The dreams came in fragments.
A city at night, neon bleeding through rain-slicked streets. The sharp crack of gunfire. Pain blooming in his chest—different pain, sudden and final. Then darkness, and the sensation of falling through something that wasn't quite space, wasn't quite time.
Kymani woke to pale dawn light filtering through the infirmary windows.
The dreams made no sense. Cities didn't look like that in Catalim. The lights were wrong, the sounds foreign. Sometimes he dreamed of objects he had no names for—metal boxes that moved on wheels, glass screens that glowed with impossible colors. Fragments of a life that couldn't have been his, because he'd been born here, in the zone of Valtheris, in the shadow of walls that had always existed.
Hadn't he?
The uncertainty gnawed at him in the quiet moments, but he'd learned to push it aside. Questions without answers were waste. Better to focus on what was real: the cot beneath him, the ache in his healing back, the tight pull of bandages around his left hand.
Sister Celene had said his training would begin today.
He sat up slowly, testing his body. The wounds from yesterday's trial were already scabbing over—the Shepherds' medical knowledge was extensive, their salves potent. They needed to keep their experimental subjects alive long enough to see results. Waste was sin, after all.
The infirmary was empty except for him. Dawn meant prayers in the courtyard, the daily ritual where Father Gregorius reminded everyone of their blessed purpose. Kymani had been excused, given leave to rest and recover. Special treatment for the special child.
He stood, bare feet silent on cold stone, and moved to the window.
The compound stretched below: training yards, meditation halls, the squat bulk of the undercroft where the cells waited. Beyond the walls, Valtheris proper began—a sprawl of buildings that pressed against each other like frightened animals, all of it contained within the zone's greater walls. Those massive barriers rose in the distance, gray and ancient, their tops lost in permanent cloud cover.
The walls divided Catalim into isolated territories. Some zones were prosperous, governed by merchant councils or enlightened nobility. Valtheris was not one of them. Here, the Theocracy of Eternal Light held dominion, and the Choir of Purity operated with their blessing. A arrangement of mutual benefit: the Theocracy received warriors blessed with miraculous abilities, and the Choir received protection, funding, and a steady supply of unwanted children.
Kymani watched figures moving through the distant streets. Even from here, he could see the way people hurried, heads down, avoiding notice. The Theocracy's Penitent Guard patrolled regularly, looking for signs of impurity. Public punishments were common. Fear was the foundation of order, they said.
The door opened behind him.
He turned to find Brother Matthias entering, carrying a tray of food—actual bread, cheese, dried fruit. Luxuries.
"Good morning, Kymani." Brother Matthias was younger than the other Shepherds, perhaps thirty, with a scholar's stoop and ink-stained fingers. He taught philosophy and history when he wasn't assisting with trials. "How do you feel?"
"Functional, Brother."
A slight smile. "Direct, as always. Good. Honesty is its own purity." He set the tray on a small table. "Eat. You'll need energy for today's lessons."
Kymani approached the food, studying it. "What kind of lessons?"
"Practical ones. Father Gregorius wants to see if your transcendence extends beyond enduring pain. Whether you can apply it." Brother Matthias settled into a chair, watching Kymani with academic interest. "Tell me, when you separated yourself from the suffering yesterday, where did you go?"
Kymani tore a piece of bread, chewing slowly while he considered the question. "Nowhere. I was still present."
"But not in your body."
"I was in my body. I just wasn't… attached to it."
"Interesting phrasing." Brother Matthias leaned forward. "Most children who achieve transcendence describe it as floating, or watching from outside themselves. Dissociation, in the classical sense. But you remained present. Aware. Simply… separated."
"Yes, Brother."
"That's unusual. Valuable." Brother Matthias pulled a small journal from his robes, making notes. "It suggests conscious control rather than involuntary detachment. A refined response instead of a broken one."
Kymani ate in silence, letting the Shepherd theorize. He'd learned that the less he volunteered, the more they revealed. Brother Matthias liked to talk, to explain his observations. Information was power, even here.
"The Choir has existed for seventy-three years," Brother Matthias continued, still writing. "In that time, we've processed approximately two thousand children. Of those, perhaps forty achieved genuine transcendence. Of those forty, only twelve survived long enough to become active saints. Do you know why the numbers are so low?"
