Most men arrived at Spiritlock Prison broken. Rix arrived focused.

  The building loomed before him, a slab of imposing stone, heavy and grey and wreathed in dark clouds. A place blighted by the heavens. It left him feeling like all the colour had been sucked out of this part of the world. Rumours existed about the place, that it was a former temple, or corporate headquarters, or barracks for some long dead army. Whatever its past, it looked fortified to keep invaders out.

  But of course, these days the real danger stemmed from the people within.

  The militiaman escorting Rix rang a bell that hung by the heavy iron gate, then went to unlock his manacles. “No funny business, yeah?” he said, hesitating with the key in hand.

  “No, sir,” Rix replied, and he meant it.

  The word ‘sir’ seemed to catch on his tongue. He wasn’t accustomed to such deference, but politeness paid when talking with Martial Souls. As he was about to step into a world full of them, he figured he should get some practice in.

  The man gave a little nod, then turned the key, and the manacles sprang off. Rix stretched his arms, rubbing the raw skin of his wrists. He’d been shackled for two weeks, ever since committing the crime that had brought him here.

  Despite his promise to the militiaman, he had a brief but powerful urge to run. He’d never had much, but he’d always had his freedom. To lose that was…difficult. He shoved the emotion down. There were several good reasons to stay.

  First, there was nowhere to go. The land around him was artificially desolate, hard-packed black soil stretching uninterrupted for miles in all directions. Cloudpiercer Citadel wasn’t content with a mere wall between their citizens and their prisoners. They wanted to make the very thought of escape seem impossible. It was said the nearest settlement was a continent away, but nobody except prison officials even knew which way. For all intents and purposes, right now Rix had fallen off the map.

  The second reason was his company. The militiaman was a Martial Soul. Rix was quick for a mortal, and he had a trick that made him quicker still, but this man was preternatural. It wouldn’t even be a contest. He’d be on Rix in a moment, and although the militiaman had been relatively kind as far as his sort went, Rix knew he’d pay for the attempt. A broken leg or concussion may well be a death sentence where he was headed.

  But the biggest reason not to run? The thing he’d been thinking about every day for years?

  There was a man in that prison who needed to die.

  There was a grinding noise, the clang of metal, and the gate began to rise, teeth jagged like the opening mouth of a predator. From within strode two guards. They were broad and moved with menace and were armed with swords across their backs. Rix recoiled involuntarily. He’d been around Martial Souls before, of course. Everybody in Cloudpiercer Citadel had. But they’d all been Whispers, maybe the occasional Spark, the weakest tiers of the Martial Path. Though Rix had no spirit eye to truly perceive their strength, these men just seemed more powerful in a way that was somehow tangible, even to him. He hated how small it made him feel.

  Rix did his best to stand straight. One day, that will be me.

  The guards were clothed in lightweight black sleeveless robes that belied the chill of the wind ripping through the vast nothingness. Rix subconsciously hugged his coat to his body, though it made little difference. The air here bit like nothing he’d ever felt before. Martial Souls didn’t feel the elements like mortals did.

  “Another one, Isao?” one of the guards sneered. He had sharp, Shanic features marred slightly by a clean little scar across one cheek — an affectation probably, for a Martial Soul of his tier. Those sorts of things healed naturally for them unless they specifically intended them not to. “And a dreg by the look of him.”

  Rix bit back a return insult. Most Martial Souls looked down on mortals — those who had no System access and thus no Path. It grated him every time, but he’d come here with a plan. Be polite. Be meek. Be unobtrusive.

  That was already proving a challenge.

  To distract himself, he took a moment to enjoy the irony that these incredibly powerful men were forced to walk outside to collect a mere mortal. As a child, he used to assume that power was a ticket to freedom. If you were strong enough, why couldn’t you simply do as you liked? But as he grew older, he learned that the city didn’t work that way. The Martial Corporations that ran everything offered strength, but they demanded commitment in return, and they were apparently capable of enforcing that, though he didn’t know how. In the end, everything in Cloudpiercer came with a cost.

  The militiaman, Isao apparently, nodded. “Zao Rixian. Four thousand heartstones. Grand larceny.” He handed over a sheaf of paperwork.

  Scarface snorted. “He looks the part. There’s barely anything of him.”

  The other guard squinted at Rix. “You sure he’s even old enough for us?”

  “Says he’s eighteen here,” replied Scarface, checking the paperwork. “They’re all small down there. It’s that gutter diet.”

  “He’ll probably eat better here than he has his whole life,” said the other with a laugh.

  Rix’s stomach, ever the traitor, rumbled at the mention of food, but that was nothing new. He’d spent his life hungry. Hunger he could compartmentalise and ignore.

