Ashen stood still in the half-light of morning, the bread now just a fading taste on his tongue. The man's words lingered, quiet and heavy: "Come with me." He had no reason to trust them, no proof this wasn't just another trap laid in desperation. But the emptiness in his stomach had a voice too, and it was louder than fear.
So he nodded—just once, just enough. The man didn't smile, didn't offer comfort. He simply turned and began walking, the dust of the street curling around his boots.
Ashen followed.
The road was broken and weaved through what remained of a village that had once lived. Homes stood half-sunk in the ground, roofs peeled back like skin from old wounds. Trees had pushed through stone and metal, nature clawing back what it had lost. Here and there, he saw other figures—scavengers, perhaps, or ghosts made flesh—watching them from doorways with hollow eyes. None came close.
"I'm not recruiting just anyone," the man said after a long stretch of silence. His voice was low, rough like gravel. "You survived something that kills most. You're still standing. That's not nothing."
Ashen didn't respond. He kept walking, head down, eyes sharp.
They passed walls painted with symbols he didn't understand—circles intersected by jagged lines, hands reaching out of flame, a sun broken into halves. The man didn't explain them. He didn't explain much of anything.
When the wind picked up, Ashen clutched the thin coat the man had given him tighter around his ribs. It smelled of smoke and oil and something else, something faintly metallic. They moved through hills scorched black and stone paths cracked by roots, until a new shape appeared on the horizon: tall fences, old watchtowers, and dull lights blinking behind chain and wood.
The military enclave.
The guards didn't speak. They opened the gate as soon as they saw the man and let Ashen in without a glance. Inside, it was cold in a different way. Not the cold of hunger, but the chill of rules and silence.
Ashen was given a number—714—and nothing else. No name, no welcome. Just a roll of cloth to sleep on and a gray shirt too big for his shoulders. The barracks were filled with others—boys and girls, none younger than him, most with eyes like chipped stone. No one smiled. No one talked.
He was handed a tray of food. Watery grain and a strip of something dry and salty. He ate it all without tasting. Hunger didn't care about flavor.
At night, the wind howled outside the walls. Inside, it was too quiet to sleep. Ashen lay on his side, listening to the breath of others. Some snored. One cried into their blanket. But no one broke the silence.
The next day came like a hammer.
A long, screaming bell tore through the sky. Boots hit the ground. Everyone moved. Ashen followed, lost in the tide of numbered uniforms. They were herded through wide gates into a circular yard surrounded by cracked pillars and iron poles. The sky above was gray and still.
At the center stood a tall woman with iron hair and a voice like iron, too.
"This is the Trial of Endurance," she said without raising her voice. "You pass, you stay. You fail, you leave. Or die."
No one asked questions. Not one recruit flinched.
Ashen looked around. The faces near him were set in stone. A boy with arms like branches clenched his fists. A girl with burns across her face didn't blink. They all seemed older, tougher. He felt the weight of fourteen years press into his chest.
No one told them what the trial was. No instructions. No time limit.
The gates behind them creaked shut. The sound echoed.
Ashen's heartbeat picked up, slow and thunderous. He stepped forward anyway.
Whatever came next—he would face it.
He had nothing left to lose.