The door opened at dawn.
"7291."
Theron was already standing. He moved to the corridor before the soldier finished speaking.
"Processing yard."
He turned left without hesitation. His feet knew the route. Three corridors, one stairwell, through the side door to the yard. He arrived as the sun cleared the eastern wall.
Twenty others were already assembled. They stood in formation, three rows of seven. Theron took his position at the end of the second row. The stone was cold beneath his feet.
A wagon rolled through the main gate. The wheels rattled over uneven ground before stopping near the intake building. Soldiers dismounted. The back door opened.
Children climbed out. Six of them. Younger than Theron. Smaller. Their wrists were bound.
He watched without moving his head. The new arrivals were lined up along the wall. One of them was shaking. Another had tear tracks down his face. The rest stared at nothing.
An officer approached with a board. He began the same questions Theron remembered from years ago. Name. Origin. Response assessment.
The shaking boy didn't answer. The officer made a mark and moved on.
Theron's eyes tracked the movement. The officer's notation pattern hadn't changed. Three marks for unresponsive. Two for partial compliance. One for full answers.
A soldier crossed the yard toward the formation. "7291. Forward."
Theron stepped out of line. He walked to the center of the yard and stopped, arms at his sides.
"Equipment check."
He lifted his arms. The soldier inspected his uniform, checked the brand on his forearm, noted something on a slip of paper.
"Clear. Return to formation."
Theron walked back and resumed his position.
The intake processing continued. Hair cutting. Uniform distribution. Branding. The new children moved through each station with the same mechanical efficiency that had processed Theron years before.
One of them screamed when the brand touched his skin. The sound echoed across the yard. No one reacted. The officer finished the mark and moved to the next child.
By midday, the new arrivals had been sorted. Four went to viable holding. Two went elsewhere. Their numbers weren't called again.
The formation was dismissed. Theron returned to his assigned room. It was larger than the first holding area, with proper bunks instead of benches. Twenty beds, ten on each side. His was third from the door on the left.
He sat on the edge of his bunk and waited.
An hour passed. The door opened. A different soldier entered, carrying a board.
"7291. 7305. 7318. Assembly room. Now."
Theron stood. Two others rose from their bunks. They followed the soldier into the corridor.
The assembly room was on the second floor. A long table dominated the center, papers stacked at one end. A woman in robes sat behind it, writing. She didn't look up as they entered.
"Against the wall."
They lined up. The woman finished her notation and rose. She inspected each of them in turn, checking their brands, examining their posture, making notes.
When she reached Theron, she paused. Her eyes moved to his chest, though the wound was hidden beneath his uniform.
"Remove your shirt."
He pulled the tunic over his head.
She leaned closer. The scar was barely visible now, a thin line across his sternum. She pressed her fingers against it, testing the tissue. Her expression remained neutral.
"Six years," she said quietly. She straightened and made a longer notation on her board. "Regeneration sustained. Metabolic irregularity persistent. No adverse symptoms documented."
She moved to the next child.
Theron pulled his tunic back on.
The woman returned to the table and separated three sheets of paper from the stack. She handed them to the soldier without comment.
"Escort them to secondary holding. Classification review scheduled for morning."
The soldier gestured toward the door. "Move."
Secondary holding was in the west wing. Theron had never been there before. The corridor was narrower, the doors reinforced with iron. Fewer windows. The air was colder.
They stopped at the third door on the right. The soldier unlocked it and pushed it open.
Inside, twelve bunks lined the walls. Half were occupied. The children already there looked up as Theron and the others entered, then returned their attention to whatever they'd been doing. Most sat in silence. One was reading a worn booklet. Another was cleaning his shoes.
"Bunks at the back. Settle in. You'll be called when needed."
The soldier left. The door locked behind him.
Theron took the nearest empty bunk and sat. The mattress was thinner than the one in his previous room. He tested the frame. Solid. No loose boards.
Across the room, a boy with a brand on his neck glanced at him briefly, then away. No one spoke.
Theron lay back and stared at the ceiling. The stone above him was the same gray as every other room he'd been in. No cracks. No variation.
He closed his eyes.
The sounds were familiar. Breathing. The occasional shift of weight on a bunk. The distant echo of boots in the corridor outside.
He had learned to sleep through anything.
When morning came, the door opened without warning.
"7291. 7305. 7318. Evaluation hall."
Theron rose immediately. The others followed. They were led deeper into the west wing, past doors he hadn't seen before, down a stairwell that descended further than he expected.
The evaluation hall was underground. No windows. Lanterns hung from the walls, casting uneven light across the space. A table sat at the center. Three officers stood behind it, each holding a ledger.
"Line up."
They obeyed.
The first officer stepped forward. He opened his ledger and began reading. "7305. Standard viable classification. Strength assessment adequate. Compliance logged as consistent. Recommended for labor assignment."
He closed the ledger. A soldier gestured, and the boy was led through a side door.
The second officer approached. "7318. Standard viable classification. Manual dexterity rated above average. Recommended for technical training."
Another side door. The boy disappeared through it.
The third officer stopped in front of Theron. He opened his ledger slowly, scanning the pages. His eyes moved over the text longer than the others had.
"7291." He paused. "Irregular classification. Aberrant physiological recovery documented across multiple assessments. Metabolic anomaly flagged for secondary observation." He looked up. "Recommended for specialized assignment. Details restricted."
He closed the ledger.
A different soldier appeared, one Theron hadn't seen before. His uniform was darker. No insignia.
"Come with me."
Theron followed.
They walked through corridors he didn't recognize. Past rooms with reinforced doors. Down another stairwell. The air grew colder the deeper they went.
They stopped at a door with no markings. The soldier unlocked it and gestured inside.
"Wait here. Someone will come for you."
Theron entered. The door closed behind him. The lock turned.
The room was small. A single chair. No windows. A table against the far wall with a ledger sitting on it, closed.
He sat in the chair and waited.
Time passed. He didn't know how long.
Eventually, the door opened. A man entered, older than the officers Theron had seen before. He wore robes of a darker shade, the fabric heavier. He carried a ledger under one arm.
He sat across from Theron and opened the ledger. He read for several minutes without speaking.
Finally, he looked up.
"You're still alive," the man said. Not a question. An observation.
Theron said nothing.
The man made a notation in the ledger. "That will be useful."
He closed the book and stood. He left without another word.
The door remained open.
Theron stayed in the chair.
Another soldier appeared. Different uniform. Same dark fabric.
"Follow."
Theron rose and walked into the corridor.
The soldier led him back upstairs, through sections of the building he still didn't recognize. They stopped at a room near the end of a long hallway.
"Your assignment begins tomorrow. You'll receive instructions at dawn."
The soldier opened the door. Inside was a bunk, a small table, a basin. Nothing else.
"This is your quarters now. Stay here until called."
Theron entered. The door closed behind him.
He sat on the bunk and looked at his hands. The brand on his forearm had faded slightly over the years, the edges less distinct. The number was still clear.
7291.
He traced it with his finger.
Then he lay back and closed his eyes.
Tomorrow would come.
He would be ready.