The truck jolted over every pothole like it wanted to flip. The floor creaked beneath my boots. The air was thick—sweat, breath, tension. Forty-five of us, packed in like cattle, and no one said a word.
Outside, the Old World watched us rot. Skeleton buildings, broken signs, shattered glass. Every street told the same story: hunger, violence, abandonment. I was born here. And if I'd learned one thing, it's that nothing gets saved. Only the ones who adapt survive.
I leaned my head against the frozen glass and watched a group of kids run barefoot through the rubble. I envied them. They didn't know yet what it meant to become like us.
"You know they hate us, right?"
Klaus's voice was low. Almost a whisper.
"Angelus," he went on, not waiting for me. "We carry it like a scar. It's not a name. It's a sentence."
I didn't turn. "A reminder. That no one wanted us. That we're leftovers."
"Too young to be Blessed. Too inconvenient to keep in the New World."
I smiled a little. "Could've been worse."
"Like what?"
"They could've kept us."
I felt his eyes on me, but he didn't say anything. He knew it ended there.
The engine coughed a few times and died. Tires scraped over gravel. The doors slid open. Cold air punched me in the face.
We got out.
The snow was dirty, crushed by military trucks and heavy boots. Ahead of us, the mountain rose like a silent god. At the top, the Portal.
A floating ring of stone, hovering midair. No wires. No support. Just there, vibrating against the wind. I stared at it without saying a word. Bigger than I expected. But quieter too.
The other groups showed up. Girls, younger kids, new faces. Some hugged. Some cried. I looked around, searching for one pair of eyes. Found them.
Elena.
She walked toward us like she owned the ground. Black hair tied back, eyes sharp enough to cut.
"You two never miss a chance to make an entrance."
Klaus laughed. "Missed us?"
"Not even a little." But she smiled. Just a flash. Enough.
Time froze for a moment. Then came the footsteps. Heavy. Sharp.
The guards shifted. Like someone had pulled a silent string.
A man stepped forward. Tall. Broad. A scar slicing across his face, white cloak flapping in the wind.
A Blessed. A General.
"Welcome, children of the Old World," he said. His voice sounded like stone. "I won't ask who you are. We already know. I won't ask why you're here. We'll find out soon."
He stopped in front of the Portal. "Beyond that lies the Labyrinth. And beyond the Labyrinth… everything you've lost, everything you're chasing."
He turned to face us.
"Whoever goes through won't come back the same. If they come back at all."
One voice broke through. Themdo. Calm, but sharp.
"What if there's nothing on the other side?"
The General smiled like he'd been waiting for that.
"Then you'll face the worst thing of all. Yourselves."
I stared at the Portal. I wasn't looking for answers. I wasn't looking for God.
I just wanted in.
To see what was on the other side.