"They broke completely."
"Precisely. There's a fine line between transcendent detachment and catatonic withdrawal. Most children who separate from their suffering separate from everything. They stop eating, stop responding, stop being. The shell remains alive, but the person inside retreats so far they never return." He looked up from his journal. "You haven't done that. Yesterday, after your trial, you walked. Spoke. Followed instructions. Your detachment is… selective. Controlled."
"Is that what makes me special?"
Brother Matthias smiled. "Among other things. But yes, control is the key. A saint who can't function is useless. A saint who can choose when to feel and when to transcend…" He closed the journal. "That's what we're hoping you might become."
Kymani finished the bread, moved to the cheese. His body processed the food mechanically, extracting nutrients. He noted the improved energy, the slight reduction in the constant low-grade pain that had become his baseline. Good food meant they valued him now. Value meant leverage, eventually.
"Come," Brother Matthias said, standing. "Father Gregorius is waiting."
They left the infirmary, moving through corridors Kymani had never been permitted to access before. These passages were cleaner, better maintained. Tapestries hung on the walls depicting scenes from the Choir's mythology—angels descending through clouds, sinners being refined in holy fire, saints standing triumphant over darkness.
Propaganda, Kymani thought distantly. Pretty lies to justify ugly truths.
They emerged into a section of the compound he'd only glimpsed from the courtyard: the training wing. Here, older children—teenagers, mostly, survivors of years in the undercroft—practiced combat forms under the supervision of senior Shepherds. Wooden swords clacked against each other in rhythmic patterns. Someone grunted as they hit the ground, thrown by a training partner.
But these weren't normal training exercises.
Kymani watched a girl, perhaps sixteen, move through a sword form. Her movements were fast—too fast. Inhuman. The wooden blade blurred, cutting arcs in the air that left visible distortions, like heat shimmer. Where the blade passed, target dummies didn't just break—they warped, wood grain twisting into impossible spirals.
"That's Elara," Brother Matthias said, following his gaze. "One of our successes. Five years in development. Her transcendence manifested as temporal acceleration—she experiences time at a different rate than her body, allowing her to move faster than normal perception can track. The warping effect is a side manifestation. Reality doesn't quite… settle properly around her movements."
In another section, a boy was being pelted with stones thrown by a Shepherd. Each stone should have hit with bone-breaking force. Instead, they stopped an inch from his skin, hanging suspended in the air for a moment before dropping harmlessly to the ground.
"Daveth. Seven years. His transcendence created a rejection field. His subconscious refuses to acknowledge harm, so reality adjusts to match. Limited range, only works on physical objects, but effective."
Brother Matthias gestured to the various training areas. "Each saint manifests differently. The common factor is that they've all learned to reject some aspect of baseline reality. Pain, time, physical law. Their transcendence creates… inconsistencies. Miracles, if you prefer the theological term."
"What happens to them after training?"
"They serve. The Theocracy deploys them against enemies of the faith—heretic cults, rebel cells, zones that resist proper governance. A single saint can pacify a town. Three can break an army." Brother Matthias's voice carried pride. "We're creating the instruments of divine will."
They reached a heavy door at the corridor's end. Brother Matthias knocked twice, then pushed it open.
The chamber beyond was large, circular, with a domed ceiling that amplified sound. The floor was bare stone, scuffed and scarred from countless impacts. Father Gregorius stood at the center, flanked by Sister Celene and another Shepherd Kymani didn't recognize—a massive man with a shaved head and scars crisscrossing his bare arms.
"Ah, Kymani." Father Gregorius smiled his serene smile. "Thank you, Brother Matthias. You may observe from the gallery."
Brother Matthias bowed and retreated to a raised platform along the chamber's edge.
Father Gregorius beckoned Kymani forward. "I trust you slept well? Ate sufficiently?"
"Yes, Father."
"Excellent. Today we begin discovering what your transcendence has given you." He gestured to the scarred Shepherd. "This is Brother Cain. Before joining the Choir, he served twenty years in the Penitent Guard. He's forgotten more about combat than most people ever learn. He'll be your instructor."
