“Citizens of Zwolle, your recent performance has exceeded every forecast. The consistency of your efforts has earned us rewards from the Union’s regional council. This is an achievement for the entire population, from early ascenders to those who chose a steadier pace. All contributions count toward the city’s standing and all citizens share in the reward.”

  The projection glowed at the front of the class, today’s propaganda delivered by a functionary so eager it was hard to imagine her doing anything but serving the Office of Civic Stability and Population Wellness.

  Rem tried to ignore it. His pen hung idle over the margin of his notes. Trial day. The thought was a dull ache. He shoved it aside and tried to shake loose the memory of the floating shoe.

  “As part of this reward, we have constructed four Stabilization Stations and distributed them throughout the populated districts. Each site houses a central glyph stone that provides a stabilizing effect with a single touch.”

  The report droned on. Rem stared at his page and forced his pen down.

  Challenge Three designed for children. How? I imagine on some remote planet, younglings sent in teams of four with spears, I picture them reptilian, scaled younglings shoved at beasts with spears…

  the union of worlds is barbaric. forcing children to deal with that.

  The words spilled easier than thought. A small relief.

  “To preserve safe transport capacity for active challengers and those with business in their lockers, all citizens are encouraged to use their nearest Stabilization Station whenever possible. The Authority reminds all residents that choosing stability over advancement carries no shame. The pull upward is not required of everyone.”

  A murmur rippled across the room. Someone snickered, “Stone of shame,” under their breath.

  Heat crept up Rem’s neck. Stone of shame. As if refusing to participate in the Union’s savagery made you lesser.

  He looked toward the sound. The room felt different. Not the desks, not the humming broadcast, but the bodies filling them. Finn’s hand was strapped in a splint, so he used the VR feed instead of the tablet he preferred. Lotte’s arm was wrapped tight. Even Eva, always perfect, shifted once as if a bruise pulled at her ribs.

  Are we doing this right? We had no skills to help defend Madarox. At least Eva and Mara had practice with their weapons. We had nothing.

  His pen hovered. What kind of Earth would grow from this, when children’s skills bent away from engineering and science toward the brutal arts of killing?

  “…the one with his arm in a sling…”

  The whisper behind him snapped his attention back. His fingers tightened on the pen just before his head came up. Could they be talking about the captain at the gate? He knew that captain. Had seen him. His pen dragged hard across the page.

  everyone sees the same cast? they can’t be real. ai puppets, nothing more.

  But his gut twisted at the lie. He had seen it. All of it. The same people. The same doomed defense. They hadn’t felt like characters in a play. They had felt real. He gripped the desk until his knuckles blanched. Others had fought and failed. He had hidden. What did that make him? Smarter? Maybe a coward.

  just breathe. we will get through this like we get through everything. together.

  Mara laughed. The sound was thin, sharp enough to leave a faint ringing in his ears. Rem stared at his notes until the letters blurred. He told himself to breathe, but the air caught shallow in his chest.

  His throat worked. The truth pressed upward, that no one makes it the first time, that it is built to break you, but the words stuck. He had no standing. Not with his record runs, not with the hollow way he had crawled out of Madarox.

  The bell tone cut through the room. Desks scraped. Voices swelled as the day tilted toward the Arch. The trials.

  Rem sat still, his notes open, his pen frozen.

  The memory of the shoe surfaced again, drifting in blood.

  The archway felt malicious for the first time as Rem waited with his class. He stepped into the glow without thinking, let it take him.

  Location Selection

  Storage Locker

  Challenge 3 (27 passes)

  Trial Four (timed)

  He selected Trial Four but didn’t have the energy to read the notice. He exited immediately. He didn’t linger. He slipped away, head down, his passage lost in the shuffle of students from other classes.

  The walk home stretched longer than it should have. Zwolle throbbed with its usual rhythm—automated cargo transports weaving through foot traffic, cyclists zipping through the streets. The sound grated. Too bright, too normal. How could they not hear the tearing and the screams still echoing in his head?

  He turned down a canal street, water lapping gently against stone. The image surged up unbidden: overturned boats, wolves dragging men under, mothers clutching children as the hulls capsized. His throat closed. He gripped the railing, knuckles white, forcing his eyes to the calm brown water below.

