The air was thick with sweat and smoke. The scent of burning coal clung to Keiran's skin, suffocating, inescapable. His wrists still ached from the iron cuffs digging into his skin, but his mind was elsewhere—focused, calculating. He needed to escape.
Then— a loud bang.
Keiran's head snapped toward the sound, his instincts screaming. His pulse spiked as he caught sight of it—the cage, flung aside like discarded scrap, crashing into the dirt with a sickening thud.
Blood. Dripping from the hands of the worker who had been carrying it. The man staggered back, clutching his palm, crimson spilling between his fingers.
And inside the toppled cage—the white-haired boy.
It all pieced together in an instant. The boy had freed himself. He had taken the broken shard of iron from his restraints and used it—stabbing the man's hand with cold precision. The pain had made the worker drop the cage, slamming it against the rough ground. Keiran saw the boy's head snap back from the force of impact—but he didn't stop.
He didn't even hesitate.
With blood trickling down his forehead, he grabbed the jagged metal still clenched in his hand and began slamming it against the lock of his cage. Once. Twice. A third time. The rusted hinges groaned. Metal strained. Then—crack.
The cage door flung open.
The boy bolted.
A blur of movement. Bare feet against the dirt. His tattered clothes whipped around him as he sprinted through the open factory yard, past workers and guards alike, his desperation raw, unfiltered.
Shouts erupted.
The world moved in slow motion.
Keiran barely breathed, his heart hammering against his ribs like a caged animal.
The white-haired boy had almost made it. Almost.
The workers had scrambled, lunging, reaching, but he was too fast—too desperate. His small frame darted through the chaos, slipping past outstretched arms, kicking up dust and gravel in his wake.
For a fleeting moment, Keiran thought he might actually escape.
Then—
BANG.
The sound ripped through the air like a thunderclap, sharp and merciless.
Keiran flinched. His breath hitched, his body tensing as if the bullet had torn through him instead. The aftershock of the gunshot sent a shudder down his spine, and for the first time in a long while—he felt cold.
His head snapped up.
And then, he saw him.
A man stood above them, his silhouette stark against the choking gray sky.
Dressed in a coat of deep brown, its fabric untouched by the filth and grime of the factory below, he radiated power. It wasn't just his wealth that made him stand out—it was the way he carried himself. The way he stood, poised and unshaken, as if the suffering beneath him was nothing more than background noise.
The rifle in his hands—long-barreled, elegant, and deadly—still smoked from the shot.
His gloves—polished, expensive—adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves with an air of disinterest, as if he had done nothing more than flick a speck of dust from his clothing.
And beside him, a woman.
She stood still, composed. A maid, but not just any servant—his shadow.
She held a black umbrella over his head, shielding him from even the faintest touch of sunlight. Her dress was long and fitted, a muted shade of gray, neither extravagant nor cheap—the uniform of someone who existed to serve and nothing more.
She did not react. She did not look at the boy on the ground.
She simply stood there, an extension of the man's power, silent and ever-present.
Keiran's gaze snapped back to the white-haired boy.
He wasn't dead.
He was on the ground, body convulsing, fingers twitching. His limbs trembled, his breath ragged, and Keiran realized—the bullet had not been meant to kill.
It had been meant to incapacitate.
To paralyze.
A slow, creeping fear curled in Keiran's gut. Not fear of death. No—this was something worse.
The man in brown exhaled, lowering his rifle with deliberate slowness.
His voice, when it came, was calm. Unhurried.
"Collect him."
And just like that, the workers moved. Not even hesitating for only a single second before they obeyed.
Keiran didn't hear the rest. His mind was already spinning. His pulse was hammering.
He had to escape.
Sometime later, the children were pulled from their cages, shoved into a single-file line like cattle. Their feet dragged through the dirt, their bodies frail, weak. Keiran, wrists still bound in iron, took slow steps forward.
Ahead of them, a checkpoint. A makeshift station where a man sat behind a rusted desk, inspecting each child before marking something onto a tattered ledger. His face was tired, impassive—he had done this a thousand times before.
Keiran's gaze wandered.
The factory loomed around them. A monstrous structure of soot-streaked brick and towering chimneys. Black smoke poured into the sky, choking the air with the scent of burnt metal and oil. Cranes lifted massive crates, their chains groaning under the weight. The sound of machinery never ceased—a dull, grinding roar that swallowed all else.
Beyond the factory, the town.
