The Veil-tech vehicle thrummed with restrained energy as it cut through the mist-choked frontier roads. Its reinforced plating bore the faint sheen of Veil-infused alloy, and every bump in the terrain was absorbed with seamless precision. Inside, cold lights flickered along the cabin ceiling, casting pale, sterile hues over the tightly packed rows of silent passengers.
Alaric sat near the middle, shoulder pressed against Lyra's. She hadn't said a word since they boarded. None of them had.
Silence reigned like a drawn blade. Tense. Thick. Unbreakable.
A single soldier stood by the rear door—motionless, statuesque. His armor was black-gray, matte but heavy, etched with the insignia of the Accord. He looked like a walking bunker. A scar ran down the side of his cheek, catching the light like a line of silver fire.
Then he spoke.
His voice sliced through the quiet like steel drawn from its sheath. Cold. Hard. Final.
"Listen up."
Everyone tensed.
"You're not Lords. Not yet." His arms were folded, posture relaxed in that dangerous way only trained killers could manage. "You're just hopefuls riding a borrowed seat into a world you don't belong to. So act like it."
Alaric felt the weight of that voice settle in his bones. The soldier's gaze swept across the cabin—sharp, slow, unblinking. Like a predator measuring prey. His words were brutal, but they carried no hate. Just fact.
"Keep your heads down. Your mouths shut. And your egos in check. This isn't your orphanage courtyard or slum alley. You're under Sovereign jurisdiction now." His eyes locked briefly on Alaric before moving on. "That means you follow orders, you don't ask questions, and you remember your place."
Then, silence again. The soldier didn't repeat himself. He didn't need to.
Alaric exhaled slowly. His hands were clenched tight in his lap, knuckles pale. That man… he wasn't just spouting threats. He was a weapon. Disciplined, sharpened, and coiled like a spring.
A real soldier, Alaric thought. A commander. Someone who gets people like us buried if we don't obey.
And yet, a flicker of defiance stirred within him.
I have to become someone like him. No—stronger. Smarter. Better. If I'm going to protect Lyra, protect the kids back at Ebonreach… If I'm going to break this world's chains, I have to rise.
His mind drifted, unbidden, to a moment years ago—when a wandering patrol soldier, unlike the rest, had knelt before a group of filthy children and whispered truths none of them were supposed to hear.
The Citizen Class System.
It had been the first time Alaric heard what the world truly thought of people like him.
They were Zero-Class. The Forgotten.
Stateless. Voiceless. Legally invisible. Orphans. Refugees. The discarded. No education rights. No citizenship. No protection. Just tolerated so long as they kept out of the way—or became useful.
Their presence in Viremonth Bastion today? A loophole. A mercy carved by the Rite of Ascendancy—mandated by the Accord for all who reached their sixteenth year, regardless of class. Nothing more.
Above them were the Fifth-Class, the Labor Tier. Scavengers, janitors, field workers. Allowed to live. Allowed to work. But not to dream. They couldn't bear arms. Couldn't attend Lord academies. Just cogs to keep the city running.
Then came the Fourth-Class. The Civil Tier. Traders. Technicians. Healers. Low-level officials. With it came basic education and limited Veil exposure—but no weapons, no command, and no real freedom.
Alaric's heart thudded harder.
The Third-Class: The Veilborn Tier. That was the gate. The beginning. The starting line for Lords.
Those who awakened. Those who passed the Rite.
Newly minted, given training, access to missions, and—most important of all—a future.
But it didn't stop there.
Second-Class. The Proven Tier. Veterans of the Veilfront. Elite combatants, engineers, tacticians. They could bear relics, lead squadrons, and live in fortified safe zones. Power… with a leash.
First-Class. The Exalted Tier. Rulers of cities. Agents of the Crucible. They had property. Status. Lineage. Even the right to found schools or estates. But everything they did was taxed, watched, recorded.
And then—beyond all others—stood the Prime-Class.
The Sovereign Tier.
Living legends.
Territory Lords. Domain architects. Army commanders. Names etched into history itself. And the only ones allowed full autonomy. They could shape the land, declare edicts, and forge their own destiny.
But even they answered to something.
Nytherion.The Balance.The force that chose who would rise… and who would fall.
Alaric clenched his fists tighter, jaw locked.
That was the ladder. And he was buried in the dirt at its foot.
But not for long.
He glanced sideways. Lyra hadn't moved, but her eyes were open now—watching the soldier, the other hopefuls, the cold lights above. Her hand, small and strong, was pressed to her side, where the fragment of her locket rested beneath her tunic.
We're going to climb this, Alaric thought, something burning in his chest. One rung at a time. No matter what it takes.
And when they reached the top…They wouldn't just belong.They'd change everything.