  Scarface grinned. “You’re right. I dare say this place might even be too good for him. They’ll give anyone System access these days.” He leaned in close, placing himself at Rix’s eye level. “What do you have to say for yourself, dreg? You think you’re going to enjoy it here?”

  Rix wanted to grin. He wanted to laugh and tell them how he’d visualised this moment a thousand times, but he kept control of himself, locking his gaze straight ahead. “I’m just here to serve my sentence, sir,” he replied, using a line he’d rehearsed for just such a moment.

  The man exhaled sharply, seemingly dissatisfied that his provocation had failed, but the other guard interjected. “He’ll feel the weight of his crimes soon enough. Come on then, boy. Let’s get you processed, for all the good it’ll do you.”

  The militiaman grimaced as Rix was shoved towards the gate. “Keep your head down, yeah, lad?” he said, his voice quiet. “They’re monsters in there.”

  Rix met his eyes. “I know.”

  Stolen novel; please report.

  As he was marched inside, Rix looked back over his shoulder and watched the militiaman disappear through the portal that split the afternoon air like frozen lightning. Moments later, it winked out. He’d never been through a portal before today. It had been thrilling. His first true brush with the Martial Path. How long would it be until he had access to power like that? What unfathomable things would he be capable of?

  One of the guards gave Rix a swift kick to the back of his leg, driving him temporarily to his knees.

  “No going back now,” he said, mistaking Rix’s longing look for a desire to flee.

  Rix gritted his teeth. Polite. Meek. Unobtrusive.

  The gate groaned as it closed behind him, and then he was sealed in. Officially a resident of Spiritlock Prison.

  A prison for Martial Souls.

  Inside, the darkness felt heavy, cut only by dim everfire torches on the walls. The guards would have no trouble seeing with their enhanced senses, but for Rix, it was like stumbling into a tomb. After weaving through a series of narrow corridors, they came to a thick iron door, which Scarface rapped on three times.

  “Prisoner delivery,” he called. The door eased open with a squeal, and an older guard poked his head out.

  “Another one?”

  Scarface shrugged. “City’s going to hell, I guess.”

  “Or Mother thought we needed a few more cows,” added the other guard. They all shared a laugh.

  Scarface laid a hand on Rix’s shoulder. “Is the lab free?”

  The older guard nodded. “Take him straight through.”

  Another shove through the door, and Rix let loose a curse as his shoulder smacked painfully into the frame. Before he knew what he was doing, he spun to face the two guards, reaching inside himself for his hidden technique. He could be on them in a moment. Perhaps with the element of surprise…

  Rix forced his muscles to relax. A lifetime on the street was hard to shake, but his instincts would get him killed here.

  Perhaps they already had.

  “Is that how it’s going to be, hey?” Scarface asked, amusement painting his face. “You want to test yourself against me? You’re not tethered yet. Now’s your best shot.”

  He spread his hands, beckoning.

  The urge to strike was a sharp heat in Rix’s belly. If he hit him just right in the centre of the throat, maybe—

  Rix’s thoughts were interrupted as Scarface’s hand shot out, cuffing him across the face. Pain lanced through his cheek and he tumbled to the cold stone.

  “Too late,” said Scarface. “That was your one and only opportunity. You even think about hitting a Spiritlock guard again, you’ll get more than a slap. You understand, dreg?”

  He spat on the floor in front of Rix for good measure. It landed just inches from Rix’s head.

  Rix glared up at him. His face burned and blood dripped from his nose. He sucked in a lungful of chill air. This place was no different from the outside. The powerful could do whatever they liked. For now, he would simply have to keep his head down and eat crow when required.

  But he wouldn’t forget.

  “Yes, sir,” Rix managed.

  The man nodded in approval, then grabbed Rix by the hair and dragged him to his feet. “Now get moving.”

  More corridors, and it began to grow warmer. It felt like burrowing deep inside a mountain. Rix could hear sounds of life now echoing faintly from the walls. The thick stone lent it a vaguely ghostly air.

  Eventually, they reached what must have been the lab; a simply furnished room with a single long table and a metal chair beside it. On the table were two devices Rix had seen only a handful of times before. One was a long wooden block with three glass vacuum bubbles jutting from its top. Each bubble contained a glowing ball of light. Connected to the block was a set of glass tubes arranged in concentric circles with a hunk of vaguely pearlescent yellow stone suspended in the middle, as if by magic. It crackled with a barely visible energy. A System Stone.

  “You know what these are?” asked Scarface.

  Rix nodded. “Yes, sir. They test my potential and my bloodline.”

  Scarface feigned surprise. “Suddenly both a polite and educated dreg. That’s a turn.”

