Owen Cross never liked quiet mornings.
They were a lie. A setup. Something adults called "peaceful" but that he'd learned to treat like the deep breath before a punch. Especially here—on the Bright Side.
Sector 3 was the crown jewel of the Federation: polished, prismatic, sterile. Streets gleamed like glass, and towers climbed so high they bent the edges of your vision. Every window had a tint. Every wall had a code. Even the air felt regulated—filtered clean of dirt, heat, and sound.
Owen hated it.
He kicked a rock down the alley behind his dormitory, watching it ping off the ceramic wall of the sanitation unit. It sparked blue and vanished into the drain. That was the thing here: nothing stayed dirty for long.
Not even you.
He stared at the toe of his boot. Scuffed, scratched, half-burned on one side from that incident in the chem lab. The other kids wore their uniforms like they'd grown into them. Owen wore his like armor. Too small in the shoulders, the sleeves rolled up to make room for his flame-doodled gloves. Not regulation, of course. But then again, neither was he.
His back still ached from last week's fight. Another kid had said something—something stupid about orphans, about how the Choosing only picked the weak to feed the monsters. Owen had knocked out two of his teeth before the teachers peeled him off.
"Twice your size," his foster matron screamed later. "Are you trying to get recycled into the workforce?"
"He lied," Owen muttered now, adjusting the strap of his satchel.
The sun was already up, unnaturally white above the towerline. No glare. No warmth. Just a disc, bright as a dead god's eye, framed in a perfect blue dome. The sky here never changed. Not really.
But the tension was real.
It was the Tenth Year.
Ten years since the last Choosing.
Ten years since the Divide had opened and swallowed 10,000 souls. Warriors, dreamers, criminals, children—vanished into the Gray World, where the monsters lived and the air burned and nobody came back.
Except for the fire. And the stories.
Owen had read them all—most banned, all encrypted. He'd watched smuggled footage of a city cracked in half, of skies torn open by light, of soldiers fused in armor they never removed again. The Chosen. Not selected. Not conscripted.
Called.
Most people feared the Choosing.
Owen craved it.
He'd counted down every day since he was six. Imagined the siren. The heat. The sky breaking like it hated the ground.
He sat through breakfast on edge, eyes flicking to the time display every twenty seconds. The other students laughed, talked, chewed like nothing mattered. No one spoke of the date. It wasn't forbidden. It was just... understood. Don't name the wolves. Don't knock on doors meant to stay closed.
But Owen had knocked.
He was still knocking.
"Hey freak," someone whispered, sliding past him with a tray. "Looking for your monster mom today?"
He didn't look up.
His fingers closed around his fork.
One breath in. One breath—
WAIL. WAIL. WAIL.
Three sharp, sterile tones cracked through the cafeteria. Lights dimmed. A blue haze washed across the glass ceiling. All conversation died mid-word.
A girl dropped her protein bar.
The siren meant only one thing.
The Choosing had begun.
Owen stood before he could think. Around him, students froze. A few bolted. Some screamed. The cafeteria doors slammed shut with a hydraulic hiss. Then, the world changed.
It wasn't the sound. It wasn't even the heat—not at first.
It was the sky.
A single line tore through it, splitting from horizon to horizon like a gash in crystal. Gold bled at the edges. Not light—firelight. Hot, living, ancient. The kind of light that didn't shine so much as demand to be seen.
The white sun dimmed by comparison.
And then—heat.
Not warmth. Not temperature.
Pressure.
Like a god exhaling directly into Owen's chest.
His knees buckled. His spine locked. The fire behind his ribs—the one he'd always pretended was just imagination—roared to life like it had been waiting for this signal. Waiting for the call.
He heard screams.
Some were close.
Some were his.
His feet left the ground.
No pulling. No wires. No wings.
He was lifted—dragged upward like an ember caught in a storm. He didn't fight it.
He grinned.
The world hit him like a falling star.
One moment: light, fire, air.
The next: cold concrete.
His lungs screamed for breath. His fingers clawed at the dust. The ground was cracked and scorched. Metal twisted in jagged spires overhead. No sun. No color. Just smoke and gray light, flickering like a dying film reel.
Owen sat up.
And saw the field.
Thousands.
Some awake. Some are unconscious. All young. All glowing faintly with the same golden mark on their wrists.
The symbol looked like a flame curling inward—half-brand, half-script. He traced it with shaking fingers.
Then the voice came.
Loudspeakers hidden in towers.
No fanfare.
Just orders.
"Attention, newly Chosen. You have been selected by Kaelira, Goddess of Life, War, and Fire, to serve the Nova Veil Defense Initiative."
"Welcome to the front."
"Stand. You begin now."
Owen pushed himself up on shaky legs. Others around him were already moving. Some cheering. Some were crying. Some were just staring, like their minds hadn't made it through the tear in the sky.
Soldiers appeared—tall, cloaked, armored in matte black with glowing stripes at their spines. They moved fast, organizing the dazed into lines.
One passed Owen. Threw a strip of orange fabric into his hands.
"Name?" she snapped.
"Owen Cross."
She eyed him. "Too young."
"I'm twelve."
"Minimum is thirteen. You observe."
"But I—"
"You'll watch."
The next person in line shoved past him.
Owen stood there, fists clenched, fire boiling under his skin.
They were herded through towering gates into the staging zone.
From here, Owen saw them—the pods.
Glass coffins, pulsing with inner light. Each one a machine. A ritual. A transformation.
Two at a time, the Chosen entered. Pairs. Always pairs.
Inside, they glowed.
When they emerged, they were changed.
Armor fused to skin. Eyes lit from within. Strength that shook the steel beneath their feet.
And beside each one—another.
Their mirror. Their match.
Their Soul Link.
Owen pressed against the barricade.
He wanted in.
He wanted that.
But he was twelve.
So he sat, alone, long after the lights dimmed.
Night came cold and silent. The towers hummed. The sky above was choked with smoke.
He watched until the last pod closed.
A figure sat beside him.
He didn't look at first.
But the smell—coffee and copper—wasn't military.
"Rough day?" the man asked.
Owen turned.
Thin. Pale. Lab coat. Bad haircut. Bright eyes.
"Dr. Evan Thorne," he said, offering a hand.
Owen didn't shake it.
"You're not a soldier."
"No," Evan said. "I'm worse. I'm a scientist."
Owen turned back to the pods.
"I was ready."
"I know."
"How?"
"We watched you fall."
"You were watching me?"
Evan smiled faintly. "We always watch for sparks."
That caught Owen's attention.
"Sparks?"
"People who aren't chosen because they're ready. But because they could be. Could be more."
Owen looked down at his hands.
Small. Scabbed. Scarred.
But shaking with something bigger.
Fire. Hunger.
Hope.
He looked up.
"Well then," he said. "Let's find out what I might be."