Beyond the heavy wooden gates, salvation turned to ash.
The world ahead was a wasteland of colourless life — brown, grey, black, beige. The palette of despair. The air reeked of rot and smoke; the stench clawed into Alphael's nose so sharply it felt like punishment for breathing.
Hundreds of crooked shacks sprawled in chaos across the dirt. Wood, brick, metal, clay — anything that could be nailed together had been. The result looked less like a town and more like a wound on the Axis.
A few stores tried to imitate structure, but even their walls sagged under exhaustion.
People dragged themselves through the streets — gaunt faces, cracked lips, eyes glazed with surrender. Every step they took stirred the dirt like they were already halfway buried.
Alphael stared. For all the talk of a "nation," this looked more like hell's waiting room.
The rope at his wrists jerked, biting through raw skin. He stumbled forward, joining the slow trudge of the survivors.
As minutes stretched, the slum began to shift. The shacks grew sturdier, the roads less broken, the air a little cleaner. Even misery seemed to come in layers here — some slightly less rotten than others.
Still, a slum was a slum. Filth, no matter how neatly arranged, was still filth.
Then they stopped. Alphael lifted his head and froze.
Far in the distance, piercing through the haze, stood a white marble spire crowned with a blue, conical roof. It shimmered faintly under the moonlight — a fantasy straight out of a storybook.
All it needed was a princess locked inside.
But fantasy didn't belong here. Reality dragged him back with every tug of the rope.
On his right, a wide street led toward a massive structure that dwarfed everything around it. Its walls loomed high, broad, disciplined — like a fortress disguised as a school.
"This is Matslava's main base of operations," the commander announced. His deep voice rolled through the ranks like thunder. "Here, you'll be molded and used as we see fit. Your education begins tomorrow. Your training—by sunrise."
He turned to the masked soldier from before. The same one who'd kicked a man's jaw apart without a flicker of emotion.
"Aidan," the commander said, "take them to their barracks. I have reports to write."
The soldier nodded.
For a moment, the soldier looked at the commander leaving and turned back.
At his signal, the others drew knives and cut the ropes binding the survivors. Alphael winced as blood rushed back into his wrists. He rubbed them gently, the skin already bruising purple.
"This way, Vangen!" Aidan barked. "I don't have all day."
Alphael watched Llywelyn disappear into the main structure before following the soldier down a narrow path that ran along the fortress wall.
"What's with that word?" he muttered under his breath. "Vangen… what even is that supposed to mean?"
The group trudged on.
The walk felt endless. The building stretched like a mountain ridge beside them, swallowing the horizon. Alphael's legs burned, his ankles crackling with every step.
Finally, they reached the back.
An open field sprawled before them — a sea of dirt and dust littered with rows of tents. Hundreds of them. Each the same dull beige, each stamped with a crude sign.
Aidan stopped and turned. His voice was flat, mechanical.
"This is your new home. District V. Find a tent marked 'vacant' and flip it to 'occupied.' Sleep now, Vangen. Tomorrow, you begin your moulding. You'll be up at sunrise. Do not be tardy."
Without another word, he left. The soldiers followed, their footsteps fading into the dark.
Alphael blinked after them, stunned.
"They're just… leaving us?"
Then the memory came — the giant crow, the blood, the screams. He swallowed hard.
"Right. And what exactly would we run into out there?"
He sighed and dragged his aching body to the nearest empty tent. The sign flipped with a hollow snap.
Inside, the space was barely larger than a closet. A thin bed, a cracked table, a rusted lantern. It smelled of dust and old sweat.
"Ah yes, home sweet home"
He dropped onto the bed. The mattress was rock-hard, but exhaustion didn't care. He set his Rubik's cube and his phone on the table beside him — two tiny, colourful relics from a world that was so distant.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
"Come on… wake up. Just wake up under the tree. Please."
Nothing changed.
The silence pressed in. His chest tightened. His vision blurred until the world went under a watery shiny filter that extended down to his cheeks.
"Damn it… Why me? Anyone else, just not me. I just want to see mom…"
A strange heat stirred beneath his skin — a pulse, a flame that flared and faded, like his body was rejecting despair itself. Pain laced through it, but beneath that pain was something convulsed. A strange feeling that wouldn't let go.
He gritted his teeth.
"I'll make it back. No matter what this place is… no matter what it takes."
The words bled into the dark as he drifted into uneasy sleep.
Morning came like punishment. Pale light seeped through the tent walls. Alphael blinked, groggy, then reached for his puzzle and phone out of instinct.
"Dang it. Still here."
His thumbs automatically began to turn on his phone and go to his social media.
"Right… no signal."
He stepped outside, rubbing his eyes. Across from him stood another tent — one he swore had been empty last night.
Its zipper stirred.
Alphael straightened. Sweat prickled his neck.
"Oh, perfect timing," he muttered. "Please be normal. Please be my age."
A head emerged — messy brown hair, skin pale as bone, eyes sharp and hollow.
Alphael forced a nervous grin.
"Hey—"
The frail boy let out a dastardly smile and spoke.
"Oh hey! Nice to meet you. Murderer."