The rag came away black. Again. Jonah pressed his forehead against the cool glass, smearing a new streak of grime across the pane. He didn't care. Through the thin, grimy window of his family's tiny apartment, the city of Cinderfall spread out like a stain.
The whole city looked the same - dull sky, smoke in the air, dust on everything. Black soot from the mines coated buildings and faces alike. It got into your clothes, your breath, and sometimes, into your sleep. In Cinderfall, soot was more common than sunlight.
Jonah, at fourteen years old, was skinny and tougher than he looked.
Today was the most important day of his life.
Today was the Awakening.
He pulled on his cleanest shirt and headed out. The Cinderfall Middle School auditorium smelled of sweat, cheap disinfectant, and desperation. Hundreds of graduates, his classmates, sat shoulder to shoulder, barely breathing.
The air was thick with a strange energy, a mix of hope and quiet, grinding fear. Some kids whispered prayers; their hands clasped so tight their knuckles were white. Others joked too loudly, like they were trying to scare off whatever was coming next.
Everyone knew the stakes. It was simple. Brutal. Today, the government would give them a shot of the God serum. If it worked, you Awakened. You manifest a power, a Mark, and a one-way ticket to the gleaming Mystic Pheonix Academy. You become an Elite. A hero. A savior.
More importantly, you got out of Cinderfall.
If it failed, you got a shovel. A life sentence in the choking darkness of the mines, digging for the very coal and ore that fueled the nation and poisoned its people. An eighty percent chance of failure, the teachers always said. An eighty percent chance of a shovel.
Jonah's gaze drifted past the anxious crowd, toward the distant, jagged mountains that ringed their valley. His hand unconsciously went to his side, where a freshly healed scar pulled at the skin beneath his shirt.
Just last week, that scar had been a bleeding gash. He'd been scavenging for scrap metal in Shaft 7, an abandoned tunnel the collective had deemed too unstable. Scrap brought in a few extra credits, enough for medicine for his mother's cough. He'd been deep inside, his sack half-full of rusted bolts and copper wire, when he heard it.
Click. Chitter. Click.
The sound echoed from the darkness ahead, a dry, scrapy noise like rocks grinding together. He froze. Four figures scuttled into the weak beam of his headlamp. They were Ant soldiers, low-level Demonic Beasts that sometimes forced their way through the bedrock from beyond the Division Walls.
They stood on two legs, their bodies plated with thick, stone-like armor, and their claws looked like rusted sickles.
Panic, cold and sharp, seized him. He was cornered. One of them lunged, its claws screeching against the rock wall where his head had been a second before. He scrambled back, his boot slipping on the loose gravel. He wasn't a fighter. He was just a fourteen-year-old scavenger.
But he was also a survivor.
He looked around quickly, spotting a thick, rotten beam holding up the tunnel ceiling. It was a dumb idea, but maybe it'd work. He pulled out the heaviest metal piece in his sack and tossed it hard at the beam's base.
The wood groaned, then cracked with a sound like a gunshot. The Ants paused, their insectoid heads tilting in confusion. Jonah didn't wait. He dove back, curling into a ball as the ceiling gave way. Rocks and dirt rained down with a loud roar, burying the chittering monsters under tons of earth. A sharp-edged stone caught him in the side, tearing through his shirt and skin, but he was alive. He had survived.
The memory gave him a sick feeling. That was the reality of their world. Not just poverty, but monsters. Real, clawed, ravenous monsters. The Elites on the news fought skyscraper-sized behemoths, but down here, in the dirt, even the small ones could kill you.
A sudden hush fell over the auditorium. The heavy main doors swung open. Everyone leaned forward, necks craning, hoping for a glimpse of a real Elite. Maybe a famous Mage wreathed in lightning, or a Warrior in gleaming, manifested armor. Someone to give them hope.
Instead, a squad of soldiers from the Mystic Pheonix military marched in.
Their uniforms were a clean, sharp green that clashed with the lifeless color of the city. They moved quickly and with purpose, their faces serious and focused. There were no celebrities here. Just the government's employees, here to do a job. An officer with a jaw that looked like it was carved from granite stood at the front, his eyes sweeping over the children with an unreadable expression.
The school's principal, a tired-looking man named Mr. Clark, shuffled to the podium.
"Students," he began, his voice raspy. "Today, you have a chance to serve the Mystic Pheonix Nation in its highest capacity. For generations, we have stood against the tide of Demonic Beasts that claw at our Division Walls. This eternal war requires sacrifice. It requires strength."
He gestured to the soldiers. "The Awakening is not just a gift. It is a duty. Succeed, and you will become the shield that protects us all. Fail, and you will serve by fueling the forges that arm that shield. Both paths have honor."
Jonah barely heard the last part. Honor? There was no honor in coughing up black dust until your lungs gave out. There was only the mine, the darkness, and the hope that you didn't run into anything with claws.
The officer shout a command, and the soldiers set up a series of small, sterile tables. A line began to form. The process was brutally fast. A medic at each table, a tray of syringes filled with shimmering, golden liquid, and a clipboard.
Name. Swab of alcohol. Injection. Next.
The first few kids went through. Each one held their breath, waiting for a flash of light, a tingling sensation, anything. Nothing. The medic would give a slight shake of the head, and the student would walk away, shoulders slumped, to a designated "failure" section of the auditorium. The walk was a death march.
More followed. Failure. Failure. Failure. The hope in the room was curdling into a thick, collective dread.
Then, it was Jonah's turn.
His heart hammered against his ribs. He stepped up to the table, his hands clammy. The medic was a woman with a face so bored it was almost an art form. She didn't even look at him, just at his arm.
"Name?" she asked, her voice flat.
"Jonah."
She found his name on the list and made a checkmark. She picked up a syringe. The liquid inside seemed to glow, a tiny sun trapped in glass. It was beautiful and terrifying. This was the God serum. His one and only chance. Escape or the shovel.
He squeezed his eyes shut. He thought of the soot on the window, the chittering of the Ants, the weight of the shovel he knew was waiting for him.
Please, he begged to no one in particular. Anything but the mines. Please.
He felt a cold swab on his bicep, then a sharp, quick pinch as the needle slid into his arm. The bored medic pushed the plunger, and the liquid sun flooded into his veins.