Lucien awoke not to the warmth of sunlight, but to the dim flickering glow of lanterns suspended high on iron chains. They swayed in the draft of unseen currents, casting shifting shadows across the stone walls of the Fourth Division's dormitory. The air was thick with the scent of melted wax and something metallic—like blood dried long ago and never scrubbed away.
Around him, the other recruits stirred. Some murmured in their sleep, thrashing against dreams they could not escape. Others rose with stiff, mechanical movements, as though their very bodies were shackled by invisible chains. Lucien sat up slowly, his palm brushing against the rough bedding, and glanced at the mark on his left hand. The faint sigil shimmered in the dimness, a reminder of what had happened during the so-called "initiation."
They think I'm contracted.
His lips curled into something between a smirk and a grimace. If only they knew the truth—that he had refused the daemon, and yet power had etched itself into his flesh regardless. A power he did not understand. A power he dared not yet probe too deeply.
The whispers began again.
Soft, insidious, as though carried on the edges of his own mind.
Not the voices of the Wraith-Touched this time, but the murmurs of his fellow recruits. He could hear them behind his back as he dressed in the coarse uniform the Syndicate had provided.
"That's him. The new one."
"They say the daemon bowed before him."
"Liar. Nobody can make a daemon bow. He probably begged like the rest of us."
"Then why doesn't he look broken?"
Lucien fastened his shirt and ignored them. He had long ago learned the art of indifference. Let them talk. Let their words drip like venom. In truth, their stares and suspicions mattered little compared to the storm within his own chest.
---
The Routine of the Fourth Division
The day began with silence. Always silence. The recruits filed out of the dormitory and into the courtyard, where a black lantern the size of a man stood atop a pedestal. Its flame burned without heat, a steady violet glow that pulsed like a heartbeat.
All bowed to it.
Lucien did not bow. He simply lowered his gaze, mimicking enough of the gesture to pass. But as he looked from the corner of his eye, he noticed something unsettling—some recruits who bowed too long began trembling, their shoulders shuddering as though they were being drained. One collapsed outright, frothing at the mouth, while others dragged him away without pause.
Lucien's jaw tightened. So this is their devotion… or their curse.
When the ritual ended, the recruits dispersed to their assigned tasks. Some trained in the yard with weapons that shimmered faintly with runic inscriptions. Others practiced meditative stances beneath the lantern's glow, muttering the names of their daemons like prayers. A few wandered with hollow eyes, whispering to shadows that were not there.
Lucien's task was simple: observe. The leaders of the Fourth Division seemed unsure what to make of him. They gave no instructions beyond "watch and learn." Perhaps they feared him. Or perhaps they were waiting for him to slip.
---
The Layers Beneath the Syndicate
It didn't take long for Lucien to notice the hierarchy. Veterans walked with an arrogance that bordered on madness, their daemon marks glowing like brands across their skin. Some of them had clearly lost pieces of themselves—eyes blackened, voices distorted, movements too inhuman to be natural. And yet, they commanded fear and obedience.
Recruits, by contrast, were little more than cattle. Their chatter was filled with envy and terror in equal measure. Many whispered of their contracts, boasting about the power their daemons lent them. But in their eyes, Lucien saw the cracks—their pride was nothing more than a mask hiding the slow erosion of their humanity.
Is this the fate of those who kneel? Lucien wondered. To burn away piece by piece, until nothing remains but the daemon's shadow?
He shook the thought from his head. He could not allow himself to be pulled into their spiral. He was not one of them. Not truly.
---
Interrogations and Paranoia
By midday, a group of recruits cornered him in the mess hall. Their trays of thin porridge steamed weakly, filling the air with a sour stench.
"You." One of them—a lanky boy with twitching hands—jabbed a finger at Lucien. "What's your daemon's name?"
Lucien raised his brow, expression calm. "Why should I tell you?"
"Because you can't hide it forever." Another recruit leaned forward, eyes gleaming feverishly. "We all heard what happened in the chamber. We know something strange occurred. Marks don't appear without blood. What bargain did you make?"
The words were hungry, desperate. Lucien could see it in them—the need to believe he had suffered as they had, that he had bled for power. His silence was an affront to their misery.
He set his spoon down with deliberate calm. "Believe what you want. But if you think I'll share secrets with the likes of you, you're mistaken."
For a moment, the air grew taut, heavy with the promise of violence. Then, one by one, the recruits backed away. Not out of respect. Out of fear.
Lucien did not smile, but inside, he felt the weight of their gazes clinging to him like chains.
---
The Lantern Rite
That night, he witnessed something worse.
The veterans and leaders gathered the recruits into the courtyard once again. The black lantern pulsed stronger this time, its light devouring the shadows until the stone walls seemed to bleed purple.
"Offer," one of the leaders commanded.
The recruits obeyed. Some whispered their confessions—sins, desires, fears. Others pricked their fingers and let drops of blood fall into the lantern's flame, which consumed it eagerly. A few… gave more. A tooth. A lock of hair. Even a fingernail ripped out by its root.
Lucien stood among them, unmoving. He did not offer. He did not bow. His silence was his rebellion.
But as the ritual stretched on, he noticed the mark on his palm throb faintly, resonating with the lantern's light. No one else seemed to notice. No one but him.
And in that moment, he realized: whatever the Syndicate thought they had forced upon him, it was not what they believed. His path was diverging already, and the danger of being discovered grew sharper each day.
---
Reflections
Later, alone in his assigned quarters, Lucien sat by the dim glow of a candle. His thoughts wandered—not just to the Syndicate, but beyond.
His mother. Did she still search for him in the other world? Or had she already begun to forget, as the glitches had consumed his place in that reality? He could no longer be sure. His existence there felt like a fading dream.
Here, though—here he was solid. The stone walls were cold beneath his fingers. The mark on his palm burned like a brand. The Syndicate's whispers pressed against him like a tide.
Which world is real? he asked himself. And if both are real… which one will claim me in the end?
The candle sputtered, its flame bending as though bowing to an unseen wind.
Lucien blew it out and lay in the darkness, listening to the whispers of the Lanterns until sleep finally claimed him.