The King's words echoed as the graveyard began to unravel.

  The sky split into jagged fragments, each piece showing a different scene of the trial: my childhood home, Rell's bedroom, the cocoon, my mother. These kaleidoscope pieces rotated faster, bleeding colors across the broken landscape.

  I tried to move but found myself sinking into the ground. Like I was becoming part of it. The worms inside me vibrated, sensing the dimensional shift. They were eager, hungry for what came next.

  The Bloated King's throne cracked down the middle.

  From the fissure poured a viscous black fluid that spread across what remained of the ground. It reached me, touched my feet, and I felt a strange pull.

  The worms beneath my skin responded, pushing outward, reaching for the fluid. My body began to stretch like hot glass, pulling toward multiple points simultaneously.

  My consciousness fragmented. For a heartbeat that lasted centuries, I existed in multiple places at once: still in the graveyard, already in my cell, somewhere in between, everywhere at once.

  Then reality snapped back like an overstretched rubber band.

  Pain. Blinding, all-consuming pain as my atoms realigned themselves to the real world.

  I screamed. Or tried to. My mouth was full of worms.

  The world steadied. Concrete floor beneath me. Fluorescent lights above. The smell of disinfectant and piss.

  My cell.

  The SDC holding cell where I'd started my Trial.

  I gasped, choking as the last worms burrowed beneath my tongue. My body felt heavier in some places, lighter in others. My skin crawled with constant movement as thousands of tiny creatures adjusted to their new home.

  I looked down at my arms. Pale skin stretched tight over the writhing masses. My veins were slightly visible.

  "Holy shit," I whispered, watching as a worm crested my flesh and moved from my wrist to my elbow. "Holy fucking shit."

  I wasn't human anymore.

  I was a Sacred.

  I was a monster.

  I laughed. Couldn't help it. The absurdity of it all. Rell dead, Mikkel—that thing I'd called father—still out there somewhere, and me transformed into something out of a nightmare.

  The laughter died when I tried to stand.

  My legs gave out immediately, dumping me back onto the cold concrete. I was too weak. The Trial had taken everything out of me.

  I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling.

  The fluorescent light flickered, reminding me of the dimensional fragments I'd just passed through. For a moment, I thought I saw faces in the light—Rell, my mother, the Bloated King.

  "They're not real," I told myself. "Just aftereffects."

  A voice in my head responded:

  I jerked upright, ignoring the protest from my muscles. That wasn't my voice.

  Before I could process what was happening, alarms blared. Red lights flashed in the corridor outside my cell. I heard shouting, the pounding of boots on concrete.

  The guards had noticed.

  I tried again to stand, managed to get to my knees. The worms inside me squirmed with excitement or fear—I couldn't tell which. I focused, trying to control them like I had in the Trial.

  Nothing happened. They continued their random movements, ignoring my commands.

  The cell door slid open. Three guards rushed in, weapons drawn. Not regular guns—some kind of specialized equipment.

  "Don't move!" the lead guard shouted. His voice cracked with fear. "Stay down!"

  I raised my hands slowly. "I'm not—"

  "Shut up!" Another guard, this one aiming what looked like a modified cattle prod. "Sacred containment protocols, now!"

  The third guard spoke into his radio: "Confirmed Sacred emergence. Requesting immediate specialist response."

  I stayed on my knees, hands up. What else was I supposed to do? The worms inside me seemed to have their own ideas, though. They gathered beneath my skin, concentrating in my palms and forearms. Preparing.

  For what?

  "I said don't move!" The first guard noticed the shifting beneath my skin. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  "I'm not doing anything," I said, trying to keep my voice level. "I can't control it yet."

  "Bullshit," the second guard spat. "They all say that."

  The third guard backed toward the door. "Specialist team two minutes out. Keep him contained."

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  I felt a pressure building in my arms. The worms were gathering, preparing to burst out. I couldn't stop them. I didn't know how.

  "Please," I said, genuinely afraid now. "I don't want to hurt anyone."

  The guard with the prod laughed. "That's rich. You hear that, Pete? The murderer doesn't want to hurt us."

  "Shut up, Marc," the first guard—Pete—snapped. His eyes never left mine. "Just stay still until the specialist gets here, kid. Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

  I nodded slowly. The pressure in my arms increased. I could feel the worms pressing against my skin from the inside.

  "Something's happening," I warned. "I can't—"

  The cell door opened once more.

  A woman entered—tall, athletic, with short dark hair and the confident stride of someone used to being obeyed. Her eyes locked onto mine immediately. She wore a tailored SDC uniform with insignia I didn't recognize.

  "Stand down," she ordered the guards. Her voice was calm, authoritative.

  "Ma'am, he's manifesting," Pete said, not lowering his weapon.

  "I can see that," she replied. "And I can handle it. Wait outside."

  The guards hesitated, then backed out one by one. The woman closed the door behind them, then turned to face me.

  "Well," she said, studying me with clinical interest. "This is unexpected."

  I remained on my knees, hands still raised. The pressure in my arms had plateaued but not decreased.

  "Who are you?" I asked.

  "Agent Hazel, SDC Special Containment Division." She approached slowly, hands visible. "And you're Fischer..."

  "I can't control it," I said, nodding toward my arms where the worms continued to gather. "They're going to come out."

  "No, they're not." She reached into her pocket and withdrew what looked like a metal collar. "Not once this is on."

  I eyed the device warily. "What is that?"

  "Origin suppression collar. Standard tech for newly emerged Sacred in SDC custody." She stepped closer. "It won't hurt. Much."

