The cold didn’t bother Kael. Not truly. He’d grown up by the docks. He’d grown up where winter winds were merciless and snow reached up to legs. But without thinking, he wrapped his arms around himself. He wanted to stop his body from shaking and his teeth from chattering. No—what made him tremble was the way it watched.

  The Spine.

  Ribs twisted and torn from the Fallen God’s chest formed a spire that stretched to the heavens. It towered over the horizon like a crooked finger clawing at the dull sky. Its surface shimmered, catching the sun’s dim light like a cursed jewel.

  Up close, it almost looked beautiful. Almost. But Kael knew better. He’d heard the stories his Nan told him. The fishermen’s muttering warnings at the docks. Monsters, beasts, and wicked trials. Men lured by glory just to vanish without a trace. Nan always used to warn Kael and his siblings never to get close.

  A sudden clink of metal broke his thoughts, snapping him back to reality. He walked behind the line of prisoners. His feet dragged along the ground as if he had stones tied to his ankles. Every step fought the iron shackles biting his thin, bruised wrists. His stomach hadn’t growled in days.

  Around him, the other prisoners walked in the same rhythm, their gazes locked on nothing. Cracked lips, glazed eyes. No one spoke. Not anymore. What was left to say? Even the winds had long died out, leaving only the scrape of feet on stone and clink-clink of chains.

  A man ahead collapsed from exhaustion onto the cold ground. He looked very old. Kael couldn’t tell if it was from the tough march or just his age. Even so, Kael guessed the man hadn’t weathered more than sixty winters.

  A cultist stepped forward, boots crunching on debris. A boy younger than Kael himself.

  He struck the ground with his whip mere inches beside the man’s face, kicking dust into the air.

  “Up,” the young cultist commanded with a tired sneer.

  The prisoner wheezed, pushing onto trembling arms to force himself up. Too slow.

  The sound was wet, meaty–leather striking flesh. Kael’s jaw tightened as he felt his stomach turning.

  “The Spine doesn’t wait for cowards like you,” he growled as if reciting a well-worn mantra.

  Another lash. The man fell silent. And another; the cultist didn’t stop.

  Kael looked away, his fists clenched at his sides. He could feel the eyes of the other prisoners on him, on each other, all begging for someone to do something. But no one moved. No one ever did.

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  “The Gods see you, and they’re disappointed.” The cultist muttered, almost to himself, as he wiped the blood from his whip with the edge of his sleeve.

  His voice was detached as he addressed the line of shivering captives. “Forward. No one told you to stop.”

  Kael swallowed hard. He felt the bitter taste of bile scorching his throat. He forced his feet forward, keeping pace with the other prisoners. His hands twisted into tight knots, nails dug deep into his palms. The pain didn’t make him feel any better.

  The Spine’s gates grew as they got closer. They loomed like the maw of a great beast. Stone and metal came together to create the towering doors. They were etched with runes that seemed to blur if you stared at them too long.

  As they came closer, Kael noticed more prisoners. Hundreds, maybe thousands, were all herded into lines like cattle.

  A figure waited at the gates, the High Priest. Very thin, he almost seemed malnourished, draped in robes darker than a starless night. He wore a necklace of bone-like crystal shards like relics torn from the Spine itself. Blackened chains coiled around it, pulsing like a heartbeat. His head had no hair, and strange symbols covered his face and neck. The symbols seemed to move, squirming like maggots all over his skull. The cultists around him kept their eyes low and bowed out of respect–or was it fear?

  "Consider yourselves fortunate," he intoned, his voice dripping with condescension. "We've selected you to transcend your pitiful existences." A twisted grin spread across his face.

  "The trials in the Spine will remove your weakness and rebuild you," the figure said, his voice full of passion and reverence.

  "Forge you into something… worthy! Prove yourself to the Gods and become the One to lead us all." He motioned towards the looming gates, his twisted grin growing wider.

  Cultists opened the huge gates of the Spine. Inside, a swirling blue portal waited. It was almost the size of the gates. A low hum emanated from the portal, and the edges shimmered like liquid glass.

  Kael felt a strong pull toward the portal. It urged him and the other prisoners to move forward. His feet moved on their own, carrying him closer before he could even comprehend.

  The cultists herded the prisoners toward the portal. They pushed hard, making some struggle, but the cultists forced them on.

  A prisoner around Kael’s age was next in line. “What’s in there?” he muttered.

  “Ascension,” said a cultist before he pushed him in.

  Prisoners who entered the portal vanished right away. The portal swallowed them. No scream. No sound. Just blue light, then black. Then nothing.

  With each reluctant step, Kael's dread intensified. Is this it? Is this how I meet my end?

  Kael counted his breaths. In. Out. Like Nan taught him during the storms.

  In. Out.

  He remembered her wrinkled, rugged hands labored from years of skinning and preparing fish. The sound of his siblings’ laughter by the docks.

  In. Out.

  They’d come for them—the cultists, burning down the village he grew up in. He’d tried to fight back, but what could a boy do?

  In. Ou-

  The cultist shoved him, and without warning, he was thrust forward into the unknown.

  Cold. Then heat. Then pressure.

  It crushed his lungs. His bones bent—twisted like they were caught between a hammer and an anvil. He attempted to scream, but nothing came out.

  The world around him faded. The ground below vanished, and he plunged into a never-ending, inky void.

  He heard someone—something laughing in the void. Broken, wet laughter.

  And then, all was dark.