The corridor leading to the Circle chamber was narrow, dimly lit, and eerily silent. The Sentinel strode ahead, its mechanical frame moving with unnerving precision, its glowing red eyes slicing through the shadows. Ren’s boots echoed against the cold, metallic floor, each step reverberating like the ticking of a clock counting down his fate. The air was sterile here, devoid of the smog and grease of the Lower Rings, carrying a faint metallic tang that prickled the back of his throat. It was sharp, clinical—unlike anything he’d known in the Dregs. His stomach churned with a mixture of dread and unease.

  The corridor’s walls were adorned with intricate carvings, gears and interlocking patterns etched into the polished steel. Their symmetry felt alien, cold, a stark contrast to the chaos of the Dregs. Ren resisted the urge to run his fingers along the smooth, gleaming surface—as though touching it might taint it’s beauty confirming how far removed this place was from the world he knew. His gaze lingered on the intricate carvings adorning the polished steel walls—circles within circles, interlocked gears, all too perfect.

  His mind raced. His name had been called—randomly, they claimed. But there was no such thing as random in the Veil. Now he was here, on a path with no return. Just like his father. The thought twisted in his gut, cold and relentless. His breaths grew shallower as they approached the chamber. The air itself seemed heavier, colder, pressing against his skin like the weight of the Sanctum’s control.

  The Sentinel stopped abruptly before a massive iron door. Its surface shimmered with engravings—circles spiraling into constellations of interlocked mechanisms, each pulse syncing with the low hum of the Veil. Ren hesitated, his hands slipping into his pockets. His fingers brushed the shard, and it pulsed faintly against his touch, a subtle but steady rhythm. He tightened his grip, letting its warmth counter the icy unease clawing at his chest.

  “This doesn’t feel like a welcome mat,” he muttered, his gaze dropping to a pristine poster mounted beside the door. It bore the same message he’d seen a hundred times in the Dregs, though never in such elegant detail: “Together, we endure. Divided, we perish.” In the Dregs, the slogan was scrawled on tattered scraps, a bitter reminder of the hierarchy’s empty promises. Here, it gleamed in intricate design, every line of its lettering flawless.

  The Sentinel turned to Ren, its glowing eyes unblinking as its voice reverberated, low and mechanical. “Enter. The others await.”

  With a deep breath, Ren stepped forward as the door slid open with a hiss, revealing a vast, circular room bathed in an ethereal, bluish light.

  The room was vast, its walls curving upward into a vaulted ceiling that vanished into shadow. At its center hovered ancient sanctum technology, its surface shifting like liquid metal, pulsating with an almost hypnotic rhythm. Its low hum vibrated through Ren’s chest, stirring something within him. The shard in his pocket pulsed faintly in response, its warmth a heartbeat mirroring the central shard's call. Ren swallowed hard, steeling himself as unease crawled through his veins.

  The other Circle members stood scattered around the room, their faces illuminated by the tech’s eerie glow. Ren’s gaze moved from one to the next, instinctively assessing his companions.

  "Anyone else feel like we just got drafted into a cult... with extra steps?" Jalen whispered. Then quickly looked around like he'd said too much.

  "The Dreg," Juno said, her voice sharp and biting. She sized Ren up with a crooked smirk, her wiry frame taut with restrained energy. “Thought you’d be taller.”

  Ren blinked, caught off guard but not about to let her get the upper hand. “And you must be Juno. The loud one,” he replied evenly, though his tone carried a hint of bite.

  Her smirk widened, but her sharp eyes softened just enough to betray her amusement. “Observant,” she said, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Stick close, kid. You might survive longer.”

  Nearby, Xander Trask stood with his broad shoulders squared, his grease-stained hands resting at his sides. His workman’s overalls bore the faint traces of soot and oil, speaking to years of hard labor in the Trades. Calm and deliberate, he seemed to radiate quiet capability.

  "Survival,” Xander said, his voice even, “is the name of the game. You might want to remember that, Arielle.”

  Arielle Ashford turned to face him, her auburn hair gleaming in a precise braid, her posture impossibly straight. Her attire—sleek, unblemished, and perfectly tailored—seemed almost to mock the grime on Xander’s clothes. She arched an eyebrow, her expression cool and faintly condescending.

