Seraphina walks down the slope, her boots making a soft thumping on the ground. A delicate haze hovers just above the earth—morning mist whispering against her skin like the world is holding its breath in anticipation of something dark and menacing. The air smells faintly of rain, offering the chance of reprieve from Camp Hathor’s usual heat, but it is an empty promise. There will be no reprieve today. The oppressive heat presses down on her, thick and suffocating, much like the worry in her heart.

The mist clings to the ground, as if it’s watching her. It moves with her, silent and persistent, swirling at her feet with every step. She tries to shake the feeling—it’s just mist, nothing more—but a part of her can’t help but wonder.

She treads softly down the stone-laden path, her steps deliberate, yet the weight in her chest feels like a stone she can’t shake. The inhabitants of Camp Hathor are still nestled in their simple, makeshift, one-room wooden houses, savoring the last moments of solitude before the day's labor begins. As she walks, Seraphina’s mind replays her father’s last words to her two nights ago: "Be vigilant, Seraphina. Times are changing." She has heard “be vigilant” all her life—her father’s constant reminder that they could never afford to let their guard down—but the last part, "Times are changing," stays with her like a shadow.

The mist feels heavier now, like a warning, pressing in closer as her father’s words echo in her mind. Be vigilant. The mist curls ahead of her, disappearing into the trees that line the camp’s edge, like a veil that hides what’s to come.

Her father often disappears on trips with the Syndicator. That isn’t unusual. What sets her on edge is waking up to find her mother gone too—a deviation from their strict routine. As Seraphina comes to a stop outside the camp elder's place, she presses her hand against the dull ache in her stomach. He is seated on a wooden chair, sipping water from a metal mug.

“Bram,” she says softly, plopping down next to him in the damp earth. Bram, her father’s closest friend, a steady presence she can rely on, had always given her comfort. She had expected everything to be alright, like it always is after these trips.

But as she takes in Bram’s tired, resigned eyes, her hope crumbles like dry leaves underfoot. The small relief she’d felt at seeing him disappears, leaving her cold despite the heat. Why hadn’t they told me? she wonders, a knot forming in her stomach. Something is wrong.

For a moment, even Bram seems shaken. His stoic mask falters before he takes another sip from his mug. She wishes she could share a cup of tea from the Hearth with him, something warm and comforting. Instead, she sits silently as Bram’s gaze meets hers, his calmness slowly returning. But it’s not enough to ease the unease tightening in her chest.

"My parents weren’t home when I woke up," she whispers, the words thick with worry.

"Both of them?" Bram asks, his gravelly voice tinged with concern. His brows knit together as he sets down his mug.

"Yes. And today of all days... with the Assembly." Her voice trails off. Where could they be?

“We should check on the—” Bram’s words are cut off by the camp’s siren—a long, wailing sound signaling a gathering at the central square.

Seraphina leaps to her feet, dread twisting in her stomach. It is too early for the scheduled weekly Assembly. Helping Bram to his feet, she steadies him with her elbow. He is small and hunched, his body failing him more with each passing year, but the Assembly Point is nearby, and the walk is mercifully short.

As they walk, Seraphina’s mind returns to the house. She had woken suddenly, her heart hammering in her chest, unsure what had startled her awake. Her parents were gone, the wooden stove cold, no sign of breakfast or anything that spoke of their presence. She had called out for them, her voice high with worry, searching each of the five rooms. Then, she had frozen in the living room.      

The bear. It is gone. Her toy—so much more than a simple trinket—had caused a rift between her and her parents. Her mother had given it to her with the warning: "Do not share it. It will only bring pain." But Seraphina had shared it with Mara, her best friend. When her father found out, he demanded she tell them where it was. He had punished her when she refused, but she had used the lessons he taught her to endure the pain. It was worth it. The bear had meant everything to Mara, lighting up her face with rare joy. They had kept it between them as a promise of understanding when the world around them was unforgiving.

Her mother had put the bear back on the mantle after it was returned—a symbol of the choices they made as a family. To Seraphina, it was a testament to the bond she shared with Mara, a bond forged in secret and sustained through small acts of kindness. For her father, it was a reminder of the painful balance between love and duty. And for her mother, it was a quiet rebellion, a belief that even in their harsh world, there was room for empathy and humanity. And now it is gone too.

Seraphina’s thoughts are pulled from the past as Mara slides up beside her, briefly touching her arm. Together, they approach the Assembly Point, a place Seraphina had seen countless times, but today it feels different—charged with something ominous.

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The stage stands about two feet above the ground, made of rough-hewn wood, scarred and worn from years of use. The Syndicator stands in his usual place, center-left, hands folded behind his back, exuding quiet intensity and power. His black eyes scan the crowd with detachment, like a predator surveying its territory. Next to him is the chair, her father’s chair, starkly empty. Her heart pounds as her gaze moves to the large weathered screen behind them, its surface faded and worn from time.

Seraphina’s eyes flick briefly to the Wall that wraps around Camp Hathor. The grey stone looks weathered, cracks running its surface, small fractures that hint at the passage of time and the wear of generations. It feels as if the Wall had always been there, almost like a guardian, looming and cold. But cracks in the wall don’t change anything—it shouldn’t. But her heart tightens at the sight of it, as if it is a mirror reflecting her own fractured spirit.

