The streets are bustling with activity—they always are near the market. Either it's the vendor selling his over- or underpriced wares, or a street rat darting from the city guard, never quite caught. Today, though, I wasn't going to be the street rat.
I walk toward the Tarakin Conscription Hall.
The Hall stood just outside the inner keep's shadow, its stone facade plain but unforgiving, as if daring you to second-guess your decision. A modest line of hopefuls snaked past the statue of the First Emperor Kalos, his chiseled gaze forever cast toward the horizon. Every one of us in that line was nameless—until proven worthy.
I join the line.
I knew I was in luck when Recruitment Day landed on my birthday this June. Once a month, the doors of the Hall open to anyone who can work and isn't too old to hold a blade. Today, I turned seventeen. The bare minimum for enlistment. For most, it's an opportunity. A way to make a name, become an officer, earn coin and recognition. But for people like me, the forgotten, the unwanted it's this or the gangs.
Honestly, if there were another path, I'd take it. But there isn't.
When I was eleven, I was the daughter of a porter aboard a merchant vessel bound for Highmoor. My father had taken me along as his apprentice. We were supposed to settle in one of the port cities, maybe find work, maybe start over.
But fate had other plans.
The sea changed that day. What was once bright and blue turned a heavy, metallic gray. The ocean grew still—unnaturally so. The captain said it was some strange weather pattern, a freak event, and we'd just ride it out.
He was wrong.
One by one, the other ships in our convoy began to vanish. Not sink—vanish, torn apart by something unseen. I heard the sound first: the groan of timber, the crash of waves without wind. Then screams.
I ran to the deck, ignoring my father's shouts to stay below. I had to see.
That's when I saw them—monsters that didn't belong on the surface. Things out of stories whispered to scare children into behaving. Tentacles like ship masts, eyes too large and too human, rows of teeth in places teeth shouldn't be. The creatures rose from the depths and tore ships apart like they were nothing.
Ours was next.
When the chaos hit, I scrambled into one of the last lifeboats. There were five of us. But the boat had barely any food, and by the third day we were starving. I didn't realize it at the time, but the others—adults, strangers—had made a decision.
They gave the food to me. All of it.
Maybe they thought one of us had a better chance to survive. Maybe they didn't want to watch each other die. One by one, in the quiet hours of the night, they slipped into the sea. I don't know if it was desperation, mercy, or madness. I just remember waking up and finding the boat empty.
And the sea was still.
I don't know how much longer I drifted. Days? Weeks? Time blurred.
Eventually, I passed out under the burning sun.
When I woke, I was on a fishing vessel. The crew had found me near the Grey Line—the strange boundary where the cursed ocean met the living one. They didn't ask questions. They dropped me off at Falune, the Tarakin Empire's largest port city.
That was six years ago.
Six years of scraping by, of sleeping on stone floors and hiding from guards. Six years of learning how to steal without getting caught, how to fight without mercy, and how to survive when no one cared if you did.
And now, finally, a chance. A way out. A name.
The line moves quickly today. Maybe fewer recruits. Maybe the clerks are just tired of delays.
I keep my eyes on the building ahead as it grows larger with each step. The statue of Emperor Kalos towers behind us like a silent judge. His sword is raised, not in victory, but in expectation. The Empire doesn't take you in with open arms—you prove you're worthy.
I reach the front. A booth with iron bars separates me from a bored-looking clerk hunched over a stack of parchment. She doesn't look up, just keeps scribbling with a short ink quill.
"Name and origin," she says flatly.
I shift on my feet. "Liora. No family name. I'm a refugee."
That gets her attention. Her eyes flick up, cold and indifferent. She studies me for a moment, then goes back to writing. "Age?"
"Seventeen. Today."
She grunts. "Proof of name and race"
I hesitate, then pull a worn paper from my coat. It's a crumpled letter of survival—some noble had it written up when I was first brought ashore by the fishermen. Probably for records. It has my name, my date of arrival, and a witness stamp from Falune's port master. Not much, but enough to get past a clerk who doesn't care.
She takes it, glances at the faded ink, and nods. "You're eligible for general infantry training. No prior record, no sponsorship, no education correct?"
"Correct," I say, though I try not to let the shame show.
She slides a parchment under the bar. "Sign. You'll report to Training Grounds Forty-Two at dawn tomorrow. South Garrison. Wear plain clothes. Bring nothing." She then adds one thing "Your Aelarian ( A race of seafolk who while humaniod are taller leaner and stronger with dark blue scales on their body ) under that hood right. I wish you luck, since you should be stornger than the average human you should be fine if you show good promise. I havent seen many if any of you since that day, truly good luck you you girl"
I take the paper. My name is already there, written in elegant, imperial script: Liora.
Just Liora. No family. No title. No place to return to.
I sign.
The ink bleeds into the paper slightly, but it's done. I hand it back.
"You'll receive rations and a cot upon arrival," she adds, already moving to the next form. "Dismissed."
That's it. No welcome. No oath. Just a line, a name, and the slow, grinding machine of an empire at war. I step out of the line, the sun hot on my neck. Behind me, more outcasts shuffle forward. The desperate. The forgotten. The hopeful.
I look down at my hands. Tomorrow, I become a soldier. Not because I want to. Because it's the only thing left to become.