  "Survival?" she said, her tone clipped. “I’d call it misplaced faith. A collection of... misfits can hardly succeed at what the Council couldn’t manage on their own.”

  Sebastian murmured, almost like a prayer under his breath, “Wrong circle, wrong fate” No one acknowledged him.

  Xander tilted his head, his calm demeanor unshaken. “Without Trades keeping everything running, you wouldn’t even have a world to be sanctimonious about, Arielle.”

  “Sanctimonious?” she replied, her voice tightening. “I’m an Artisan, not a scavenger. The systems you patch together are designed by us. You should remember that when you go banging on pipes.”

  Ren watched their exchange, sensing a deep-seated animosity but also an unspoken respect beneath the tension. They wouldn’t admit it, but their roles depended on each other more than either cared to admit.

  Before Xander could respond, Delia stepped forward, her platinum hair gleaming under the techs’s light. Her tailored uniform bore the insignia of the Sanctum, its immaculate lines a stark contrast to the grit of the room. She carried herself with an air of authority, her piercing gaze scanning the group as if weighing their worth.

  "Enough,” Delia said, her voice smooth and commanding. “We’re here now. The why doesn’t matter.”

  Juno snorted, crossing her arms. “Oh, great. Another Sanctum princess here to tell us how unworthy we are.”

  Delia’s lips curved into a cold smile. “Keep talking, Dreg. Maybe the Veil will clap.” Her gaze flicked to Ren briefly before shifting to the others. “But unlike some of you, I intend to make the best of it.”

  Beside her, Lyra Durant moved with quiet grace, her piercing blue eyes sweeping across the group. Her presence felt as sharp and cold as ice, every movement calculated. She paused on Ren for a moment longer than the others, her expression unreadable.

  "She’s not wrong,” Lyra said finally, her voice formal and detached. “Speculation is a waste of energy. Focus on what lies ahead.”

  Before anyone could respond, the tech flared, its glow intensifying until the chamber was bathed in brilliant light. A deep, resonant voice filled the room, vibrating through their bones and silencing every breath.

  "Welcome to the Circle,” the voice intoned, neither human nor machine. “You have been chosen, not for your rank, but for your potential. Together, you will face the trials. Together, you will endure—or perish.”

  Juno’s smirk twitched then hardened. Great. Hazard pay better be included,” she muttered arms tightening across her chest.

  And then—something shifted.

  Just behind the arc of Juno’s shoulder, at the edge of the glowing tech—he saw himself.

  Standing still. Watching.

  Not a reflection. Not a shadow. A version of him—same build, same face—but altered. Leaner. Hardened. Eyes darker, like they had seen too much.

  Ren blinked.

  The image glitched, flickering like a broken hologram, then snapped out of existence.

  No one else reacted. No one turned.

  His breath hitched. The shard in his pocket pulsed sharply, like it had been waiting for this.

  No one else reacted. No one even looked.

  It hadn’t felt like illusion. It felt like memory—or a warning.

  The tech pulsed in time with the words, its hum growing louder, almost deafening. Ren’s shard stirred in his pocket, its warmth quickening as a whisper threaded through his thoughts: “Bound by blood... Keeper’s mark... Watch them.”

  The room fell into an uneasy silence as the weight of those words settled over them. Ren felt the familiar hum of the Veil in his chest, but this time, it was accompanied by something else—a quiet, insistent whisper, as if the Veil itself was watching.

  “You will each receive your first task shortly,” the voice continued. “Remember: the Circle is not just a test of strength but of unity. Divided, you will fail. United, you may survive.”

  As the tech’s light dimmed, the weight of the voice’s words settled over them like a storm cloud. The group exchanged wary glances, the tension between them palpable.

  “Unity, huh?” Juno snorted, crossing her arms. ‘Oh, fantastic. Another day, another death trap. Anyone else want to volunteer for the next "honor"?

  "We don’t have to like each other,” Xander said calmly, his arms crossed, “but we do have to work together. Otherwise, we’re done before we even begin.”

  Arielle scoffed softly. “Optimistic of you. The Council wouldn’t send us into this if survival was the goal.”

  "They’ll test us,” Delia said, her voice sharp and steady. “Push us until we break. The only question is whether we break together or apart.”