Unlike the grim, industrial heart they stood in now, the town was filled with movement. Workers hurried between buildings, civilians went about their lives. It wasn't a ghost town—it was alive.
People lived here.
They shopped. They traded. They worked.
And yet—the line between them and the factory was clear. There were those who labored. And there were those who owned.
Keiran turned his head slightly, glancing behind him.
At the far end of the line—the town gates. A passage into something bigger, wider. A way out.
But escape wouldn't be easy.
Because somewhere, hidden within this world of smoke and steel—was the white-haired boy.
And Keiran had the sinking feeling that their paths weren't meant to separate just yet.
The air was thick. Suffocating.
Keiran's turn had come.
The man seated at the wooden table before him—bald, heavyset, with a scar running down his cheek—did not look up. He flipped through a leather-bound ledger, the pages worn and yellowed with time. The ink, smudged in places, carried the weight of countless names before Keiran's.
The man's voice was gruff, void of emotion. "Name?"
Keiran swallowed, his throat dry. "Keiran."
A slow scribble. The scratching of a quill against parchment.
"Age?"
"...Twelve."
Another note, another stroke of ink.
"Loved ones?"
Silence.
Keiran stared at the ground. For a moment, an image flashed in his mind—but there was nothing. No one. No home, no waiting arms, no memories of warmth.
"None," he finally said.
The man didn't react, just kept writing. But then, he paused. His next question was different.
"Path of your Oath?"
Keiran blinked. "...What?"
He had never heard those words before. An oath? What oath? What did it mean?
His voice came out quiet. "What's an—"
The man ignored him. No explanation. No acknowledgment. Just a motion of his hand, dismissing Keiran like he was nothing more than another number in the ledger.
"Move to your right."
Keiran turned.
And that's when he saw it.
His stomach dropped. His breath caught in his throat.
A room. A doorless, dimly lit chamber past the checkpoint, filled with the thick scent of burning flesh.
The closer he moved, the worse it became. The air was humid, tainted with the acrid stench of scorched skin, sweat, and something metallic—blood. The faint flicker of torches cast jagged shadows on the cracked stone walls. The ground was damp, coated in layers of grime, dirt, and blackened stains of things he didn't want to name.
And then—the screams.
Shrill, agonized cries filled the room, echoing off the walls. Children.
Keiran clenched his fists as he was forced forward. Step by step.
At the far end of the chamber, two men stood beside a roaring furnace, their arms bare and glistening with sweat. Blacksmiths. Not artisans, not crafters of metal, but something far worse.
In their hands, they held red-hot iron rods.
The tips glowed a violent orange, each one shaped into a twisted, intricate insignia. Keiran couldn't make out the design—not through the steam, not through the horror—but he knew what they were.
Brands.
He watched, helpless, as the line moved forward. One by one, children were forced to extend their trembling hands. Some fought back, kicking, screaming, but resistance meant nothing. The workers held them down, pressing the scorching metal deep into their skin.
The reaction was always the same.
A scream. A piercing, gut-wrenching sound that made Keiran's ears ring. The smell of burning flesh filled the air as skin sizzled, seared, blackened under the heat. The children collapsed, sobbing, clutching their arms as they were dragged aside, discarded like broken dolls.
Keiran's legs felt weak.
This wasn't punishment. This wasn't cruelty for the sake of it. This was something worse.
It was order.
A systematic, cold, uncaring act—one done not out of malice, but out of routine.
And then—
His turn came.
Keiran stood before the man holding the iron rod. His arms were stronger than they should have been—too thick, too built for someone whose life revolved around pain. His expression was blank, as if he wasn't even aware of what he was doing anymore.
The iron glowed as it was lifted.
Keiran knew what was coming. He knew the pain would be unbearable. But still—he did not move.
The brand came down.
Seared into his left hand.
Keiran did not scream.
He did not thrash. He did not beg.
But his eyes.
If anyone looked into them at that moment, they would see it. The pain. The misery. The silent agony that words could never capture.
The iron lifted, leaving behind a raw, charred mark. A wound that would never fade.
The worker exhaled through his nose, seemingly impressed. "Brave one."
Then, without hesitation, he shoved Keiran aside.
Keiran stumbled out the door.
The night air hit his skin. Cold. Unforgiving. He barely felt it.
A single tear slipped down his face.
It landed on the fresh wound, sizzling as it met burned flesh.
Sizzling.
And yet, Keiran said nothing.
Because what was left to say?