Mist clung to the edges of the Soulforge Training Grounds in the morning, but out here in the Dead Zone staging area, the air was sharper — like the stillness before a storm that would shred flesh and mind alike. The giant gates loomed ahead, fissured and scorched by forgotten Soulquake forces of old. Behind them stretched Marrowvale, the city swallowed up by grief and silence.
Cael tightened the straps of his tattered pack around him, the wiry heft of the skimpy rations they'd been issued. His chest thudded to the beat of the distant clang of drills and the shouts echoing from the rear of the barracks. Dozens of recruits milled around him, strained voices strained with tension, eyes jumping with the same fear he harbored — the unknown, the Dead Zone's evil lure.
Five figures approached him, their faces a mix of nervousness and resolve.
"Cael Runar," said the oldest, a broad-shouldered boy with a crooked grin. "I'm Jarrik. Looks like we're in the same squad."
Beside Jarrik stood Sela, a quiet girl who barely glanced up at Cael. Her hair was black and tangled, her hands slightly shaking as she adjusted the cuffs on her gloves. She said nothing, but stood solidly — a silent anchor amidst whirling chaos.
"Got Ral here," Jorin contributed, tilting his head toward a gangly child sharpening a knife with fussy precision. "And Myka. Don't let her size fool you — she's as accurate with a kill as you can find."
Myka gave Cael a curt nod.
"Toren's the last," Jarrik finished, "chatterbox but as solid as the day is long when the going gets rough."
Cael swallowed hard. His brain was racing. This ragtag group could survive the Dead Zone? Him?
The group's trainer, a tough, scar-faced old man whose face was mapped like a constellation with all the scars, shouted instructions, dividing the larger group into smaller ones. "Stay together. Watch your backs. The Dead Zone kills bodies but destroys minds.".
The gates creaked open, and outside lay the smothering fog and shattered remains of buildings. The acrid smell of ash, wet stone, and something darker still — the residue of infinite shattered dreams — wafted in with the breeze.
As they approached Marrowvale, a heavy weight fell on Cael's chest. The atmosphere was thick, electric. His Soulbrand pulsed weakly, a dull ache in his veins. Deep in him, the city's sorrow whispered.
The squad crept cautiously, guns raised but senses alert. The fog distorted light and sound, misleading their vision. Figures danced within the fog—figures hovering just beyond viewing distance, shadows which scurried upon being confronted.
Cael's breathing quickened. His brain fought to hold onto reality as scraps of memories he wasn't certain were his or borrowed began flashing on the perimeters of his vision. Remorse and desperation hung in the air, alive to the extent that they looked alive, tugging at him as if made of thin strings.
Sela spoke up first. "Do you hear that?
A keening, mournful cry echoed through the ruins — distant but terrifying. It trembled through the squad, contracting the formation.
"Wretched," Jarrik whispered, eyes flicking along ruined streets. "They're drawn to pain. To sorrow."
The initial illusions soon started — brief hallucinations of lost loved ones, twisted faces screaming from broken walls. Some of the trainees stumbled, hands clapped over their heads, their voices cracking beneath the onslaught of unseen terrors.
Cael experienced a chill grip of terror but battled to concentrate. The recollections running through his mind were muddled, but his training — Bren's voice resounding within him — reminded him of what was what. Pain makes men. Survive the pain.
Hours dragged on in a shadowy haze of memory. Some squads were already radio silent. Others reeled back, shattered and whispering about what they'd seen.
Cael's group held tight, though Sela's silence grew heavier — glassy eyes, lips framing silent prayers. Myka's hands trembled, but never released their hold on her blade. Toren's usual bluster faltered before the assault of whispers no one else heard.
The city itself seemed to breathe in sorrow, filling the very air with hopelessness.
Before the sun dropped below the broken skyline, Cael's head was a jumbled mess of his own fears and the insidious hopelessness that filled like venom into their very souls.
And then the Wretched came — not in waves, but instants. Small, corrupted things with blank eyes that resonated with the most malicious of Cael's thoughts. They lied to them in whispers, dug up memories that were better left forgotten.
One skittered close, a mocker flashing a glimpse of Cael standing over Lira's lifeless body. It hissed, and the world caved in, dragging Cael into a vortex of helplessness.
But this time, he clung to Bren's words and shreds of his own will.
"I will survive," he breathed past gritted teeth, calling on his quivering filament. It flared doubtfully, but he tugged harder, drawing out the creature's own remorse against it, breaking the spell.
His team stood frozen, breath held, while Caels stature grew bigger— not much.
The Dead Zone had not finished with them. It had just begun.