  Ren’s gaze shifted back to the tech. It pulsed faintly now, its surface shimmering with strange, shifting patterns. The whisper returned, faint but insistent: “Their unity is not what it seems.” He shivered, the weight of the shard’s warning settling heavy in his chest.

  “Whatever’s coming,” Ren said quietly, his voice firm despite the unease coiling in his gut, “we’ll need to figure it out fast. Alone, none of us stands a chance.”

  The room fell silent again, the tech’s hum filling the void as if daring someone to break it. One by one, the Circle members nodded, their reluctance tempered by the grim reality of the trials to come.

  While everyone else was too busy listening to the council Xander was focused on breaking down the tech.

  “That pattern on the left glyph?” Xander said quietly, eyes fixed on the tech. “Looks like a compressed circuit array—at least five layers deep. That shouldn’t even exist anymore.”

  As the others shifted, exchanging wary glances, Ren blinked—and the room was empty.

  No Juno leaning against the far wall. No Xander pacing. No Delia with her sharpened gaze.

  Just him.

  The tech in the center still hummed, but the sound was wrong now—thinner, frayed at the edges.

  "Hello?" Ren called out, his voice swallowed by the vastness of the chamber.

  No answer.

  His hand shot to the shard tucked under his shirt. It pulsed once—sharp, almost angry.

  In the corner of his vision, the walls... breathed.

  Then, as quickly as it had slipped, reality snapped back into place.

  Juno barked something about "death traps," Xander muttered under his breath, Delia watched him with unreadable eyes.

  As if nothing had happened at all.

  But Ren knew. The Veil was already peeling away.

  And this time, it wasn't just the world lying to him. It was himself.

  Ren shifted uncomfortably, his boots scraping against the metal floor. His gaze flicked toward Delia, her icy composure unshaken. She met his stare, unblinking, the silence stretching between them like a taut wire ready to snap. Delia’s arms crossed her chest, her pristine uniform remained untouched by the grime that clung to the rest of them. Her presence radiated detachment, as though the tension of the room couldn’t touch her.

  “So, what’s the plan, your highness?” Ren asked, his tone sharp. His voice cut through the silence like a blade, the frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

  Delia’s gaze turned toward him, her expression calm but cool. “Excuse me?” she replied, her tone like polished steel.

  “You heard me,” Ren said, stepping forward. “I’m sure someone from the Sanctum has all the answers. Why don’t you tell us what to do next?”

  Delia’s smirk cut deeper. “And I suppose someone from the Dregs knows how to lead us? What’s your plan, Vorath—tighten a few bolts and pray the world doesn't collapse?”

  Ren stepped closer, heat rising in his voice. “At least I fight to keep it standing. You hide behind silk and slogans.” His voice was quieter now, more dangerous. “People like me bleed to keep your world running. What have you ever risked?

  Delia’s smirk vanished, replaced by a sharp edge in her voice. “Don’t mistake privilege for weakness. I’ve faced challenges you couldn’t begin to imagine.”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” Ren shot back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Must’ve been real tough deciding which silk sheets to sleep on.”

  “Enough,” Xander interjected, his deep voice firm but steady. He stepped between them, his broad shoulders forming a barrier. “This isn’t the time for this.”

  “He’s right,” Arielle added, her tone clipped but calm. “If we’re going to survive whatever this is, we need to stop tearing each other apart before we even begin.”

  Ren glared at Delia, his chest rising and falling with each measured breath. She met his gaze head-on, her chin raised slightly as if daring him to continue. Neither moved.

  The tech flared suddenly, its light flooding the room and forcing everyone’s attention to its pulsating surface. A deep hum filled the chamber, vibrating the walls and the air around them.

  “Your distrust will be your undoing,” the tech’s voice intoned, resonant and calm, yet laden with warning. “Unity is your only path forward. Conflict will lead to failure—and death.”

  The warning hung heavy in the air, its weight palpable. Ren shifted his stance, glancing around at the others. The tech’s words felt like a storm cloud settling over them, dark and foreboding.

  Delia broke the silence, her voice sharp. “You heard it. Unity. So perhaps the next time you feel like lashing out, Dreg, you’ll remember that your survival depends on me as much as mine does on you.”

  Ren clenched his jaw, swallowing the retort that hovered on the tip of his tongue. The tech’s hum continued, steady and insistent, as if watching, judging their every move.