  Almost everybody in Cloudpiercer knew what those were, even the poorest of the poor. But, of course, the powerful liked to make out like poor equalled dumb. Perhaps it made them feel better about their behaviour somehow.

  “My parents had me tested,” Rix replied. He tried to keep any shade of bitterness from his voice, but wasn’t entirely successful. In truth, he’d paid for the test himself, and it had taken months of saving. If the results had been good enough, he might have earned entry into one of the Martial Corporations and been made a Martial Soul the traditional way. But obviously that hadn’t happened.

  Scarface smirked. “Then I’m guessing maybe there’s a reason you’re still a dreg.” He gave Rix a nudge with his foot. “Go on then, you know the drill. Fingers through the holes.”

  Rix sucked in a slow breath and walked over to the chair. Nobody’s results ever changed. It was unheard of. Some parts of you were just innate and immutable. But he couldn’t help clinging to a tiny hope that things would be different this time. What if the last machine had been faulty? Or the test taker inept?

  The wooden block had five holes in one side and Rix slipped his fingers into them. Though nothing happened that he could see, he felt the needles hit his fingertips and knew one of the guards had pushed a tiny amount of mana through the device. It was an artefact, a soulwrought device that responded to mana to serve a specific purpose. As he watched, the System Stone began rotating, and the glow from inside the vacuum bubbles increased. He felt heat coming off the glass, and watched in fascination as his blood was drawn up one side of the first bubble, through the ball of light and down the other side. It flowed down the line, one bubble at a time, then was drawn into the glass tubing, where it continued to flow in an infinite circle, steadily gaining speed.

  Blood. The key to everything you were. Part inheritance from your parents, part divine chance, your blood was the ichor that fed every part of you, imbuing it with promise and potential. And right now, all of that was being quantified by the device on the table.

  It was uncomfortable, being judged so dispassionately. Like Rix’s future was being written in red then and there in that room.

  After several more seconds, the devices slowed and his blood was vented into a metal tray. Rix held his breath as the other guard strode forward and laid his hand on the System Stone, then let out a whistle. “Heaven’s blood, you weren’t wrong, Tao. There’s more talent in my left nut than this runt.”

  “That bad, hey?” asked Scarface.

  “Low potential. No bloodline,” the man replied.

  Scarface let out a whistle of his own.

  And there it was. Rix had known it was coming, but still it felt like a pit had opened in his stomach. He did his best not to show his disappointment. The two key qualities determining his success as a Martial Soul, and they were both as low as could be. Potential was the more important of the two. It supposedly dictated how easily you could climb. Bloodlines were more nuanced. Certain bloodlines made people ideal for certain roles. If you showed up with something desirable enough, some corps would overlook your potential entirely. But conventional wisdom said that having no strength in either area made the Martial Path a hopeless endeavour.

  Rix shut his eyes momentarily and centred his thoughts. That changed nothing. He was prepared for this. Hard work overcomes all obstacles. That was a mantra drilled into him by his father, and he’d spent his entire life internalising it. Believing it. He intended to write his own future.

  Sure would have been nice to have a modicum of talent though.

  “Barely worth the seed,” said Scarface.

  The other guard nodded. “Less of a cow and more of a calf.”

  Rix felt his anger simmering, and before he could stop himself he blurted out, “I’m going to get stronger.” In truth, he wasn’t sure if he said it for them or himself.

  One side of Scarface’s mouth quirked upwards. “Is that right?”

  Rix met his eyes and nodded. “I’m not afraid of the Fractured Realm.”

  The man stared at him for a moment, then broke into a grin. “You hear that, Arata? He’s not afraid.”

  “Ah well, as long as he’s not afraid he’ll be golden,” said the other guard.

  Scarface gave a mocking nod. “Fear is the real enemy. Definitely not the fadeborn.”

  “What are you, a child?” asked the other guard. “Fadeborn are like the nian. As long as you’re not scared, they can’t hurt you.”

  “Someone should tell the Whisper from yesterday that,” Scarface said, and the two men shared a cruel laugh.

  The entire conversation was dripping in sarcasm, but all Rix could do was grit his teeth. Arguing with these men would do him no good. It was deeds not words that would prove his worth.

  “Well, I guess we’d better not keep them waiting for their next hero,” said Arata. He beckoned to Rix. “Come on, dreg, let’s get you hooked up. It’s time for you to feel the full hospitality Spiritlock has to offer.”

  Despite the threat in the man’s tone, Rix couldn’t help but smile. His plan had been years in the making. It had many moving parts, and could go wrong a hundred ways, but it all started with this moment right here.

  They were going to make him a Martial Soul.

  follow, , or would mean the world. This stuff really does help.