One week later Lirael woke up with a gasp, cold sweat dripping down her temple. The room she was in was unfamiliar—sterile, metallic, and filled with rows of beds. Some were empty, others occupied by strangers—men and women, some her age, others younger.
Her head throbbed. She touched her forehead, trying to remember—Peterson… Taren… the explosion… It was all a blur.
Before she could gather her thoughts, the metal door slid open. A man in a dark gray uniform stepped in. His vest bore a strange emblem—a black circle with a red slash through it, resembling an eye watching from the shadows.
"Meal time. After that, military training will begin," the man said coldly, devoid of emotion.
Some of the others in the room got up immediately, as if they were already used to this routine. But Lirael stayed seated on the bed, confused and alarmed. She tried to speak, "Wait... where am I? Who are you people?"
The man stared at her blankly. "You are one of the chosen. Personal questions are irrelevant."
Lirael's heartbeat quickened. She slowly stood up, scanning her surroundings. The others barely looked at her—most of them wore blank expressions, like they, too, had lost something: memories, identity, maybe even their will.
She followed the group into a hallway. Posters lined the walls, covered in bold slogans:
> "ORDER IS THE GOAL.
OBEDIENCE IS POWER.
THE WEAK WILL BE CORRECTED."
A shiver ran down her spine. Something was deeply wrong here.
And most disturbing of all—
She couldn't even remember her own name.
The morning air was cold and sharp. Lirael stood among dozens of other youths, all wearing dark gray uniforms with a strange emblem stitched on the left side of their chests. In front of them, a line of faceless human-shaped targets glided slowly across metal tracks.
"This is the standard issue weapon," a stern female instructor barked as she paced in front of them, handing out sleek black rifles. "Light plasma rifle. Enough to disable or kill. You'll learn to shoot without hesitation. If you hesitate, you die."
Lirael accepted the weapon. It felt heavy—not just in her hands, but in her chest. Her fingers trembled slightly.
"Begin," the instructor ordered.
The targets started to move faster. One by one, the trainees fired with disturbing precision—some even smirked as they hit the bullseyes cleanly.
Lirael raised her weapon. She aimed at one of the moving targets. Her finger hovered on the trigger. But just before she could shoot...
Peterson's face flashed through her mind—him shielding her during their escape from the burning base. Then Taren's voice, and Elior's distant laughter.
Blam! A shot rang out next to her, startling her. One of the trainees shot a target without looking. He glanced at her with annoyance.
"Don't zone out. Or next time, it'll be you getting shot."
Lirael gritted her teeth. She fired—hit the center of her target. But her body was shaking, her breathing uneven. Something inside her screamed that this was all wrong.
Suddenly, a quiet voice came from the girl standing beside her—a short-haired teen, whispering just loud enough for Lirael to hear:
"If you ever remember who you really are... don't let them control you."
Lirael turned sharply.
"What do you mean?"
The girl didn't answer—just stared forward, pretending she hadn't said anything. But her eyes... there was something familiar in them. Like someone from before. From the life Lirael could no longer remember.
That afternoon in the mess hall
The cafeteria buzzed with footsteps and clattering trays, yet the atmosphere felt cold and mechanical. No one spoke more than a few words. The faces around Lirael were unfamiliar—blank expressions, like dolls on strings.
She sat alone, staring at the bland food on her tray. Something in her gut told her she didn't belong here.
Suddenly, a short-haired girl from the earlier training session quietly sat down beside her.
Without looking at her, the girl murmured under her breath,
"They're still part of Varn."
Lirael turned quickly.
"What do you mean?" she whispered, alarmed.
The girl kept her eyes forward, pretending to eat normally.
"After the base exploded, some of Varn's people had backup facilities. This place is one of them. We're all being gathered here. They're continuing the experiments... just more discreetly now."
Lirael felt a cold knot forming in her stomach.
"Who are you?"
The girl took another bite before answering softly,
"Name's Saria. I survived a different camp. That one got wiped out because we refused to cooperate with Varn."
She glanced sideways at Lirael.
"And you, Lirael… you're the key. They don't know you're starting to remember. But if you stay quiet, they'll turn you into another weapon. Just like the others."
Lirael's breath caught.
"Do you know where the others are? Taren? Peterson? Exter?"
Saria shook her head slightly.
"No. But I do know this—tomorrow night, there's a transport leaving the facility. If you want answers, that's our chance. Otherwise, you'll end up part of their next project."
Lirael scanned the room again. Every face, once just unfamiliar, now looked sinister—lifeless masks worn by people who might already be lost.
And for the first time since she woke up in this strange facility…
Lirael knew she had to escape.
That night Lirael lay on the cold metal bunk, the dim light above swaying slightly. The steady breathing of others in the barracks filled the silence, like the world itself was whispering in slow motion.
Her eyes stared at the ceiling—but her mind was elsewhere.
Suddenly, like a lightning strike, the memory returned.
...Inside the bus, after the explosion at the compound...
Smoke clung to their clothes, their bodies covered in dirt and blood. Lirael sat on the floor of the bus, clutching Peterson's bloody hand. Taren held his brother upright, fighting back his own pain.
Peterson looked at Lirael, his breath ragged but still managing a faint smile.
"You're not my sister… but I think I know why you matter."
Lirael stared at him, eyes wide, tears falling.
"What do you mean?"
"Your pendant… I've seen it before. In my father's data. It doesn't belong to just anyone. It belonged to the original guardian of the 'Zytherion Key.' If they ever find out, you'll be their top target. Don't let them…"
He coughed violently, blood staining his lips.
"…use you."
Taren placed a hand on Lirael's shoulder.
"We'll protect you. No matter what."
Lirael gripped the pendant around her neck. Her hands trembled. The sounds of the bus, of their breathing, of the unknown future—they all felt real. Warm. Alive.
Back to the present, in the barracks.
Lirael jolted awake, breathing hard.
Her hand flew to the pendant around her neck.
It was still there. Still intact. But now, it felt heavier than ever. Not because of the metal—but because of the truth.
Her eyes narrowed at the ceiling.
"I'm not just anyone… I carry something they want."
"And if they think I've forgotten… they're wrong."
Lirael sat up.
She wouldn't sleep tonight. She knew now—this wasn't just about surviving.
It was about fighting back.