  “We don’t have to like each other,” Xander said, his voice calm and measured. “But we do have to work together. So how about we focus on figuring out what this shard wants before it decides to make good on that death threat?”

  Juno stepped forward, her sharp eyes scanning the group. “Agreed. I don’t trust any of you, but I’m not dying here because of your petty squabbles.”

  Delia gave a curt nod, her gaze lingering on Ren for a moment longer before she turned back to the tech. The shard in Rens pocket pulsed slightly as Delia gazed at him. Ren exhaled slowly, stepping back to fall in line with the others, though the tension in his chest refused to ease.

  The tech pulsed again, its light dimming slightly as symbols began to emerge on its surface—foreign, intricate markings that seemed to shift and flow like living ink. The hum grew louder, a crescendo of sound that made the air vibrate around them.

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  “What... is it doing?” Arielle asked, her usually calm voice tinged with uncertainty.

  Ren stared at the symbols, his earlier anger fading into something more primal—fear. “I don’t know,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. ““Whatever this trial is, we’ll need to set aside our differences.”

  The room fell into an uneasy silence as the weight of the words earlier settled over them… “and death”. Ren felt the familiar hum of the Veil in his chest, but this time, it was accompanied by something else—a quiet, insistent whisper, as if the shard itself was speaking directly to him.

  “Lost... yet found,” the voice seemed to say, so faint it could have been his imagination. “Bound by blood... by truth...”

  Ren’s breath caught in his throat, and he glanced around, but no one else seemed to react. The others were focused on the shard, their expressions ranging from awe to dread. Whatever the shard had said, it was a message only for him.

  But as the tech’s glow continued to pulse, its surface rippling like liquid metal, Ren couldn’t shake the feeling that it was watching him. The whisper echoed in his mind, faint but persistent, as though it were trying to tell him something he wasn’t ready to understand.

  “The Blood of the Bound. The Chained Veil. The Keeper's Mark”, it murmured again, just for him.

  Ren clenched his fists, forcing the voice to the back of his mind. He didn’t have time to dwell on riddles. The trials awaited, and whatever secrets his blood might hold, they would have to wait.

  The chamber’s dim light shifted suddenly, intensifying as a new sound filled the air—a deep, resonant chime that reverberated through their bones. The tech pulsed in response, casting long shadows against the walls as the air around them seemed to vibrate. From the edges of the room, a series of individuals, their silhouettes shimmering with an otherworldly glow.

  The Council had arrived.

  Ren froze, his chest tightening as the figures took shape—gliding soundlessly, their movements half a second out of sync with reality. Their cloaks of silver and cobalt shimmered, rippling as though underwater. Where faces should have been, there was only light—soft, shifting, and wrong, like something inside was struggling to hold its shape. Their presence commanded immediate silence, a weighty authority that settled heavily over the room.

  “Their cloaks aren’t even real” Arielle noted aloud, her voice edged with disdain.

  The lead figure moved forward, its voice filling the chamber, clear and commanding. Welcome, chosen ones,” it began, its tone both solemn and commanding. “You stand here not as individuals, but as the embodiment of humanity’s potential. You are the Circle, bound by purpose and fate. It is through you that our survival may yet be ensured.”

  Sebastian continued to murmur old sanctum proverbs to himself as the council continues to talk.

  The Council’s words echoed with a reverence that demanded attention, yet something about their cadence set Ren on edge. He could feel the others’ unease—a tension in the air, like a storm about to break.

  “You will face trials that test more than your strength and unity—trials that will unearth truths buried within your bloodlines – the truths even the council fears.” the figure continued, though the sharp edge in their voice betrayed a deeper intention. Unity was their word, but control was their aim, and Ren could feel the weight of that contradiction settle over the room. “But know this: you are not alone. Each of you is a thread in a tapestry, and only together can you weave a future worth preserving.”

  “Sacrifices will be required,” another Council member intoned, its voice softer but no less commanding. “Sacrifices for the greater good. For unity. For survival.”

  There it was again—that word: unity. The Council wielded it like a blade, sharp and unyielding. Ren’s unease deepened. He couldn’t explain why, but the word felt hollow, like it was hiding something beneath its polished surface.

