Chapter 3 — Into the Rift
The platform air was sharper than the cold morning at the orphanage, the kind that carried a metallic tang deep into the lungs. Wind whistled through scaffolds and pylons, carrying the steady hum of generators. At the center, the Rift shimmered, a wall of liquid light pulsing with strange colors. Even from a distance, it made the skin on my arms prickle, like the air itself knew it didn't belong here.
Five hundred of us stood in rows—nobles polished like glass, tower-born fidgeting with their nerves, and us orphans, our jackets patched and thin. The overseers barked orders, moving us into neat lines.
A man in a black coat stepped onto the dais. His coat bore no noble crest, only the symbol of the Tower Authority: a sharp circle with a vertical slash. A throat amplifier glinted at his neck. His voice boomed out, hard and metallic.
"Listen well. This is the Crucible. Once you step into the Rift, you are on your own. There will be no rescue. No overseer will step in to help you. There is no way to call for aid. If you cannot fight, you will die. If you cannot endure, you will die. In seven days, we will return to this exact spot. If you are not here, we will not wait."
The words settled heavy on us, like stones in our stomachs.
Mara shifted beside me. "They don't even try to soften it," she muttered.
"Why would they?" I said. "Soft words won't stop a beast's claws."
The man raised one gloved hand. A mercenary squad stepped forward with large crates, unlocking them with magnetic keys. "You have each been issued a survival package," the overseer continued. "Within it, you will find: one short sword, one shield, flint, a length of rope, three dried ration packs, and one water flask. If you want more than that—kill a beast and take it. That is the law of this world. No one here will hand you what you cannot fight for."
The crates hissed open. One by one, heavy canvas packs were handed down the rows.
When mine landed in my arms, the weight nearly pulled me forward. I swung it over my shoulder, the straps rough against my patched jacket. Inside, the sword clinked against the shield. I pulled the blade free for a moment, feeling its balance. It wasn't refined—it was a weapon mass-produced for initiates—but the steel edge gleamed sharp. The shield, plain iron and oiled leather, smelled of rust and animal fat. Crude, but real. For the first time in my life, I held something meant for more than survival.
I strapped the shield across my back and slid the sword into its scabbard at my hip. The weight grounded me.
Around us, the nobles examined their gear with mild disdain. A boy in an embroidered coat laughed. "This sword looks like scrap metal." His friends chuckled with him. They didn't notice that their laughter carried too loud in the cold air, forced.
The overseer's voice cut through again. "You will be divided into ten groups of fifty. Assignments are final. Each group will be dropped at a different point in the Rift zone. Your goal is simple: survive. Kill. Evolve. Return here in seven days. Fail to do so, and your story ends there."
Names were called, rows reorganized. Nobles clustered together naturally, as if the world bent around them. Tower-born shifted uneasily, some clearly praying they wouldn't be separated from familiar faces. Us orphans had no choice—we were shoved into the gaps nobody else wanted.
Mara and I ended up in Group Seven, along with eight other orphans and thirty tower-born kids. I could feel their eyes on us, sharp and dismissive. One boy muttered loud enough for me to hear: "Dead weight."
I clenched my jaw. Mara caught my look and shook her head. "Not here," she whispered. "Save it for the Rift."
The overseer scanned the group with cold eyes. "Remember this: the Rift does not care who your parents are. It does not care if you are rich or poor, orphan or noble. The beasts inside will kill you the same. The only difference is whether you choose to fight back."
That last line earned a few chuckles from nobles in other groups. They thought fighting back was something bought with money.
A mercenary shoved another pack into my hands—smaller this time, wrapped in wax cloth. "Standard supplies," he said, bored. Inside were three dried ration bars, a half-full water flask, flint, and a coil of rope. Barely enough for two days.
Mara opened hers and frowned. "Seven days on this?"
"They expect us to hunt," I said. My stomach tightened. Food meant beasts. Beasts meant hearts. Hearts meant chance—or death.
The overseer raised his hand again. "Your week begins the moment you enter. Remember: eat the heart fresh for the greatest chance. If you delay, the essence weakens. And if you waste too much time, others will take what you hesitated to claim. You are all competitors. Never forget it."
The first group of fifty marched forward. As they stepped into the Rift, the light swallowed them whole. Their outlines dissolved, colors shifting until there was nothing left.
A murmur spread down the rows. Some kids stared wide-eyed, others whispered prayers. A noble girl smirked and said loudly, "Well, that's fifty less mouths already."
Group by group disappeared. The air seemed to thicken with every departure, the shimmer growing brighter, hungrier.
"Group Seven!" the mercenary barked. "Stand ready!"
My heartbeat thundered in my chest. Mara gripped her sword, her face pale but her eyes steady. Around us, tower-born shifted nervously, glancing at the nobles waiting to laugh at their fear.
I rolled my shoulders, feeling the weight of the sword at my side. This was it. No more speeches. No more waiting. Only survival.
The overseer's amplified voice rang out one last time: "Beasts are merciless. If you want to live, be worse than they are. Now go!"
The Rift shimmered ahead, alive with impossible light.
I took one step, then another. The Tower loomed behind me, impossibly high, gleaming like a world I'd never touched. Ahead, the Rift reached out, cold and infinite.
Seven days, I thought. Seven days to survive. Seven days to prove them wrong.
And then the light swallowed me whole.