In the distance, the Riftkeep looms over the camp, standing as a reminder of the Syndicate’s dominance. Its tall spires glint in the low morning sun, casting long shadows across the camp. It seems to stand above everything, like a silent sentinel, watching, judging. Her gaze traces down from the Riftkeep to the Hearth, her home. The Hearth is different—a place of warmth, modest comfort, and authority. Its stone walls stand sturdy against the elements, but now they feel cold, empty without her parents. The Hearth isn't just a home; it’s an access point to the camp for the Syndicator, a bridge between the people and their oppressors.  

Seraphina’s gaze settles on the chair again—the empty chair. It shouldn’t be. Her father had never missed an Assembly in all her years.

The siren cuts out abruptly, and the screen flashes to life. The face of the Chief Syndicator appears, his booming voice sending a chill down Seraphina’s spine. "Good people of Camp Hathor," he says, his eyes seeming to pierce through the screen, as if he could see each of them. "Today, we demonstrate the consequences of defiance. Today, we remind you of the futility of escape."

The screen changes, and Seraphina’s breath hitches. The shot is from above, showing her parents—her father standing tall, her mother’s face streaked with tears. What’s happening?

Her father’s eyes are wide with desperation, a look she has never seen before. Fear twists his features—real fear, not the kind he has shown in her lessons when he fears her failure. This was different. This was fear of the inevitable. He stands defensively, holding a charred wooden staff, the ground around him cracked and blackened. She knows he will fight, but there is a hunch to his shoulders, a grim resignation. Where is his knife? He always took it with him on trips.      

Snarls and growls echo around her parents, a haunting sound that seemed to reverberate in the still air, like the distant rumble of an approaching storm. The Forsaken. Seraphina’s heart pounds violently in her chest, her pulse like a war drum echoing in her ears. She had never seen them in person, but the whispers, the stories—she had always known the threat was real, lurking just beyond the walls. Always there. Always hungry.         

Her breath hitches as the video flickers, showing quick, disjointed glimpses of the creatures. Elongated limbs twisting unnaturally in the shadows. Claws glinting like moonlight, sharp and unforgiving. Oozing, cracked skin, stretched taut over bones, leaking foul fluids. They were horrors, grotesque parodies of life, and with each passing frame, they came closer to her parents.

Seraphina can't tear her gaze away. It isn't fear of punishment that roots her in place; it's the desperate, aching need to see her parents one last time. Even in their final moments, even in this brutal, heart-wrenching way—she needs to witness it. Needs to feel connected to them in their death, no matter how much it tears her apart.

Her breath comes in ragged, shallow bursts, her heart a storm of grief and disbelief. She knows it's wrong to watch them like this, but she can’t stop herself. I need to see them. I need to remember.

And then—her mother’s hand falls, revealing what she had been clutching.

The bear.     

A strangled cry tears from Seraphina’s throat as her knees buckle beneath her, the weight of it all crashing down like a landslide. Not the bear. Bram’s shaky hand rests on her shoulder, but it does nothing to stop the torrent of anguish that rips through her. Mara kneels beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, but even her comforting presence can't break the suffocating grief.

The video lingers cruelly on the bear, its once-vibrant fabric now stained with her mother’s blood, a grotesque reminder of everything she has lost—her family, her past, and the fragile sense of security she had always clung to.

The screen flickers back to the Chief Syndicator, his voice cold and unyielding. "Let this be a lesson. There is no outside for you. There is only here, only us. Choose your leaders wisely, lest they lead you to ruin."

The screen goes black. Anguished cries and angry murmurs ripple through the crowd. The bear—it isn't just her symbol; it is a symbol for all of them. Even their leaders can be touched, can lead them to destruction.

Her gaze locks onto the Syndicator. Their eyes meet. His black pupils show no emotion, but for a fleeting second, she thinks she sees something—a flicker of concern or pity. But it vanishes quickly, replaced by the familiar sneer.

"Who will you choose to lead?" he asks, his voice smooth but chilling as his gaze sweeps the crowd. Bram’s hand tightens on her shoulder. This is it. This is what they want. What she was born for.

But all she can see is blood. Her parents. The bear.

A man steps forward—Damion. Ambitious. Ruthless. He has always wanted her father’s position.

Bram’s grip tightens again. He is urging her to step forward, to challenge Damion. But Seraphina can't move. The pressure from Bram’s touch is suffocating. She pulls away, crawling to her feet just as the Syndicator’s voice cuts through the air.

"And so it shall be," he says, finality in his tone.

She faces the crowd, their grief mirroring her own, but the pain is too much. She turns from them, from the weight of their expectations. I can’t do this.

Her legs move before she realizes it. Her legs move before she can stop them. Running. Her breath comes fast, too fast, ripping through her chest. She stumbles. Keeps running. Where am I going?

And then she’s there—their place. The one spot that feels safe.

The tree stands in its secluded corner, its arching branches forming a natural curtain that creates a quiet, hidden sanctuary. The leaves whisper in the soft breeze, their delicate lavender flowers swaying gently. Seraphina throws herself beneath the tree, pressing her back against the trunk, hugging her knees to her chest as her sobs wrack her body.