  As the speech continued, Ren’s shard pulsed again, its warmth biting against his side. Whispers returned—so faint he thought he might be imagining them.

  “Watch them,” the voice murmured, threading through his thoughts like smoke. “Their unity is not what it seems.”

  His pulse quickened, but no one seemed to notice. Their expressions mirrored his own—wary, uncertain, but resigned to the path ahead. The Council’s words washed over the room, their commanding presence drowning out all else.

  “You will begin the first trial at dawn,” the lead figure announced. “Until then, reflect on what has brought you here. Remember, the Circle’s strength lies not in the individual, but in the collective.”

  With that, the Council began to fade, their luminous forms dissolving like mist as they walked away. The shard pulsed one final time before dimming, leaving the room bathed in its faint glow once more.

  For a moment, silence reigned.

  “What the hell was that?” Juno finally muttered, breaking the stillness. Her voice was low, but the frustration in it was unmistakable.

  “Unity,” Delia said flatly, her tone laced with a sarcastic edge. “Sacrifice. The usual platitudes.”

  “They’re not wrong,” Xander interjected, his voice calm but guarded. “If we don’t work together, we’re done.”

  “Maybe,” Ren murmured, his voice quieter than he intended. The shard’s whispers still lingered in his mind, unsettling and persistent. “But something’s off.”

  Juno tilted her head, studying him. “Off how?”

  Ren hesitated, unsure how much to share. The whispers, the strange pull he felt—it wasn’t something he could easily explain. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his words slow and deliberate. “Just... a feeling.”

  “Well, feelings won’t get us through this,” Arielle said, her tone clipped and precise. Her arms crossed tightly, her gaze sharp. “We need a plan.”

  As the group debated, Ren’s gaze drifted back to the shard. Its surface was calm now, its light subdued. Yet the whispers were still there, faint and insistent.

  “Their unity is not what it seems... watch them.”

  Ren shivered, his unease deepening. Whatever lay ahead, it was clear that the Council’s motives were far from transparent. But was the danger truly the Council—or was it someone standing beside him now?

  His eyes flicked to the others. Juno leaned casually against the far wall, her sharp gaze darting between them, as though already deciding who might break first. Xander paced, his boots scuffing against the floor, his tension evident in every step. Delia stood apart, her calm exterior unbroken save for the faintest twitch of her fingers. Arielle seemed lost in thought, her gaze fixed on the floor.

  Ren clenched his fists. The tech’s warning gnawed at him: “Watch them.” But who? The Council? His so-called allies? Himself?

  The door to the chamber creaked open, drawing everyone’s attention. A tall, cloaked figure stepped inside, their presence commanding and otherworldly. The intricate insignia of the Council shimmered faintly on their robes—a golden eye encircled by twisting vines. Though their face remained obscured by a hood, their voice rang clear and firm.

  “The Council has arranged quarters for you,” the figure announced. Their tone was calm yet carried an edge of authority. “You will remain with your assigned pairs. The trials begin at dawn.”

  Ren stiffened slightly, glancing at Delia. She had remained composed since the pairing announcements, her serene expression giving little away. He, on the other hand, couldn’t ignore the knot of tension twisting in his stomach.

  The figure gestured to the doorway behind them. “Follow me.”

  The chamber’s glow dimmed as the onboarding sequence ended, the glyphs pulsing back into silence. Some of the others dispersed, voices low, footsteps echoing off the curved walls. Delia lingered near the central console, scanning something on her wristpad.

  Ren approached, his voice quiet.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  Delia didn’t look up. “Depends.”

  “People go missing. From the Dregs, from Trades sectors. No warnings. No broadcasts. Just... gone. No answers.”

  Her fingers paused mid-scroll.

  “You’re asking if the Council’s behind it,” she said flatly.

  “I’m asking if they control what’s remembered.”

  Delia finally met his gaze. “That’s a dangerous question, Vorath.”

  “So is silence.”

  A long beat passed. Then she looked back to the console. “In the Veil, records are only as real as the ones allowed to exist.”

  Ren’s jaw clenched. “My father disappeared. No one talks about it. Not even a name etched into the wall.”

  Delia’s expression didn’t change, but her posture did—just slightly, as if the weight of something old had settled in.