Brother Cain looked down at Kymani with flat, assessing eyes. "You're small."
"Yes, Brother."
"Small breaks easy."
"Yes, Brother."
A grunt. "We'll see."
Father Gregorius stepped back, giving them space. "The exercise is simple, Kymani. Brother Cain is going to hit you. Your task is to not be hit. Don't worry about hurting him—he's survived far worse than anything a nine-year-old can deliver. Just… react. Let your instincts guide you."
Kymani looked at Brother Cain. The man was easily six and a half feet tall, broad-shouldered, his arms thick with muscle built from decades of violence. His stance was relaxed but ready, weight balanced, hands loose at his sides.
This was going to hurt.
"Begin when ready," Father Gregorius said.
Brother Cain moved.
Not fast—not like Elara's inhuman blur—but with practiced efficiency. His fist came straight for Kymani's face, a testing jab designed to gauge reaction speed.
Kymani tried to dodge.
Too slow. The fist caught him on the cheek, snapping his head sideways. Pain exploded across his face, bright and immediate. He stumbled, barely keeping his feet.
"Again," Brother Cain said.
Another punch, this time to the stomach. Kymani tried to twist away, failed. The impact drove air from his lungs, left him gasping.
"You're thinking too much," Brother Cain observed. "Fighting isn't a mental exercise. Your body knows how to protect itself. Stop getting in its way."
A kick this time, sweeping low. Kymani jumped, too late. His legs went out from under him and he hit the floor hard, jarring his healing wounds.
From the gallery, Brother Matthias called down: "Remember yesterday, Kymani. Remember the separation. You don't have to be in your body. Let it move without you."
Kymani pushed himself up, tasting blood. His face throbbed. His stomach ached. The pain was sharp, present, demanding attention.
Just like yesterday.
He reached for that cold space, that gap between self and sensation. Found it easier this time, the path worn from recent use. The pain was still there, but he could observe it from a distance. His body hurt. That was fine. His body could handle it.
Brother Cain came again.
This time, something different happened.
The fist came at his face, and Kymani saw it—not just the punch itself, but the weight shift that preceded it, the tension in Brother Cain's shoulder, the subtle telegraph of intention. His body moved before he consciously decided to move, slipping sideways with a fluidity that surprised him.
The fist passed through empty air.
Brother Cain's eyes narrowed. "Better."
He pressed harder, throwing a combination—jab, cross, hook. Kymani's body flowed around them, each movement minimal, efficient. Not dodging so much as existing in the spaces between impacts.
It was like watching someone else. His consciousness floated in that detached space, observing while his body handled the physical reality. No fear to slow reactions. No pain to make him flinch. Just pure response, uncluttered by emotion.
A kick came low. His body jumped, tucked, landed balanced.
A grab instead of a strike. His body twisted, slipped the grip.
Brother Cain increased the pace, attacking with combinations that should have overwhelmed someone Kymani's size and experience. But without fear to freeze him, without pain to slow him, Kymani's body responded with animal efficiency.
Not perfect. Brother Cain still landed hits—an elbow to the ribs, a palm strike to the shoulder. But fewer than before. And when they landed, Kymani didn't react. Didn't stumble or cry out. Just continued moving, his body treating damage as irrelevant information.
"Enough," Father Gregorius called.
Brother Cain stepped back immediately, lowering his hands.
Kymani stood in the chamber's center, breathing heavily but steadily. His ribs ached. His shoulder was going to bruise spectacularly. Blood leaked from his split lip.
None of it mattered.
Father Gregorius approached, studying him with that analytical gaze. "How do you feel?"
Kymani considered. "Distant."
"But aware."
"Yes, Father."
"Show me your hand."
Kymani extended his left hand, the one Sister Celene had bandaged. Father Gregorius unwrapped it carefully, revealing the three cuts from yesterday. They should have been red and swollen, barely scabbed over.
Instead, they were nearly healed. Pink lines of new flesh, already knitting.
"Accelerated healing," Father Gregorius murmured. "Or more accurately, the body repairing itself because you've removed the psychological limits that normally slow recovery." He looked at Sister Celene. "Make note of this. If the pattern holds, he should be fully healed by tomorrow."
