I ran my thumb over the edge of the book, tracing the names. Hundreds of them. Names that belonged to people who had walked the streets outside without fear. Names that could buy food, rent homes, raise families. Names that weren't cages.
But none of them were ours.
"Choose," Thorne said, pacing the room with his glass still in hand. "From now on, you're not Kulums. You're Yerwas. Speak like them, walk like them, smile like them. Shed your old skin or die in it."
08/85 finally looked up from the cream-stained towel in his lap. "Yerwas…" He said the word like it was poison. "The same people who spit on us. Who burn us alive. And now we have to be them?"
Thorne's head snapped toward him, eyes sharp as a blade. "Do you want to breathe tomorrow? Then yes." His voice lowered, rough with something that wasn't quite anger. "You'll die if you cling to what you were. Kulums don't live. They rot. They hide. Or they burn."
The silence pressed heavy. I flipped the book open at random. Names spilled across the page in neat black letters. A part of me wanted to close it again — to cling to my number, as much as I hated it. At least it had been mine.
I pressed my lips together. If I was dead now, then who was I?
"What about you?" I asked, my voice sharper than I meant. "What was your name before you were Captain Thorne?"
For a second, something flickered in his eyes — something I almost mistook for sorrow. But he turned away, refilling his glass. "Dead men don't get to keep names."
I felt my throat tighten.
08/85 shoved the book toward me. "You pick first," he muttered, like the words cost him.
I glanced at the rows again, the letters blurring together. Some names sounded sharp and proud, others soft, almost fragile. I didn't know what any of them truly meant, only that they belonged to the enemy. The rulers. The Yerwas who laughed while we starved.
My hand hovered, trembling, then landed on one.
"…Darin," I said softly, almost choking on the word. It didn't sound like me. It sounded like a stranger's tongue in my mouth.
Thorne nodded once. "Darin it is."
08/85 clenched his jaw, staring at the pages like he wanted to tear them apart. Finally, he spat out, "Kael."
The name landed heavy in the room, as though he regretted it even before Thorne gave his approving nod.
"Darin. Kael." Thorne's voice was iron. "Remember them. Speak them. They're your armor now. From this moment forward, 06/50 and 08/85 are ashes in the pit. If you ever answer to them again, it'll be your corpse in the furnace."
The weight of his words sank into my bones.
I looked at the window again, at the new skin painted on my face, and whispered my name under my breath. Darin.
It didn't feel like a lie. Not yet. But it didn't feel true either.
Just survival.
The morning came too fast.
For the first time in my life, I woke in a bed — sheets soft as clouds, a ceiling without cracks, no chains rattling in the dark. For a moment, I let myself believe it was real. That the camp, the numbers, the furnaces — all of it had been a fever dream.
Then I turned and saw Kael curled in the other bed, his face half-darkened by the cream, the towel on the floor like a shed skin. The illusion shattered.
The door clicked open. Thorne stepped in, no uniform, just a plain shirt and dark trousers, steam rising from the coffee mug in his hand. He looked almost ordinary, but his eyes gave him away — too sharp, too awake, as if he hadn't slept at all.
"Morning," he said simply. His voice was softer than the night before. Almost kind. Almost.
Neither Kael nor I answered.
Thorne set the mug on the table and leaned against the counter, watching us with that unreadable calm. Then he spoke:
"Today, you begin your lives. Not as Kulums. As Yerwas. And not just any Yerwas — wardens."
Kael sat up instantly, fists tight in the sheets. "Wardens?" His voice cracked. "You want us to be them? To torture our own people?"
The words hung in the air like a blade.
Thorne didn't flinch. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Listen to me. I didn't pull you out of that pit so you could vanish into the slums and rot. I pulled you because you can make a difference. Because you can save people."
"Save?" I muttered, bitter. "By smiling while we beat them? By pretending to be the monsters who burned us?"
His jaw flexed, but he kept his tone steady, like he was teaching children to walk on glass. "Yes. By pretending. That's the only way. If you walk among wolves, you bare your teeth or you're devoured. If you want to help your people, you must first survive their killers' game."
Kael shook his head violently. "I don't want to play. I don't want missions. I just want a life. A quiet life. Peace."
For the first time, Thorne's voice softened to a whisper. "And if you tried? If you walked out there with your trembling voice, your Kulum blood still clinging to you — how long would you last? A day? An hour? You'd be dragged back into the furnace before you saw another sunrise."
Silence.
Thorne's eyes moved between us, searching, pleading without showing it. "I know what I ask is cruel. I know. But you'll have to wear the mask of cruelty, or else you'll never have a chance to undo it. Smile when they cheer, strike when they watch, and behind it all, you'll know why you're really there — to pull others out, piece by piece. Like I pulled you."
He straightened, the softness draining away, replaced by command. "Tomorrow, you'll register. The empire will know you as Darin and Kael, newly sworn wardens of the Yerwas. From then on, your lives are performances. If you falter, you die. If you succeed, you save lives. Those are the only two paths before you."
Kael looked at me, eyes wide, searching for an answer. I had none.
I whispered my new name again, just to feel it in my mouth. Darin. It tasted wrong.
Thorne nodded once, as though I'd given the only answer I could. "Good. Then eat. Today, you begin learning how to smile to your enslavers"