  “Then maybe you’re not looking for answers,” she said. “Maybe you’re looking for what the Council tried to bury.”

  The group fell into step, moving through the Sanctum’s labyrinthine corridors. The air felt heavy, thick with the weight of unspoken fears and suspicions. Shadows danced unnaturally on the walls, their movement seemingly independent of the flickering torches that lined the halls.

  Ren walked beside Delia, stealing a glance at her as they moved. Her unwavering calm both intrigued and unnerved him. She moved with quiet precision, as though every step was part of a deliberate calculation.

  “You don’t seem worried,” Ren said quietly.

  Delia’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Worry wastes energy,” she replied simply. “Better to observe and adapt.”

  Ren frowned, unsure if she was being dismissive or simply practical. Probably both.

  Ahead, Xander was talking animatedly to Arielle, his voice bouncing off the stone walls. “This is nothing,” he said, attempting humor. “Just wait until the real tests—they’ll probably have us battling illusions or something. You ready for that?”

  Arielle shot him a sidelong glance, her tone as sharp as her posture. “I’m ready for anything. Focus on yourself.”

  Behind them, Jalen walked in silence, his face unreadable as always. Beside him, Sebastian adjusted the cuffs of his ornate jacket, clearly unimpressed with their surroundings.

  Juno and Lyra brought up the rear, their contrasting energies palpable. Juno’s sharp gaze darting around like a predator, while Lyra moved gracefully, her expression calm but with a quiet intensity that seemed to weigh every detail.

  The group stopped before a row of heavy wooden doors, each marked with the sigil of their assigned paths: Dregs, Trades, Artisan, Sanctum.

  The cloaked figure gestured toward the doors. “Ren and Delia, Dregs. Xander and Arielle, Trades. Jalen and Sebastian, Artisan. Juno and Lyra, Sanctum.”

  Ren exchanged a brief glance with Delia. Her expression remained unreadable, her composure a stark contrast to the unease stirring within him. The shard pulsed faintly in his pocket, its warmth grounding him as his thoughts churned.

  Inside, the room was sparse but functional. A single candle flickered on a small table, casting jagged shadows against the cold stone walls. A narrow cot was tucked into one corner, accompanied by a plain wooden chair and a basin of water that reflected the dim light like a shard of broken glass.

  Ren hesitated in the doorway, the weight of the shard beneath his cloak suddenly heavier, its warmth almost accusatory.

  Delia brushed past him, her movements brisk and deliberate. She surveyed the room with clinical detachment. “We’ll make do,” she said, her tone flat, as though dismissing any hope for comfort.

  Ren lowered himself onto the cot, the tension in his shoulders refusing to ease. His hands curled around the edges of the thin mattress as the shard’s whispers began to unfurl in his mind—quiet, persistent, unsettling. He clenched his fists, trying to silence the voice within him.

  “You don’t trust anyone, do you?” Ren muttered under his breath.

  Delia turned, her sharp eyes pinning him with an unreadable gaze. “What was that?”

  “You think this is just a game?” Ren muttered.

  Delia didn’t answer right away. Just studied the wall, fingers brushing faint glyph etchings.

  “Games have rules,” she said finally. “This doesn’t.”

  She studied him for a moment longer before returning to her methodical assessment of their quarters. “We’ll need to stay alert,” she said finally. “Whatever the Council has planned, it won’t be straightforward. They’ll test us—not just our skills, but our weaknesses.”

  Ren nodded, though unease continued to gnaw at him. He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—the Council’s cryptic agenda or the thought that Delia might see through him before he figured out who to trust.

  The candlelight flickered, casting distorted shadows across the room. Ren watched as the flame wavered, mirrored by the doubt in his chest. “Sanctum,” he muttered, tasting the word like ash on his tongue. “What does that even mean?”

  Delia sighed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “It means my bloodline isn’t like yours, or Xander’s, or anyone else’s here,” she said, her voice sharp yet tinged with a weariness that didn’t escape him. “The Sanctum bloodline is about protection. Preservation. We were the wardens of what was left after the world burned, keepers of knowledge and power no one else could touch.”

  “That sounds... like a children’s story,” Ren said slowly, the shard humming faintly in his pocket, as if challenging her words.