  The Union called it progress. A system to make them strong. But what kind of progress hollowed people out, broke them, left them shuddering at phantom sounds? He thought of Finn’s splint, Lotte’s blood-stained wrappings, the haunted look behind Noah’s eyes.

  And then, worse, he imagined his mother standing on the palisade, spear braced, facing the surge. Her hands bloodied at the well, her body pitched into the boats. The thought carved deep, and something shifted. Guilt hardened into anger.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  stop thinking about that – that kind of obsessive emotional imagination has never been productive. just breathe. relax.

  Rem took a deep breath, purging himself. What was the point of these challenges? To forge them into warriors? To make them conquerors? To prepare them for what was to come? The questions spiraled as the anger swelled. His mind was cruel. It never spared him.

  Within a block he was convinced that established Union worlds had cheats—shortcuts to make sure their children overcame each challenge and never suffered what he had, what his mother must have. His steps quickened. His heart raced.

  All the best methods, all the tricks—they would know them all. Their children walked through fine—better than fine, perfect. While his friends and family came out shattered.

  For all their talk of even starts, of fairness, the reality was much different. And if the system wasn’t playing fair, why should he? He walked on, the city’s clamor pressing against him, his steps quickening, the fury coiling low in his chest.

  When Rem arrived home, Saskia was waiting.

  “Profession classes,” she declared, like she was announcing a headline. Her eyes shone. “You ever heard of them?”

  Rem sighed. He’d had time to reflect and sketch something out. Not a plan. More like a course correction.

  “I have.” He motioned toward his room, moving that way. She fell into step behind him.

  “Well, I hadn’t,” she seemed miffed he’d known already, “but I asked my guild master after the question you raised.”

  “Guild master?”

  “Rogues Guild,” she said with a flourish, then waved it off. “Not as scandalous as it sounds. Anyway, she told me about classes with an entirely different ladder. They don’t swing swords or throw spells. They deal with professions. There are corporate focused professions. Agent, Broker, Registrar.”

  “And this helps us how?”

  “For starters, a Registrar can spin up a system-recognized entity. Legal. Binding. A citizen on paper. And if it’s private—anonymous. Perfect.” She leaned in, grinning. “But the closest one is in Amsterdam. We don’t have one here. I checked.”

  Rem frowned. “So we get an anonymous entity. We still need someone to meet with publishers. I don’t see it yet.”

  “That’s the other part.” Her grin widened. “Amsterdam is also where the Department of Citizen Administration lives. They handle Class Acquisition and Inversions. I apply, I acquire Agent as a profession. Then I invert it so it’s my primary class. Suddenly, I’m the face of the company. I liaise with other agents and build a network of anonymity. Our secrets stay hidden.”

  Her eyes lit with the thrill of it, as if she’d solved a puzzle no one else could see.

  Rem dropped his satchel on the bed and paced. Yes. That could work. He was halfway through his second lap when he stopped.

  “How do you level an Agent? You know – if it’s your primary class?”

  “Not by killing wolves.”

  The light sparked inside him. He paced once more, faster now.

  “Do they have legal professions?” he said, thinking of his mother.

  The morning sun rose pale over Oldetown as Rem made his way through its narrow streets, satchel bumping against his hip. He hadn’t slept well after speaking with Saskia—the thought of an escape hatch for their mother still burned in his mind. The possibility of a class reassignment shimmered like a door half-open. They didn’t yet know the price, but he would find a way. That was why he was here: to see whether he could turn alchemy into a true income.

  The sign above the door read The Authorized Retort, gilt letters painted over dark wood, a guild crest stamped beneath like a seal of judgment. The crest showed a serpent coiled through a mortar and pestle, motto curling beneath in precise script: Knowledge, Properly Contained.

  Inside, the air was heavy with scorched herbs and bitter resin. Copper kettles lined the walls, their rims crusted white. Rows of corked vials glowed faintly from the racks behind the counter, hues he’d never seen before — a soft green that seemed to breathe, a violet that pulsed faintly like a bruise. He stared, caught for a moment in wonder.

