for the willing? It is a machine, boy. A machine for producing weapons. You will enter as raw material and exit either a soldier or a corpse. Your desires interest no one.»
«I understand.»
«Understand?» For the first time, a note of something akin to curiosity appeared in her voice. «Then you are either very stupid or very desperate. Which is it?»
Syn didn't answer.
Aren smirked. Coldly, without joy.
«It doesn't matter. The result is the same.» She took a seal from the desk and stamped the paper. «You are enrolled on the candidate list. Tomorrow morning you will be delivered to the Institute "Awakened Dawn." There you will undergo the Awakening Ceremony and Aspect determination. If you survive, you become an Apprentice. If not…» She shrugged. «Statistics.»
The commander nodded and gestured for the soldiers to take Syn away.
Syn turned at the threshold.
«May I ask a question?»
Aren looked up, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
«Speak.»
«Does the Order keep records of all resonators?»
«Naturally. Every Branded is registered. Every mission documented.»
«Even secret expeditions?»
Aren narrowed her eyes.
«That is a strange question for a slum boy.»
Syn didn't look away.
«Just curiosity.»
Aren looked at him for a long second. Then said:
«Classified materials are accessible only to high-ranking resonators and Special Department personnel. They are as far from you as the stars. But if you are so curious…» She smiled slightly, and the smile was predatory. «Survive. Rise through the ranks. Become useful. Perhaps one day you will be allowed a glance at the archives. If, of course, by then you haven't gone mad or died in the Wastelands.»
Syn nodded and left.
He was taken to the underground cells beneath the Administrative Center. A long corridor with a row of metal doors. Behind each one, someone sat or lay. Newcomers, marked with the Brand, awaiting transfer to the Institute.
Syn was shoved into one of the cells, and the door slammed shut. A lock clicked.
The cell was small. Two by three meters. Stone walls, a narrow pallet, a bucket in the corner. The only light source, a small window under the ceiling, let in a dim red glow.
Syn sat on the pallet and took off the shackles. They had been removed when he was brought here, but his wrists still hurt. He rubbed the skin, restoring circulation.
Then he took Lian's locket from inside his shirt. It was warm from his body heat. Syn clenched it in his palm and closed his eyes.
"I'm inside, Lian. Inside the Citadel. One more step."
Tomorrow, the Institute. The Awakening Ceremony. There he would learn what his Brand truly meant. What his Aspect was. What abilities he possessed.
"Keeper of the Threshold."
The shadow's words echoed in his head again. He still didn't understand their meaning. But he felt the power within him was not like others'. The glowing lines he saw in sector nine. The ability to see the past through cracks in reality.
"Is this my power?"
There was no answer. The shadow was silent.
Syn sighed and lay on the pallet. It was hard, cold. But he was used to sleeping on worse. Comfort was a luxury in the slums.
He lay staring at the ceiling, thinking about the next day. About what awaited him at the Institute. About the people he would meet there. About enemies and allies.
"I need allies. People I can trust. Or at least those with whom it's beneficial to cooperate."
Syn harbored no illusions. He was nobody. A slum rat. At the Institute, he would be despised, humiliated, broken. The gilded youth of the clans looked at those like him as dirt.
"But I have something they don't."
He placed a hand on his neck, feeling the cold of the Brand.
"I have a purpose. A real one. Not power. Not glory. I'm looking for her. And for that, I will go through anything."
Fatigue began to take its toll. His eyelids grew heavy. Syn allowed himself to relax, drifting into a doze.
But before sleep finally claimed him, he heard a voice.
Quiet. Distant. The voice of the shadow.
«You have chosen the path, Keeper. Now walk it. But remember: every threshold you open will demand a price.»
Syn opened his eyes, but the darkness of the cell was empty.
The voice was gone.
He closed his eyes again and forced himself to sleep.
Morning came with the clang of metal. The cell door swung open, and a soldier appeared on the threshold.
«Up. Time to move.»
Syn rose, stretching his stiff shoulders. He was allowed to wash at a common basin, then issued a grey tunic and trousers. The clothes were coarse but clean. For the first time in a long while, he wore something that didn't stink or fall apart at the touch.
He was led out into a courtyard where a group of teenagers already stood. About fifteen people. All roughly his age. Some looked scared, others angry, still others simply empty, as if they had already resigned themselves to fate.
Syn stood at the back of the group and looked around. Most were like him. Dressed in grey tunics, with dirty faces and thin bodies. Children of the slums or poor districts. But several stood out. Clean, well-groomed, in clothes of good fabric. Children of clans, sent voluntarily to the Institute for prestige and power.
One of them, a fair-haired boy with a haughty expression, noticed Syn's glance and smirked.
«Look, another sewer rat.»
Two others next to him snickered.
Syn didn't respond. He simply looked away and fixed his gaze on the gates.
"Let them laugh. While they can."
A large covered wagon, drawn by six black horses, drove into the courtyard. The symbol of the Order was burned onto its side. A circle with three wavy lines.
The driver, an old soldier with a face scarred by wounds, jumped down from the seat and opened the rear door.
«Everyone inside. Quick.»
The teenagers began climbing into the wagon. Syn was one of the last to climb in. Inside, it was cramped and dark. Wooden benches along the walls. Everyone sat, pressed against each other.
The door slammed shut. The wagon moved.
Syn sat against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Next to him sat a girl of about fourteen, with short dark hair and large, frightened eyes. She was trembling.
Syn looked at her. Then said quietly:
«Don't be afraid. The worst is yet to come.»
The girl flinched and looked at him. Her eyes held a question.
Syn turned away and closed his eyes.
The wagon rolled through the streets of the Citadel, taking them further and further from the world they knew.
Into a world ruled by strength, blood, and will.