  “You’re so na?ve, Dreg,” Delia snapped, her tone icy. “We were important until the Circle decided we were a threat. Sanctum bloodlines were hunted, eradicated, or assimilated into the Council’s control. We’re a dying lineage, Ren. What’s left of us exists only because the Council allows it.”

  Ren blinked, surprised by the bitterness laced in her voice. “And you’re okay with that? Being... controlled?”

  Her composure cracked, her eyes flashing with something raw and unspoken. “Do I look like I’m okay with it?” she shot back, her voice low and sharp. She exhaled, smoothing her tone. “It doesn’t matter what I feel. The Council holds the strings here. If we step out of line, we’re gone. That’s the reality.”

  Ren leaned forward, his unease growing. “So why are you here? If the Council sees your bloodline as a threat, why pair you with someone like me? What do they want from us?”

  Delia’s lips twitched into a faint, sardonic smile. “You think they told me their grand plan?” she asked, her voice dripping with quiet scorn. “They paired us for their reasons, not ours. Maybe they want to see how we handle ourselves—or how we fail.”

  “And the Circle?” Ren pressed. “What do you know about the trials?”

  Delia’s gaze turned distant, her fingers tightening into fists at her sides. Her voice softened, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of pain. ‘The Circle exists to weed out the weak,’ she said, but her gaze dropped to the floor, lingering on memories she didn’t dare speak aloud. "But that’s not all. These trials… they’re meant to expose the truths we’ve been forced to forget. They want us broken, but they also want us to see what they’ve been hiding.”

  After a moment Delia raised her head and speaking more strongly, “The circle is to test our resolve, our limits. It’s not about passing or failing—it’s about who can endure the pain, who can make the sacrifices they demand. Because only those willing to give everything will survive.”

  Ren’s stomach twisted, dread settling in his chest like a stone. “And what happens if we don’t?”

  Delia met his gaze, her expression cold and unflinching. “Then we don’t leave this place alive.”

  Ren shivered, the tech’s whispers wrapping around his thoughts like a vice. “watch them”

  He didn’t know what to believe anymore—Delia’s words, the tech’s whispers, or his own instincts.

  Do I trust her? The thought kept circling. Does she know something I don’t? Or is she just better at pretending? He wanted to trust Delia. Needed to. But every time she looked at him, it felt like she saw something he hadn’t yet uncovered about himself.

  He wanted to scream at the voice inside his head. He didn’t need more paranoia, didn’t need to doubt everything around him. But the more he tried to ignore it, the more it felt like the shard was digging its claws into his psyche. Was it trying to protect him? Or was it just another force manipulating his thoughts, twisting them until he couldn’t trust his own mind?

  Focus. He breathed in deeply, grounding himself. He could feel Delia’s presence at the far side of the room, her sharp eyes flicking over him, a quiet scrutiny in her gaze. She wasn’t asking questions, but he could sense the weight of her silent assessment.

  Delia turned her attention back to the room, her movements precise and unhurried. Ren clenched his fists, his knuckles white. The whispers were growing louder, clearer, as though the shard was tunneling into his mind.

  He shifted abruptly, standing to pace the room, his tension palpable. “What if we’re not supposed to make it out of here?” he asked, his voice taut with frustration. “What if this whole thing is just a game, and they’ve already decided who survives and who doesn’t?”

  Delia didn’t look at him immediately. She finished her inspection of the wall, her movements deliberate. “You’re thinking too much, Ren,” she said quietly. “Focus on what you can control. If you waste your energy on paranoia, you won’t survive what comes next.”

  Ren swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus, but the unease wouldn’t dissipate. Was she right? Or was her calmness just another layer of deception?

  His stomach twisted with unease. She’s right. I don’t know anything. But something about her calm, composed attitude set him on edge. How could she be so sure that they were just being tested, that the trials weren’t some elaborate trap?

  Ren wanted to believe her, to trust that there was a way out. But his gut told him otherwise. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the trials weren’t just about survival—they were about something much darker, something that would expose weaknesses Ren wasn’t ready to face. And if Delia knew more than she was letting on, she might be hiding something crucial.

  Ren sat on the edge of the cot, the flickering candlelight casting long, eerie shadows across the stone walls. His fingers brushed against the shard tucked safely inside his pocket. His jaw tightened as his thoughts drifted to his fathers necklace. The shard felt warm to the touch. He needed answers. He needed to know.

