"Dream harder. The walls are listening."

  — Graffiti in the Dregs

  Before he could make sense of it, The Beacon Bell tolled—a low, shuddering roar that vibrated through the walls, the floors, the very air.

  Ren flinched, his fingers slipping from the tools he didn’t remember holding. Around him, the Dregs stirred, a collective intake of breath sharp enough to cut through the Veil’s constant hum.

  He staggered back a step, the shard burning against his chest, its pulse quick and frantic now, like it was alive.

  The Circle. The Council called it an honor—a chance to gather resources and ensure the Veil’s survival—but in the Dregs, it was a death sentence cloaked in ceremony. Whispers spoke of something more, something darker. Why else would the Council send the strongest, the cleverest? Why else would they take people who mattered most? Ren’s breath caught in his throat. The bell had only one meaning: No return.

  His stomach twisted. No one spoke. No one needed to.

  Ren wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers and forced his legs to move, to carry him out into the streets already swelling with the flow of people. Men, women, and children drifted toward the assembly area like ash drawn toward a flame.

  A thousand hollow faces. A thousand silent prayers.

  Ren elbowed through the crowd, the cracked walls of the assembly hall pressing closer with every step.

  A smear of black paint caught his eye — a jagged slogan half-buried under years of grime:

  Welcome to the Circle. Mind the bodies.

  He looked away before the words could sink in.

  And somewhere in the distance, the grainy monitor flickered to life, the Circle’s symbol casting an eerie glow over the silent crowd. It was a grim, dusty space, the remnants of past assemblies visible in the worn stone and rusted steel structures that surrounded the area as the people of the Dregs—those lucky enough to fit inside—watched with bated breath. For the rest of the Dregs, those outside the cramped room, the voices of the announcers crackled over the citywide broadcast speaker system, their words distorted but still carrying the chilling weight of what was happening.

  Waiting to name the condemned.

  The Veil’s low vibrations thickened, pressing against his skin like static before a storm.

  Breath fogged the stifling air.

  The people's voices, quiet uncertain murmurs, bounced off the crumbling walls as they waited.

  A cold voice suddenly cut through the hum, loud and clear, through both the speaker system and the TV screen.

  The crowd shifted like a living creature, waves of unease rippling through the Dregs.

  Children clung to their mothers like shipwreck survivors. Men stood stiff-backed, jaws set, pretending not to be afraid.

  The air grew hotter, thicker, as if the Veil itself was suffocating them.

  Somewhere near the front, someone whispered a prayer too faint to catch.

  Ren couldn’t tell if it was for salvation — or a quick death.

  “Stand by for the Circle Selection. The chosen will be announced shortly.”

  A hushed silence fell over the assembly area. The crowd held their collective breath, watching the grainy image of the Circle logo flashing on the monitor. In the Dregs, the Circle was more curse than tradition. Everyone knew the stories—rumors whispered over the years of those chosen, of lives consumed by the Veil’s needs. Few returned, and those who did were shadows of their former selves.

  The voice returned, cold and mechanical, with no trace of emotion.

  “Selection commencing. First, from the Dregs: Ren Vorath.”

  His vision tunneled. The ground tilted beneath him. Faces blurred—mouths moving, eyes hollow, like the Dregs themselves were falling.

  No... not me. Not now. Not—

  The monitor flickered, locking his face in cold, unblinking light. A brand, not a portrait.

  His name echoed, and his face—unbelieving, ghost-pale—the grainy image flashed across the screen. A faint whisper threaded through his thoughts, too faint to catch but sharp enough to make him shiver. He touched the shard through his shirt, its warmth steadying his trembling hand. His father’s words surfaced unbidden: “The shard knows, Ren. It remembers.”

  Gasps rippled through the crowd. Ren caught fragments of voices—his mother’s horrified gasp, his younger sister Kara’s frozen silence, and his best friend Caden’s pale, tight-lipped warnings. “Ren, no. Don’t do it. There’s no coming back from this.” The words reached his ears like distant thunder.

  Ren’s pulse roared in his ears. His name had been called. There was no turning back.

  “Juno Vasquez. The Dregs. Chosen for the Circle.”

