The Selection was more than just an arena of servants fighting as a display of Imperial might, it was an exhausting three-day event meant to show off their skills and sell their abilities to the auctioneers.

The first day was always a series of consecutive fights, both to set the energetic mood and to showcase the fruits of a lifetime of training. Each of the Kalator were not only expected to serve dutifully but to double as a bodyguard should the situation spiral out of control. Even for the Lords and Ladies of The Realms safety was not a guarantee, not in the city, especially not out in the Ancient's ruins, not even here in the Seven Cities Capital. Corrupted spirits of the Zodiac could appear anywhere, at any time. In the Three Realms, sentinel watchtowers were built carefully to maximize their sight lines, guard patrols came at regular intervals, and important individuals always had somebody to watch them as they slept.

The second day was hectic, more so than even the last as the nobility were given the opportunity to make increasingly difficult and absurd requests should the want or need suit them. Not only was it an excellent way to test the potential servant’s ability to adapt under extreme pressure, it additionally served as fantastic entertainment. Nikolai had gotten few requests, even fewer than Jericho, whose injuries weren't nearly enough to stop some cruel souls from making impossible demands. The sight alone made Nikolai's blood boil and stomach churn. Perhaps the nobility were right to avoid him, even if it didn't at all help his evaluation.

The only requests he received were inane things from a simple child without either the sense to avoid a Leo with a violent streak, or the supervision to keep him away. Though at first the child had been little more than a nuisance, he'd grown rather fond of that naivety. His name was Kaulden, and his father's name was Jozen, as he so liked to remind him. It was clear that he rather admired his father, though when pressed he couldn't quite say why.

The third day, the final day, was the auction, and it was as much entertainment as the last. Flamboyant auctioneers stood and offered increasingly high bids and benefits for the service of an excellent Kalator. Those that weren't offered a bid were typically gifted away as a favor or a reward to those deserving families, and failing that...

Well, it wasn't something that was meant to be spoken of, but their instructors throughout the years had repeatedly hinted at a grizzly fate awaiting those slackers who failed to impress as a kind of motivational tool. A lifetime of service within the Ancient Ruins was their most common threat, but they'd also been warned that their Imperial overlords had little use for worthless gifts and shameful displays. It worked better on some than on others, but it was a weight that had settled heavily on his shoulders for many years.

The auction itself took place in a large theater on the thirty-eighth floor of the Kalator Tower, the building Nikolai had spent his entire life in. From the outside it was a dark, seamless monolith of a building with tinted windows and silver edges, a stark contrast from the angular spires of ivory and hanging gardens- an imitation of the pristine cities beyond the glass dome, only called "ruins" because they were devoid of life. Lords and Ladies from all over the Realms, big-shots in their vassal states warped in through a Gateway on the thirtieth. He could only imagine what lengths these men and women went through for even a glimpse at the Seven Cities Capital, they must have endured all kinds of suffering, trials, and backstabbing for the wealth to even interact with their Imperial overlords. These were the kinds of people Nikolai would spend the rest of his life with, if he even got that chance.

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The auction room floor was built from polished midnight wood that seemingly drank up whatever light touched it, and it was inlaid with specks of silver to create the impression of walking along an endless starry void. White leather seats arrayed in descending hexagonal patterns rested on ivory platforms that appeared to float in that endless starry expanse. The walls and ceilings were made of similar stuff, an

endless starry expanse with floating silvery tablets shining lights onto the stage. The stage was yet another white platform, and an old man in a pressed suit and tie waited patiently for their entrance. The Kalator servants didn't walk onto stage, they were warped into place one at a time in alphabetical order.

Before then they were prepping for entry, for the most part it was used as a time to double, triple, quadruple-check one's appearance in the mirror. There wasn't much else Nikolai could do. All the while his brothers and sisters continued to shoot him dirty looks when they thought he wasn't looking, not that he blamed them. It wasn't uncommon during the first day to sustain heavy injuries- deep cuts, lacerations and the occasional broken bones weren't at all uncommon, but it was something of an unspoken rule that one shouldn't ever go for the face. After all, appearances meant everything to the Kalator, cuts and bruises and stitches anywhere else were easy enough to hide, and the Royal Oversight Committee didn't want to administer serum unless strictly necessary. Not only that, but the risk of brain damage posed a serious threat, as it was near impossible to treat save for a few, very expensive exceptions.

They each had a mark on the palm of their hands, one left by a small obsidian disc at the center of the stage. Their names were called up one by one, and when Nikolai was called to make an appearance he stepped up to a small plate with an arrow pointed to a dark curtain- a tool used to orient the servants before they teleported, rather than a device that had any actual bearing on the function of the disc. The curtain disappeared, replaced by a waiting audience staring intently. The speeches and selling points had been taken care of long before Nikolai appeared on stage, now it was just a matter of waiting.

Those first few moments of silence made his heart plummet, and yet he was so focused on maintaining a stoic expression- even as that strange tightness around his chest made it difficult to even breathe correctly, that time passed in the blink of an eye. Then the audience was gone, replaced by a dark curtain. It was only right. If there was any justice in this world then it only made sense that his own future would be forfeit after nearly ruining someone else's.

His future would be an eternity toiling away against spirits of the Zodiac for bread crumbs and droplets of water, if his life didn't end some time soon. All because of a moment of weakness on his part. They were pointless, bitter thoughts, of little practical value. They did little to help the trembling in his hands, or the difficulty he encountered when breathing, or that his eyes were strangely moist, and his vision blurry because of them. Then and there he decided that this feeling, this emotion was outrage, because melancholy felt pathetic somehow, and he still had his pride.

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In his visions the serpent's coils never ended, they stretched on and on and on and on through the river of souls.

He never caught so much as a glimpse of a beginning at the head, or an end at its tail, but he still felt the weight of Ouroboros' judgment.

It tallied man's sins, and weighed their hearts against a feather.

There was a sickness, and regret, and disappointment, and malice in its voice, though it spoke to and from his own beating heart.

It was a jaded, cynical thing, after an eternity of so many desperate hopes and ideals.

They were of the same mind.

It too wanted an end, but unlike himself, Ouroboros could never be free.