The first thing I noticed was the silence.
Not the peaceful kind—the wrong kind. The kind that presses against your ears until you're aware of your own breathing. The kind that tells you something is off before your eyes even open.
I wasn't supposed to be here.
That thought hit me the moment I sat up.
The ceiling above me was unfamiliar—arched stone instead of drywall, glowing faintly with symbols that pulsed like a slow heartbeat. The air smelled like rain and metal. My bed wasn't my bed. The sheets were too smooth, too cool, like fabric that had never met dust or time.
I swung my legs over the side and stood.
The floor was warm beneath my bare feet.
That was when panic crept in.
"Okay," I whispered, voice steady out of pure stubbornness. "Think."
Last night, I had gone to sleep in my apartment. I remembered the hum of traffic outside my window. My phone dying halfway through a video I didn't finish. I remembered being tired—bone-tired—not the kind of tired sleep fixes.
And now?
Now I was standing in a room that looked like it belonged in a place that shouldn't exist.
A mirror hung on the far wall. I walked toward it, heart pounding louder with every step.
My reflection stared back.
Still me. Same face. Same scar near my eyebrow from when I was twelve. Same dark eyes—wide now with something close to fear.
But something else was different.
There was a faint mark just below my collarbone. A symbol, barely visible, like it had been etched under my skin rather than on it.
I touched it.
Heat flared—sharp, brief—and the symbol glowed.
I jerked my hand back.
"Nope," I muttered. "Absolutely not."
The door behind me creaked open.
I spun around.
A woman stood there, tall and composed, dressed in a uniform that looked half-military, half-academic. Her silver hair was pulled back tightly, her eyes sharp and assessing—as if she'd already decided something about me before I had the chance to speak.
"You're awake," she said.
It wasn't a question.
"Where am I?" I asked.
She studied me for a moment longer, then stepped aside. "You're late."
That wasn't an answer.
"I said—"
"—you're at the Academy," she cut in calmly. "And whether you survive here depends on how quickly you learn to listen."
Survive.
That word landed heavily.
I followed her out into a long corridor lined with doors identical to the one I'd woken behind. Students—because that's what they were, even if none of this made sense—moved past us in tense silence. Some looked confident. Others looked terrified.
All of them had the same mark I did.
"So," I said slowly, "either I'm dreaming, or someone drugged me, or—"
"—or you were chosen," the woman finished.
We stopped at a balcony overlooking a massive open hall below. Hundreds of students stood arranged in rows, all facing a raised platform where several figures waited.
A man stepped forward.
His presence alone silenced the room.
"Welcome," he said, his voice carrying without effort. "If you are standing here today, it means the world has deemed you… useful."
Useful.
"Each of you possesses a core trait," he continued. "A defining part of who you are. Your ambition. Your fear. Your empathy. Your control."
The symbol beneath my collarbone pulsed faintly.
"At this Academy," he said, "that trait becomes your power."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"You will train it. Master it. And be judged by it."
The woman beside me leaned in. "Listen carefully now."
The man's gaze hardened.
"Failure results in expulsion."
A pause.
"And expulsion," he said calmly, "results in death."
Silence slammed down like a physical force.
My chest tightened.
Someone near the front broke. "This is insane! You can't just—"
The man raised one hand.
The student's symbol flared bright—
—and then he was gone.
No scream. No blood.
Just absence.
I swallowed hard.
"Orientation begins now," the man said, as if nothing had happened. "Your first choice will be made today."
Choice?
The woman turned to me. "Your power will reveal itself when tested. But understand this—"
She met my eyes.
"Not all powers are equal."
I looked down at the glowing mark on my skin, my pulse loud in my ears.
Whatever part of me the world had chosen—
It had better be enough.
Because I wasn't ready to die for a place I never asked to be in.
And yet, as fear curled tight in my chest, something else stirred beneath it.
Not panic.
Not despair.
Determination.
If this world thought it could decide my fate—
It was about to learn how wrong it was.
—
The hall erupted into controlled movement.
Lines shifted. Groups were separated by subtle gestures from robed attendants who seemed to appear out of nowhere. No one raised their voice. No one needed to. The weight of what we had just witnessed pressed us into obedience.
The woman who had brought me here—my guide, my captor, my instructor—motioned for me to follow.
"Eyes forward," she said quietly. "Watch. Learn."
We descended a wide stairway that curved along the hall's edge. Up close, the scale of the place was overwhelming. The stone beneath my feet was etched with the same symbols I'd seen on the ceiling—older here, worn smooth by time and use. They hummed faintly, a vibration I felt more than heard.
Students were being directed toward archways spaced evenly around the hall. Above each arch glowed a different sigil, brighter than the rest.
"What happens now?" I asked, keeping my voice low.
"Assessment," she replied. "Observation. Sorting."
"That's three things."
She glanced at me. "You catch on quickly."
A student near us stumbled as they walked, hands shaking. Another stared straight ahead, jaw set so tightly I thought it might crack. Confidence and terror existed side by side here, indistinguishable at a glance.
"Do people ever refuse?" I asked.
The woman didn't answer immediately.
When she did, her voice was level. "Some try."
That told me enough.
We stopped before one of the arches. The sigil above it flickered as we approached, responding to something—me, the mark, whatever had been carved into my fate.
"Stand here," she instructed.
I stepped forward. The air shifted, warmer, heavier. The symbol beneath my collarbone pulsed in time with my heartbeat.
Across the hall, I heard a sharp intake of breath. Somewhere else, a cry of surprise. The assessment had already begun.
"What exactly are you looking for?" I asked, unable to stop myself.
The woman folded her hands behind her back. "Truth," she said. "Stripped of comfort. Stripped of choice."
That word again.
Choice.
The sigil flared brighter.
My vision blurred—not with darkness, but with light. Images pressed at the edges of my mind. Not memories. Possibilities. Paths branching outward, each one demanding something different from me.
I clenched my fists, grounding myself in the feel of stone beneath my feet, air in my lungs.
Whatever this test was—whatever this place wanted—
I would meet it standing.
Because the world may have chosen me.
But what I became?
That would be my decision.