  Juno grinned sharply as her name flashed. "Figures," she muttered, slicing through the silence. Ren caught her gaze through the crowd—steady, unyielding. Juno had always been a survivor, fierce and defiant in a world designed to crush hope. Her selection wasn’t a surprise. If anyone from the Dregs could face the Circle, it was her.

  “Xander Trask. Trades. You have been selected.”

  The screen flickered to a young man from the Trades, the district that powered the Veil’s economy. Its bustling streets were lined with stalls and workshops, filled with merchants hawking wares and laborers honing their trades. Xander, the mechanic who made dead machines breathe, stood rigid, fists clenched. The Trades thrived on productivity, and Xander’s selection seemed a natural extension of that purpose.

  “Jalen Fyke. Trades. Chosen for the Circle.”

  Another name from the Trades. Jalen, quiet as mist, looked like a mistake among the chosen. The Trades valued those who thrived in the chaos of commerce, but Jalen had always stayed in the background, unnoticed. His selection deepened the unease spreading through the crowd—why him?

  “Arielle Ashford. Artisan. You, too, have been selected for the Circle.”

  The name sent a ripple of shock through the assembly. The Artisan district was the Veil’s hub of innovation, where engineers and craftsmen designed the intricate systems that sustained the city. Their workshops rang with the sound of hammers and the hum of machinery, and the air carried the scent of polished metal. Arielle Ashford’s face appeared on the screen, her green eyes cold and calculating. Artisans built worlds; they weren’t meant to bleed. Yet Arielle stood calm, like this was already decided. Ren’s mind reeled. Someone like her didn’t belong here. The Circle was for people like him—people the Veil could afford to lose.

  “Sebastian Holt. Artisan. You, too, are selected.”

  Sebastian followed—calm, cold, as if survival were another project to perfect. Artisans like Arielle and Sebastian thrived in the ordered world of creation and intellect, far removed from the chaos of the lower districts. Their presence among the chosen blurred the lines Ren thought he understood.

  “Delia Rook. Sanctum. Chosen for the Circle.”

  The room fell silent. Delia’s name carried weight. The Sanctum was the pinnacle of the Veil, its spires reaching into the artificial light above. It was the seat of power, home to the Council and their advisors, who governed the Veil’s rigid hierarchy. The air there was untainted, the streets immaculate. Delia’s face appeared on the screen, her cold beauty a striking reflection of the Sanctum’s distant opulence. Her selection defied explanation. The Sanctum didn’t send its own into the unknown. Not without purpose. Ren thought, “Perhaps the Council is finally desperate.”

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  “Lyra Durant. Sanctum. You have been selected for the Circle.”

  Another gasp rippled through the crowd. Lyra’s platinum-blonde hair and sharp, ice-blue eyes radiated an untouchable confidence. The Sanctum rarely interacted with the lower districts, their lives insulated by wealth and power. Lyra’s ice-blue stare promised she already knew how this ended.

  Every name dragged a fresh gasp from the crowd.

  Some cursed under their breath. Others squeezed their children tighter, as if shielding them from the inevitable.

  Every announcement was a blow, a slow, steady hammering of hope into dust.

  By the time Lyra Durant’s name was called, the silence was complete — not acceptance, but exhaustion.

  Static tore across the screen—shaping, for a breath, into a butterfly. Fragile. Out of place. Then it vanished.

  “Together, we endure. Divided, we perish.”

  The screen went black, but the weight of the announcement lingered. Ren’s mind raced, his heart pounding in his chest. The Circle wasn’t just a test—it was a reckoning, a force that disregarded the barriers of the Veil’s hierarchy. Yet, as Ren glanced at the carefully curated pairings, he wondered if the Circle was less about testing and more about breaking them apart, piece by piece.

  The words of the Veil poster flashed across the screen once again, the simple yet powerful message lingering in the air, a reminder of the fate that awaited those selected for the Circle. The crowd stood in silence, unsure of what came next. It was clear now—the Circle had begun, and the pairings would follow.

