The common room had been transformed for the occasion.
The usually wobbly metal tables were lined up against the walls. The crackling screens had stopped displaying encrypted symbols and were instead replaced by a single silent stream: a steady white light projected from the ceiling. An unusual cleanliness hung in the air—almost aggressive. They had even vaporized a synthetic fragrance into the recycled air, artificial floral notes floating like a dissonance in a place that had never known spring.
Twenty-four children stood in silent rows. Their expressions betrayed impatience, worry, or feigned indifference. All wore the Centre's sober uniform: anthracite tunic with short sleeves, cinched at the waist with a white band stamped with their arrival order. As always, Nael stood in the front row.
He had grown up in these halls—six years, over two thousand days. And today, he was sure of it, everything would change.
The rumor had swept through the neighborhood like a wave: the Governor of Helion, Kaelis Vahr, was personally overseeing the annual selection. A man of the Chosen Tier, they said—a level of evolution few reached before their thirties. A general with steel resolve and merciless judgment.
Nael had never seen a Chosen Tier bearer—or anyone at The Furnace, for that matter—but their existence was undisputed. The Tiers formed an invisible ladder, separating those who observed the world from those who shaped it. As far as Nael knew, the Governor had recently become Chosen: a genius who had ascended early. Chosen. That's Tier Three. Just two steps above Arisen. And five below the myths.
The walls shivered slightly. A dull vibration pulsed through the room. Then the sharp sound of boots echoed down the main corridor. The atmosphere froze.
The Governor entered.
He was no comic-book hero—no cape, no shiny armor. Just a straight-backed figure whose black coat swept the floor with each step. His face was chiseled by years of tension, and his eyes—two blades of steely blue—scanned the room like living scanners. He wore dark gloves embedded with pulsing blue circuits.
Kaelis Vahr paused at the center, arms folded behind his back.
"You are the orphans of the Low Quarter," his low, clear voice resonated effortlessly. "Some of you will be chosen for the Attribution Trial. Others will continue to wait—another three years. Merit isn't bought. It's earned."
No sound. No breath.
He passed before each child, slowly, judging them with steady gaze.
He stopped before a shaved-headed girl—gave a barely perceptible nod.
Then a boy with a bandaged arm. Another. And another.
Nael felt his heart pound in his throat. He straightened. It had to happen. Today was the day. After six years, he had prepared. He had failed once. This time, he was ready. He was worthy.
The Governor's boots echoed inches from him. Kaelis Vahr halted. His gaze dropped to Nael.
A silence so heavy it pressed on the lungs fell over the room.
The Governor's eyes didn't blink. He scanned Nael from head to toe. A subtle wrinkle tightened on his brow. His pupils barely shifted, as though searching—for something.
Then, without a word, he moved on.
Nael felt the ground shift beneath him. His stomach clenched. Sounds receded into the distance. He had been... ignored. For the second time.
Kaelis Vahr concluded his inspection.
"The six names will be posted by day's end. Prepare to depart the Centre tomorrow. Transport to Helion's High Quarter leaves at dawn."
And he left.
When the doors clanged shut, the room erupted in hushed whispers. The chosen ones stared at each other—frozen between fear and pride. The rest, including Nael, kept their eyes lowered.
Madam Lys, the caretaker, stepped forward, her voice gentle and weary.
"Children... do not lose heart. You'll get your chance too. And as for the chosen, congratulations!"
Nael raised his eyes to meet her compassionate gaze. She knew his story—his efforts, his perseverance.
As all the chosen and others left—some to prepare, others to return to routine—she approached him.
"You've been here six years. Some have only been here a year," she said softly. "But the Governor doesn't count the years. He sees what you are now, not what you've been through."
Nael remained silent.
He felt no anger toward anyone—not even Vahr.
He only felt cold. A cold that had burrowed into his bones.
He turned toward the skylight high above the common room. Through the reinforced panels, the Earth lay beneath in shadow. Swathed in mist, cloaked in darkness.
Nael looked upward.
The massive skylight stood at the room's center, revealing the Interior of the Ring—bleak, metallic, forgotten. Built for upkeep—maintenance, supply, air filtration, recycling, labs, factories—it was now a social dumping ground. The poor lived there, packed into quarters originally meant for machines.
Outside, everything was different.
Nael often imagined what the rich saw: not the dead Earth below, but stars, gleaming ring structures, shuttle ports, domed promenades where noble children played beneath floating fountains.
Out there, cosmic light bathed their faces.
Here, it filtered through rusty grates, disintegrated across stagnant puddles and cracked plastics. He had never seen a sunset. Never walked barefoot on grass. He didn't know if he missed it—but he wanted more.
He wanted it with every fiber of his being.
And yet, even today—when opportunity stood within his grasp—he had been overlooked.
He stayed in the common room long after the Governor left, long after the last child had departed.
Madam Lys cleaned away an invisible mark from a data tablet, glancing his way every few moments. She had witnessed everything.
"Don't let it get to you, Nael," she said softly into the empty room.
He didn't respond.
She slid the tablet aside and approached him.
"They're new," she nodded toward the chosen. "Young, untested—they're moldable. Just what they want. Pawns to shape."
She laid a hand gently on his back.
"You're the oldest one here."
Nael clenched his fists.
"So what? They didn't even give me a chance."
Madam Lys sighed.
"Maybe it's better that way. You're still alive."
He lifted his gaze slowly.
"And I'm supposed to be okay with that?"
She said nothing.
***
Later, in the hallway outside the dormitories, Nael walked alone. Flickering bulbs cast quivering shadows on damp walls. Torn propaganda posters drifted in the stale air:
"Light is a right for those who deserve it."
"Work for Balance, Earn your Ascension."
Nael stopped at a window beside the transport portal. He spent hours here, watching the titanic machinery—thick cables, nearly rusted alloys. He'd never dared peek too close, fearing detection by the Militia. But this was enough to dream.
He knew one day, one of those portals would take him out there.
To the Tiers. To Attribution.
To something else… maybe.
He whispered to himself:
"They looked at me, but they didn't see me."