The sorting didn't begin with words; it began with the screech of metal on metal. The butchery-build man slammed a heavy iron key into the lock of their cage, his face set in a mask of bored cruelty. With a violent jerk, he swung the door wide and reached in, dragging Elian out by the collar of his tunic.

  The impact with the ground was hard. Elian felt the frozen, metallic mud bite into his palms, but he didn't have time to recover.

  Crack.

  The sound of the whip was like a gunshot. The leather lash caught Elian across the shoulders, the sting so sudden and sharp it stole his breath. Beside him, Talin and Baraq were met with the same greeting—stinging reminders of their new status as property. Kaelen dropped from the rafters, twisting mid-air to avoid the coil of the whip with a grace that even the guard noticed with a momentary scowl.

  "Line up! Faces to the gate!" the guards roared, their voices echoing off the jagged obsidian walls of the fortress.

  Hundreds of slaves, broken and shivering, were herded toward the massive Iron-Thistle Gate. A high-ranking officer, clad in dark plate armor, stood atop a stone dais.

  "Listen well, dogs," the officer shouted. "The Lawless Zone doesn't feed the idle. You will be divided into two units. Unit One: The Vanguard. You will be the shield. You will hunt the weak monsters and clear the perimeter of the mines. Unit Two: The Sappers. You will enter the veins and extract the Aether-crystals. Work, and you might see the moon. Fail, and the earth will be your grave."

  The butchery-build man began moving down the line. When he reached Elian's group, he stopped. He used the butt of his whip to tilt Elian's head back. Under the grime, Elian's moonlight-silver hair and refined features were unmistakable—the features of the high-born. A flash of pure, petty spite crossed the man's face.

  "A noble blood," the guard sneered. "Unit One! Let's see how long those pretty eyes stay open when the Cliff-Shredders start nipping at your heels."

  He shoved Elian toward the Vanguard line—a death sentence for a twelve-year-old with no Aura or Mana.

  "He won't last an hour in the Vanguard," Talin's gravelly voice broke the silence. The Dwarf stepped forward. "But look at his hands. Small. Nimble. He can reach the crystal-nodes in the narrow crevices your brutes would crush. Put him in the Sappers. He's worth ten hunters if he's underground."

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  The butchery-build man turned slowly. "Did I ask for a Dwarf's counsel?"

  Without warning, the guard's massive fist swung out, catching Talin squarely in the jaw. The Dwarf spun, hitting the ground with a sickening thud. A smear of blood stained the grey soil.

  "Speak again, and I'll pull your tongue out," the guard growled. He looked back at Elian, greed finally winning over spite. "Fine. Sappers. If he doesn't bring back his weight in crystals, I'm taking the difference out of your hide, Dwarf."

  As the guard turned away, Elian stood over the fallen Talin, his gaze fixed on the back of the guard's thick, bull-like neck.

  Click.

  A sudden, sharp sensation ignited in his solar plexus. It wasn't warmth; it was a cold, piercing needle of pressure—a single, rhythmic pulse that felt like a gear finally slotting into place. For a split second, the world seemed to slow, the guard's movements becoming a series of predictable, clumsy trajectories. The sensation vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving Elian's heart racing.

  Not yet, he thought, reaching down to help Talin up. "Thank you," Elian whispered, his voice steady despite the adrenaline.

  Talin spat a glob of blood onto the metallic grass and wiped his mouth. "Don't thank me with words, lad. Thank me by staying alive and helping the rest of us do the same. We're Sappers now. The dark is a cruel master."

  By some stroke of improbable luck—or perhaps because the guard simply wanted to keep the "troublemakers" together where he could watch them—Baraq and Kaelen were shoved into the same line. The four of them remained a unit, a small island of familiarity in a sea of condemned men.

  The heavy thrum of machinery grew louder as the column of slaves was marched forward. The Great Gate of Fort Iron-Thistle loomed over them, a massive slab of enchanted iron and obsidian that looked less like a door and more like the mouth of a hungry god.

  As Elian stepped under the archway, he looked up. The presence of the fortress was magnetic, a crushing weight of stone and history that seemed to pull at the very air. The gates were carved with ancient runes that glowed with a faint, sickly green light, marking the boundary between the world of men and the world of the lost.

  He took his first step into the inner sanctum of the castle, his eyes fixed on the darkness ahead. The sorting was over. The climb had begun.