  Ren’s mind raced, his heart pounding as his name echoed through the streets. He barely registered the other names: Juno Vasquez, Xander Trask, Arielle Ashford, Delia Rook. Faces flashed on flickering screens, strangers now bound together by the Circle’s cruel design.

  The announcer’s voice returned once more.

  “The pairings will be announced shortly. Stand by.”

  The screen flickered again, the low hum of the Veil intensifying as the crowd held their breath, waiting for what was to come. The air was thick with uncertainty, the weight of the unknown pressing down on everyone in the room. Finally, the cold, mechanical voice returned, breaking the silence.

  “Pairing commencing. Stand by for your assigned partners.”

  The tension in the room was palpable as the first name flashed across the screen. It was Ren Vorath, the Dregs. His eyes were wide with disbelief as his face filled the screen once more. There were no words, only his stunned expression.

  “Ren Vorath, Dregs, paired with... Delia Rook.”

  A gasp rippled through the crowd. The pairing of Ren, a survivor from the Dregs, with Delia, a cold, calculated member of the Sanctum, made no sense to anyone. Ren, with his raw, unrefined strength, and Delia, with her poised elegance, were from worlds apart. The silence was deafening as both faces remained on the screen, their connection uncertain, their fates intertwined in a way no one had expected.

  Ren stared at the screen. Delia Rook. The Sanctum’s crown jewel. What the hell was she doing in the Circle? What did the Council want with someone like her—and what did it mean that he was paired with her?

  The screen flickered again, and the voice cut through the growing murmur of the crowd.

  “Juno Vasquez, Dregs, paired with... Lyra Durant.”

  Juno: steel in her eyes. Lyra: ice in her veins. The screen blinked, the crowd’s awe hardening into fear. Juno, known for her toughness and no-nonsense approach, was now linked with Lyra, the icy elite of the Sanctum. There was an unsettling calm about Lyra, a controlled power that seemed to starkly contrast Juno’s raw, volatile energy. It was a pairing that raised more questions than answers.

  The next name appeared on the screen, and a heavy silence fell.

  “Xander Trask, Trades, paired with... Arielle Ashford.”

  Xander’s face was stoic as Arielle’s calm, almost indifferent expression flashed beside his. Xander, a man of invention and resourcefulness, was now paired with Arielle, one of the highest-ranked Artisans. It was an unlikely pairing, but one that carried a certain kind of quiet strength. Arielle’s sharp intelligence and Xander’s creative mind could either clash or fuse in ways that could alter the course of everything. The crowd knew that these two would either complement or destroy one another.

  The screen blinked again, the voice continuing its monotone delivery.

  “Jalen Fyke, Trades, paired with... Sebastian Holt.”

  Jalen’s confused expression was followed by Sebastian’s cool, composed one. These two, from completely different districts, stood now as a united front. Jalen, the quiet and reserved man, and Sebastian, an Artisan with the weight of privilege on his shoulders, had been brought together in a way no one could have predicted. The crowd felt the weight of the decision—this pairing was more than just about their individual skills. It was about what they could bring out of each other, what was yet hidden beneath the surface.

  The final pairing flashed on the screen. The voice echoed one final time.

  “Selection complete. The Circle is formed.”

  As the final words lingered in the air, the screen faded to black, and the room was left in stunned silence. The fate of those chosen had been sealed, and whatever trials awaited them in the Circle would change them forever.

  The air in the assembly hall shifted as the screen went dark. The crowd, still digesting the shocking pairings, stood in uneasy silence. It was then that a low, mechanical hum reverberated through the room. The floor trembled slightly underfoot as a massive figure emerged from the shadows, its heavy steps echoing like the ticking of a clock.

  A Sentinel.

  A black titan stitched together with cruelty.

  The ground shuddered under its heavy steps, each footfall a mechanical heartbeat against the cracked stone.

  The air reeked of ozone and burnt metal. The crowd shrank back instinctively, forming a breathing wall of fear.

  Red eyes cleaved the haze, hunting for fates to chain.

  When it reached him, the air felt colder, heavier, as if the Veil itself was watching.