He released Kymani's hand and stepped back. "Your transcendence is manifesting along defensive lines. Separation from pain, enhanced reaction time, accelerated healing. All designed to keep you functional despite damage. Do you know what we call this category of ability?"
"No, Father."
"Rejection. You're unconsciously rejecting harm itself—not preventing it, but making it irrelevant. Pain can't slow you. Injury can't stop you. It's a powerful foundation." He glanced at Brother Cain. "What's your assessment?"
"Raw," the scarred Shepherd said. "No technique, no training. But the instincts are solid. Give me six months and I can make him competent. Give me two years and I can make him dangerous."
"You have one year," Father Gregorius said. "The Theocracy has requested three new saints for deployment by next autumn. Kymani will be one of them."
One year. Twelve months to transform from victim to weapon.
"We'll need to test the limits of his rejection," Sister Celene added. "Standard progressions—blade work, heat resistance, eventually toxins and diseases. If he's truly rejecting harm at a conceptual level, he should develop immunity to most physical threats."
"Agreed. Begin tomorrow." Father Gregorius turned back to Kymani. "You've done well today, child. This is just the beginning. Soon, you'll understand your true purpose. The suffering you've endured, the trials you've passed—they've remade you into something greater than the weak, impure creature you were before."
Kymani looked at the compound's leader and felt nothing. No gratitude, no pride, no anger. Just empty observation.
They thought they'd created a saint.
They'd created a hollow thing wearing a child's skin.
"Thank you, Father," he said, because it was expected.
"Return to the infirmary. Rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."
Brother Matthias escorted him back through the corridors, talking enthusiastically about training regimens and developmental timelines. Kymani let the words wash over him, focusing instead on cataloging new information.
The Choir had twelve active saints. Three would be deployed next year, including him. That meant nine would remain in the compound, along with however many students were still in development.
The Theocracy used saints to enforce control. That meant zones of deployment, patterns of operation, weaknesses that came with relying on individual powerful assets instead of distributed forces.
Brother Cain could be dangerous. Not now—Kymani was too small, too inexperienced. But eventually. The scarred Shepherd had real skill, decades of combat knowledge. Learning from him meant gaining tools for later.
Later. The word crystallized as they reached the infirmary.
Later, when he was stronger.
Later, when he understood his abilities fully.
Later, when he could escape this place and decide his own purpose.
The Shepherds thought they were crafting a weapon to serve their righteous cause. They had no idea they were creating something that would eventually turn on them.
But that was later. For now, he was still weak. Still trapped. Still dependent on their food, their medicine, their training.
For now, he would learn. Absorb. Grow stronger.
And when the time came—when he was ready—he would show them what they'd actually created.
Not a saint.
A plague.
The days blurred into routine.
Dawn: prayers in the courtyard, though Kymani was increasingly excused to train instead.
Morning: combat instruction with Brother Cain. Learning to turn his rejection ability from passive defense to active tool. How to position his body to let attacks slide past. How to move through pain that would cripple others. How to break someone efficiently, without wasted motion.
Afternoon: endurance trials with Sister Celene. Blades, heat, cold, crushing pressure. Testing the limits of his rejection, mapping what he could ignore and what still affected him. Poisons made him ill but couldn't kill him. Broken bones hurt but healed in days instead of weeks. Drowning still worked—his body needed air, rejection or not—but he could hold his breath longer than should be possible, pushing through the panic response.
Evening: philosophy lessons with Brother Matthias. The history of the Choir, the theology of purity, the moral framework that justified everything they did. Kymani listened and nodded and filed away the contradictions for later examination.
Night: the cell. Seven by five. Thirty-five stones. Counting in the darkness.
Other children came and went. Some passed their trials and joined the training cohort. Most didn't. Kymani learned to stop learning their names. Attachment was weakness, and he had no weakness left to spare.
Three months in, he killed his first person.
Not in combat—an accident during training. One of the older students, a boy named Marcus who'd manifested strength enhancement. They were sparring, and Marcus had gotten overconfident, pressing hard to try to overwhelm the younger child. Kymani had slipped a punch, countered instinctively with a palm strike to the throat that Brother Cain had taught him.