  The worms beneath my skin went crazy at the sight of the collar, writhing violently. I felt them trying to escape, pushing harder against my flesh.

  "They don't like it," I said through gritted teeth.

  "They wouldn't." Hazel crouched in front of me, at eye level. "Listen carefully, Fischer. You have two options right now. Let me put this on you peacefully, or I put you down hard and put it on you anyway. Your choice."

  Something in her eyes—a hardness born of experience—told me she could and would follow through.

  The worms pressed harder. My skin started to split in tiny fissures along my forearms.

  "Do it," I gasped.

  Hazel moved with expert efficiency, snapping the collar around my neck. It locked with a soft click.

  The effect was immediate. Like a circuit breaker tripping, the connection between me and the worms weakened. They still moved beneath my skin, but the pressure dissipated. The fissures in my arms closed.

  I slumped forward, suddenly exhausted.

  "There we go," Hazel said, standing up. "First time's always rough."

  I touched the collar gingerly. It felt cold against my skin, humming with soft energy.

  "What happens now?" I asked.

  Hazel leaned against the wall, studying me. "Now we have a conversation about your future. Or lack thereof."

  I managed to get to my feet, swaying slightly. The collar made me dizzy, like I'd had too much to drink.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You're a convicted murderer who just emerged as a Sacred," Hazel said matter-of-factly. "Under normal circumstances, you'd be executed immediately."

  My stomach dropped. "And these aren't normal circumstances?"

  She smiled thinly. "No. You're special."

  "Why?"

  "Because you're exactly what we need right now." She pushed off from the wall and began to pace. "The SDC has certain... programs for Sacred with your particular situation."

  "You mean prisoners."

  "I mean assets with limited options." Hazel stopped pacing and faced me directly. "Your Origin is unusual."

  I frowned. "How do you know what my Origin is? I just came out of the Trial."

  "We monitored your vitals during transition. The biometric readings were distinctive. We've seen similar patterns before." She tapped the collar around my neck. "This isn't just suppressing your power, it's collecting data."

  That explained the dizziness. The collar wasn't just blocking my connection to the worms—it was analyzing them.

  "So what are these programs?" I asked.

  Hazel's expression remained neutral. "The SDC maintains special operations in the Infinite Reaches. The Shattered Front and the Grinding Flats. You've heard of them?"

  Everyone had heard of them. Places where the SDC sent people they wanted to disappear. Dimensional hellholes where prisoners fought and died against endless waves of beasts.

  "You're conscripting me," I said flatly.

  "Offering you an alternative to execution," she corrected. "The SDC needs Sacred on the front lines. The beasts keep coming, and we keep losing people. You could serve a purpose there."

  "As cannon fodder."

  Hazel shrugged. "Initially, yes. But Sacred who survive tend to grow stronger. Some even earn their freedom eventually."

  "What percentage?" I asked.

  "What?"

  "What percentage earn their freedom?"

  She hesitated just long enough for me to know the answer was effectively zero.

  "The committee hasn't decided which program you'll be assigned to yet," she said, changing the subject. "The Front is more active combat, higher casualty rate. The Flats is more about harvesting—collecting beast cores while serving as distraction."

  "So quick death versus slow death," I summarized.

  Hazel's expression hardened. "It's more than you deserve, Fischer. You killed your family."

  The accusation hit like a physical blow. "I didn't—"

  "Save it for someone who cares." She moved toward the door. "The committee meets tomorrow. You'll be transferred the following day. I suggest you rest while you can."

  As she reached for the door, a thought occurred to me. "Wait. If I'm going to die in the Reaches anyway, why not just let me try to kill Mikkel first?"

  Hazel paused, hand on the door. "Who?"

  "My father. The one who actually killed my sister. The one who's still out there."

  She turned back, studying me with new interest. "Your file says you murdered your sister psychotic break."

  I laughed bitterly. "Of course it does. The SDC wouldn't want to admit a powerful Sacred has been operating in Freetown, consuming other Sacred, for decades."

  "That's a serious accusation."

  "It's the truth." I stepped forward, ignoring the warning look she gave me. "Mikkel—if that's even his real name—has an Origin that lets him consume other Sacred. He ate my sister to evolve his power. He tried to kill me too."

  Hazel's expression gave nothing away. "And you expect me to believe this based on what?"

  "Check your records. Look for patterns of missing Sacred over the years. Look for SDC researchers who disappeared around the time Mikkel showed up with me and Rell as babies." The words tumbled out faster than I could think them through. "He worked for you people."

  Something flickered in Hazel's eyes—doubt, maybe. Or recognition.

  "I'll make a note in your file," she said carefully. "But it won't change the committee's decision."

  "I don't care about their decision," I said. "I care about stopping Mikkel before he kills again."

  Hazel opened the door. "Get some rest, Fischer. The Front or the Flats—either way, you'll need your strength."

  The door closed behind her with a heavy thud.

  I stood in the middle of my cell, the suppression collar cold against my throat. The worms beneath my skin moved sluggishly now, dampened by the technology.

  I touched the collar again, feeling the subtle vibrations as it analyzed my Origin. An idea began to form—desperate, probably stupid, but an idea nonetheless.

  If I was going to die in the Reaches, I'd make damn sure I took Mikkel with me. Somehow.

  But first, I needed to understand what I'd become.

  I sat on the thin mattress, closed my eyes, and focused inward. The worms were there, thousands of them, waiting. The collar couldn't sever our connection completely—it just muted it.

  Maybe that was enough to practice.

  I concentrated on my right index finger, trying to direct the worms there. Nothing happened at first. Then, slowly, I felt movement—a subtle shift as a few worms responded to my will.

  It was a start.