  The towering, armored enforcer was a sight to behold, its sleek, black armor glistening under the dim lights of the assembly area. The mechanical whirring of servos filled the silence as the Sentinel moved forward, its glowing red eyes scanning the crowd with an unsettling calm. Its sheer presence seemed to suppress any hint of resistance in the room—this was no ordinary guard. A creature of the Council, it was a symbol of authority, power, and unyielding control. The hulking machine was a manifestation of the system itself, a creature born from metal and purpose, designed to keep the Dregs—and all the districts—subjugated.

  It stopped just in front of Ren Vorath, towering over him like a dark specter. The crowd parted as the Sentinel extended a gloved, mechanical hand toward Ren, its voice low and metallic as it spoke.

  “Ren Vorath,” it intoned, its voice a chilling echo of the Council’s will. “You are to be escorted to the inner Circle at the Sanctum. The Council requires your presence.”

  Ren’s pulse thundered as the Sentinel’s cold hand gripped his shoulder. The machine’s red eyes glowed with inhuman purpose, and for a moment, Ren thought of running. But there was nowhere to go, nowhere the Veil wouldn’t find him. His gaze flicked to his mother’s tear-streaked face, and he let the Sentinel pull him forward. The Circle had claimed him, and there was no escape.

  “Come with me,” the Sentinel continued, its voice unyielding, as if there was no room for hesitation. “The Council awaits.”

  Ren swallowed hard, the knot in his stomach tightening as he glanced back at the assembly. His mother’s tear-streaked face, his friends’ worried expressions—they all seemed to blur into the background, as if the world had suddenly grown distant. His focus was solely on the towering Sentinel before him, its presence an undeniable reminder of the path he now had no choice but to follow.

  Without another word, the Sentinel turned and began to walk, its massive frame moving with surprising grace for something so mechanical. Ren took a tentative step forward, his heart racing as the crowd watched him leave. He could feel their eyes on him, the weight of their judgment, their fear. This was it. The moment he had dreaded, yet could not avoid. The Circle wasn’t a test. It was a sentence.

  As they walked, the hum of the Veil seemed to intensify, almost suffocating in its presence. Ren could feel the pull of the Sanctum, a place of unimaginable power and wealth, its cold allure beckoning him forward. The words of his best friend, Caden, echoed in the distance, urging him to turn back, to fight, but Ren knew better than to hope for an escape. As the Veil’s hum grew louder, Ren’s gaze lifted one last time to the dome above. Its vast, unyielding presence loomed over everything, a reminder that survival was both gift and curse. He took a shaky breath, the shard in his pocket pulsing faintly against his chest, and glanced at the sentinel.

  Ren walked by an old man—someone he vaguely recognized. The Dregs called him cracked, touched by the Waste. Most dismissed his mutterings as static-brain nonsense.

  Ren spotted him earlier — a tattered figure hunched against a support column, muttering to himself.

  No one paid him any mind. No one ever did.

  But when Ren passed, the old man’s head snapped up, and the madness in his eyes sharpened into something worse: recognition.

  "They clipped your wings before you even flew," the man rasped, voice cracking. "Built walls out of dreams. Painted 'freedom' on the bricks."

  His breath hitched, a guttural sound.

  "You think you’re awake? You're just sleepwalking through their lie..."

  He lurched forward, grabbing at empty air.

  "The Cr—"

  The sound tore from his throat, half-word, half-scream.

  Ren froze, every nerve screaming for answers.

  But before the old man could finish, the guards slammed into him—fast, efficient, brutal, dragging the man down and out of sight. The crowd pretended not to see.

  The Sentinel’s grip clamped down on Ren’s shoulder again, steering him forward.

  And in its cold, mechanical hands, he saw another hand — rough, calloused, reaching for him across the years.

  His father’s hand.

  It wasn’t the Circle that had taken him. It was this.

  This machine. This system.

  It had erased his father. It would try to erase him too.

  As the doors to the Sanctum loomed ahead, Ren clutched the shard through his shirt, its pulse steady and silent, the only part of him that remembered.

  I won't forget you.

  Not like they wanted him to.

  His father’s ghost walked beside him now.

  There was no going back.

  Only forward - into the Sanctums hollow heart.

  The Veil had chosen him.

  And now, he would face it alone.