The strike crushed Marcus's windpipe.
He went down gasping, clawing at his neck. Sister Celene tried to save him, but the damage was too severe. He suffocated in three minutes, eyes wide with panic and confusion.
Kymani stood over the body and felt nothing.
"Not your fault," Brother Cain said afterward, gruff but not unkind. "He was careless. You reacted appropriately. Death happens in training. It's how we separate the worthy from the waste."
That night, alone in his cell, Kymani examined the absence where guilt should have been. Normal people felt remorse when they killed. He knew this academically, the way he knew the sky was beyond the clouds—a fact without personal verification.
He'd killed someone and felt nothing.
The Shepherds' refinement had worked too well.
Six months in, his abilities evolved.
He was fighting Brother Cain, a routine session that had become almost meditative in its familiarity. The scarred Shepherd attacked, Kymani flowed around the strikes, occasionally landing his own hits against targets Brother Cain deliberately left open.
Then Brother Cain tried something new—a feint followed by a grab, designed to grapple Kymani into submission. The hands came at him, fast and inevitable.
Kymani's rejection triggered differently.
Instead of flowing around the attack, his body moved into it. His hand came up, intercepted Brother Cain's wrist at the exact moment of contact, and—
The force of Brother Cain's grab reversed.
The large Shepherd stumbled backward, his own momentum turned against him, and hit the floor hard enough to crack stone.
Silence in the training chamber.
Brother Cain sat up slowly, rubbing his head. "What in the hells was that?"
"I don't know," Kymani said honestly.
Father Gregorius, observing from the gallery, descended rapidly. "Do it again. Brother Cain, same attack."
They reset. Brother Cain grabbed, slower this time, telegraphing clearly. Kymani focused on that moment of contact, trying to understand what had happened.
His hand met Brother Cain's wrist.
And the grab reversed again, force redirected back at its source with perfect precision.
"Reflection," Father Gregorius breathed. "Not just rejection. You're parrying attacks. Turning them back on the attacker."
Brother Matthias was scribbling furiously in his journal. "A defensive ability that doubles as offense. Theoretically, it means he can't be touched by physical attacks—any force applied to him returns to sender."
"Test it," Father Gregorius ordered.
They spent the afternoon testing. Brother Cain threw punches, kicks, grabbed, struck with weapons. Each time, if Kymani focused on the moment of impact and actively engaged his rejection, the attack reversed. Punches bounced back, breaking the attacker's knuckles. Kicks sent the kicker sprawling. Weapon strikes made the weapons rebound with equal force.
It didn't work automatically—he had to consciously parry, had to time the reversal precisely. Miss the timing and the attack landed normally. But when he got it right…
"Perfect Parry," Brother Matthias said, naming it. "He's not blocking or dodging. He's using the attacker's force against them perfectly."
Sister Celene looked troubled. "This makes him nearly untouchable in direct combat. How do we counter it for training purposes?"
"Indirect methods," Father Gregorius said. "Poison, environmental hazards, attacks he can't perceive. His rejection still has limits. We just need to find them."
That night, Kymani lay in his cell and flexed his hand, remembering the sensation of reversing Brother Cain's force. The power felt right somehow, like remembering a skill he'd always possessed but forgotten.
Another fragment of dream: dodging through narrow alleyways, something chasing him, turning at the last moment to—
The memory slipped away.
But the feeling remained. This ability, this perfect parry, wasn't something the Choir had created.
It was something they'd awakened.
Nine months in, the nightmares started.
Not the strange dreams of impossible cities—these were worse. He dreamed of the other children. Saw their faces, heard their screams. Watched himself stand by and do nothing while they suffered, because he'd learned that intervention was pointless, that caring was weakness.
He dreamed of Marcus dying, over and over, the light fading from his eyes.
He dreamed of little Mira, who'd finally broken during a trial, who'd been carried away to whatever place they took the broken ones.
He dreamed of becoming what the Shepherds wanted—a weapon without conscience, deployed against people whose only crime was resisting the Theocracy's tyranny.