  But there was something else. A faint, lingering memory of his father flashed before him—the necklace, worn by his father. He’d found it years ago in the Waste Zone, or so the story went. Ren had never been there, never asked for details. The shard necklace wasn’t much, just a small sliver, but his father had always worn it around his neck. He remembered how the shard would catch the light just right when his father walked under the dreg lights... how the glow always seemed a little too bright for something so small.

  Ren couldn’t recall when his father had first started wearing it, but it had been there for as long as he could remember. The shard had been wrapped carefully in the leather, almost like a talisman, hanging close to his father’s chest. Ren had always thought it was just another piece of his father’s collection—he’d never known what it meant, nor had he ever asked. It wasn’t something they discussed, not in the way that other families shared stories. The shard was just part of his father, as constant as the wind.

  Now, alone in the dim room, Ren felt the weight of that memory press down on him as he held it in his hand. That fragment his father had worn—The only piece of him he has left. But now, with everything happening around him, it felt like there was a connection between the two pieces, the one he now held and the one in the sanctum.

  He didn't understand why, but the thought gnawed at him, creeping in from the corners of his mind like a puzzle he wasn’t ready to solve. He had kept the necklace after his father’s passing, but the full story of it was still a mystery. Ren didn’t even know why he still wore it. It was the one thing he had left of his father, and yet, he had never thought to question its significance.

  As Delia moved about the room, inspecting the bare stone walls and the modest furnishings with clinical detachment, Ren couldn’t help but steal a glance at the necklace in his hand. He had kept it close, not wanting anyone to ask about it. Especially not Delia. There was something about her sharp gaze, the way she always seemed to see more than she let on, that made him hesitant to expose anything too personal.

  Delia turned from the window, her sharp gaze catching his distraction. “Whatever you’re hiding, the Circle will find it,” she said, her voice low but pointed.

  Ren hesitated. “Did you hear anything earlier? The Blood of the Bound. The Chained Veil. The Keeper's Mark.”

  Delia glanced sideways. “What did you say?”

  Ren hesitated. “A phrase. Not sure if it was real.”

  She frowned. “The Blood of the Bound… sounds like Sanctum scripture. The Keeper’s Mark—” she trailed off, as if the words left a bitter taste. “Old legend. Sanctum lore says some were born as ‘Keepers,’ tattooed with glyphs that could wake the Veil if it ever fractured.”

  The air between them was thick with unspoken thoughts, but Ren kept the necklace and the fragment of the shard to himself. He wasn’t ready to share that part of his past—not with Delia, not with anyone. It was his secret, a piece of his father’s legacy, and he wasn’t sure yet what role it would play in the trials ahead. He didn’t know if sharing the whispered phrase was too much but all he knew was that the shard had always been there, always close, and it seemed that now—more than ever—it was calling to him.

  Delia moved toward the door, pausing with her hand on the frame. She glanced back, her tone uncharacteristically soft. “The Council doesn’t leave anything to chance,” she said. “If you’re not ready, you won’t make it.”

  Ren swallowed hard, shifting on the cot. Her words pressed into him like a weight he wasn’t ready to carry. His fingers against the shard tucked in his pocket. It pulsed faintly, a rhythmic thrum that seemed to echo the tension coiling in his chest. He clenched it tightly, as if the small fragment could somehow tether him to sanity amid the storm of mistrust swirling in his mind.

  Ren’s gaze dropped to his hands, trembling slightly as the shard warmed beneath his touch. For a fleeting moment, he thought he felt the echo of his father’s voice—faint, like a whisper carried on the wind. He forced his fingers to loosen, drawing in a slow, steady breath.

  The flickering candle guttered, its light dimming as an unexpected chill crept through the room. Ren glanced toward the single narrow window, his heart thudding painfully against his ribs.

  “Do you feel that?” he asked, his voice hushed.

  Delia turned, her sharp gaze locking with his. She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, the candle extinguished completely, plunging the room into darkness.

  The shard pulsed once, its glow faint but vivid beneath his cloak, as though alive. A single word echoed in his mind, louder this time, clear and undeniable.

  “Awaken.”

  The shard pulsed again.

  This time, Ren didn’t resist the voice.

  He listened - feeling something coil awake inside him.