  A velvet curtain parted. A formidable woman swept out, soot on her cheeks, apron smudged dark. Her movements were brisk, economical, as though time itself bent to her. She smoothed her apron and fixed him with a stare that pinned him in place.

  “Welcome to The Authorized Retort,” she said. “I am Mistress Veyra Kessel. What can I do for you?” The smile she offered was practiced, but her eyes never softened.

  Rem pulled his gaze from the glowing vials. He set his satchel on the counter and drew out a flask of healer, his own work. The liquid shimmered a deep red, as bright as any on her shelves. “How would I sell something like this?”

  Kessel took the vial, lifting it to the light. Glyphs flickered across her spectacles, faint but precise, etching data into the glass.

  “Well. Rembrandt de Vries,” she said. “That is you, isn’t it?”

  He nodded.

  “We do need more healers,” she continued. “If you show me your alchemist badge, I’ll pay you standard rate.”

  “Alchemist badge?”

  Her lips curled in faint disdain. “Yes. We are an official merchant of the Guild. We only buy from members in good standing.”

  Rem blew out a slow breath. “Then—how do you become a member?”

  Kessel placed the vial back in his hand with care that still felt like dismissal. “To qualify for bronze, you must present two stable samples to a guild examiner. Two different formulas. Pay the assessment fee. Pass verification. Only then will you wear the badge.”

  “I see.” Rem frowned. “Could I purchase a formula from you?”

  Her laugh was sharp and cruel. “Only guild members may purchase formulas.”

  The words landed like a blow. “Then how am I supposed to qualify?”

  “That is the point.” Her voice sharpened, dropping to a knife’s edge as she leaned closer. “Alchemists train apprentices. Apprentices test in. No master, no formulas, no entry. Knowledge is contained. Keeps the trade clean. Keeps the power where it belongs.”

  Heat surged in his face. The shelves seemed to press closer, the air thicker. Two formulas. A simple requirement. Yet the ladder rungs had been sawn off before he could climb.

  “Let’s say I can do that,” he said tightly. “Where do I apply?”

  Kessel straightened, pride in her posture. “Come here. I’m recognized by the guild after all.”

  Rem nodded once, stiff, and gathered his satchel. The bell chimed as he stepped into the din of Oldetown, the reek of scorched herbs clinging to his clothes like judgment.

  On the steps of the alchemist’s shop he pulled out his notebook, its edges worn soft from use. His pen scratched fast, cramped:

  Alchemist Guild

  Requirement: two stable, distinct formulas.

  Fee: assessment to magistrate (how much?).

  No badge → no sales.

  No access to formulas unless member.

  He stared at the words, underlined two formulas until the pen tore through the page. A simple requirement, held always out of reach.

  Frustration burned like acid in his chest. If they would not give him the path, he would carve his own.

  Rem paced inside his locker. The air was close, heavy, scented with the night lilies in bloom. He’d gone over the plan again and again. It was simplicity itself. Two passes each day. Two chances to walk the outpost, to map it, to catalog every door and every name.

  Each night he would copy his notes into a second ledger, leave it here where it was safe. He would never lose them again. The loss of his first journal still gnawed like a missing tooth.

  His head ached as he paced.

  The solution couldn’t be killing wolves. It had to be something a child could manage. A trick hidden in plain sight. And if there was a trick, he would find it.

  Yet when his hand lifted toward the glyph plate, sweat slicked his palm. His pulse rattled in his throat.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” he muttered. “They’re just characters in a play.” But the words fell flat in the close air.

  “The plan is simple. Stay just until the first surge is repelled. Then back. Simple.” Rem argued.

  I don’t want to see the boats overturn, I don’t want to hear the screams. Not again.

  Knowledge a little at a time. Enough to build a solution. There had to be one. Still his chest hammered. He dragged in a breath, then pressed his wet palm against the glyph plate.

  Fine. I’m trusting you.

  Challenge Three.

  “Citizens of Earth, stand tall. Fifteen new champions have crossed the threshold and joined the Founding Flight. Each rating is a signal flare rising into the dark, a declaration that the story of Rembrandt de Vries is worth carrying farther than before.

  Your names are etched into the early logbooks of the Corps, bright and certain.

  Every follow strengthens the fleet. Every rating lights another beacon.

  Together, we rise.”