And beneath it all, a voice that might have been his own conscience, might have been something else entirely:
You're becoming a monster.
He woke from these dreams shaking, the detachment he'd cultivated threatening to crack. In those moments, feeling returned—horror at what he'd become, rage at what had been done to him, grief for the child he'd been before the Choir hollowed him out.
The emotions were agony, worse than any physical torture.
So he pushed them down, retreated back into the safe distance where nothing could touch him.
Better to be empty than to feel that.
Better to be a monster than to acknowledge the humanity he'd lost.
One year. The deadline Father Gregorius had set.
On the anniversary of his transcendence, they held a ceremony.
The entire compound gathered in the central courtyard. The surviving children—only nineteen now—stood in formation. The Shepherds arranged themselves in a half-circle around a raised platform.
Kymani stood on that platform, wearing new robes. White, like the Shepherds', but marked with red thread in patterns that designated him as a saint of the Choir. A weapon consecrated to righteous purpose.
Father Gregorius raised his hands to silence the assembly.
"One year ago, a child achieved what few can—true transcendence. Separation from the flesh's weakness. In that year, through dedication and proper refinement, he has become more. Not merely transcendent, but powerful. A vessel for divine will."
He turned to Kymani. "Kneel."
Kymani knelt.
Father Gregorius drew a ceremonial blade—silver, engraved with prayers. He placed it against Kymani's forehead, not cutting, just resting there.
"By the authority vested in me as Father of this Choir, I name you Saint. You are no longer merely Kymani. You are the Silent Saint, the one who endures, the one who cannot be touched. You belong now to something greater than yourself. Your suffering has purpose. Your power has meaning. You will serve, and in service, find the purity that only complete dedication can bring."
The blade lifted. Kymani rose.
The assembled Shepherds and children applauded, their clapping echoing off stone walls.
Kymani looked out at them and felt the familiar nothing. They were celebrating the creation of a weapon. A tool to enforce their will.
They had no idea what they'd actually made.
That night, three Shepherds came to his cell.
Not for a trial. For deployment briefing.
"Tomorrow," Brother Matthias explained, spreading a map on the floor, "you travel to the border settlement of Greyreach. There's been resistance there—villagers refusing to tithe to the Theocracy, harboring known heretics. The Penitent Guard requested support. You'll accompany Brother Cain and two other saints. Your task is simple: demonstrate power. Make the villagers understand the cost of resistance."
Kymani studied the map. Greyreach was small, maybe three hundred people, pressed against the base of the northern wall. Rural. Poor. Their crime was probably nothing more than being too destitute to pay the Theocracy's taxes.
"What happens to them?" he asked.
"That depends on their cooperation," Sister Celene said. "If they submit, accept re-education, pay reparations—they'll be spared. If they resist…" She shrugged. "Examples must be made."
"You'll kill them."
"We'll do what's necessary to maintain order. The Theocracy protects millions. If a few hundred must suffer to preserve the peace, that's a trade any rational person accepts."
Brother Matthias rolled up the map. "You leave at dawn. Brother Cain will lead. Follow his instructions, demonstrate your abilities when ordered, and don't hesitate. Hesitation in these situations gets people killed—usually the wrong people."
They left him alone with the map and the knowledge of what tomorrow would bring.
His first deployment. His first real test as a weapon.
He should feel something. Dread, maybe. Reluctance. Some echo of the moral framework that had been his before the Choir refined it away.
Instead: nothing.
Just cold calculation and a single, crystallizing thought:
This is the perfect opportunity.
Tomorrow, he'd be outside the compound for the first time in a year. Outside the walls, with only four people watching him instead of dozens. Mobile, armed with knowledge of his abilities that his guards might underestimate.
Tomorrow, he could run.
The thought should have excited him. Should have triggered hope, relief, something.
Instead, it settled into his mind like ice. Clear. Sharp. Inevitable.
One year of refinement. One year of learning to be a weapon.
Tomorrow, he'd discover if he was weapon enough to escape the people who'd forged him.
Kymani lay back on his cot and stared at the ceiling.
Seven by five. Thirty-five stones. Nineteen children still alive.
Tomorrow, those numbers would change.
One way or another.