Forged By Falcrest

Atlas's eyes cracked open, and he immediately regretted it. The dim torchlight that flickered against the damp stone walls stabbed at his throbbing head. He groaned, his breath visible in the frigid air as his chest rose and fell in shallow gasps. Every inch of his body ached, a deep, bone-deep ache that made him question how he was even alive.

Alive.

The thought sent a jolt through him. He blinked hard, trying to focus, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The last thing he remembered was the fight, the flames, the blade, the cold bite of the woman's dagger pinning him to the ground. He'd thought for sure that he was done for, that he wouldn't wake up again. But here he was.

His arms were chained, the iron cuffs digging into his wrists as he shifted slightly. A clinking noise followed the movement, the chains taut as they anchored him to the wall behind him. His legs were similarly bound, and the rough stone floor beneath him sapped what little warmth his body had left. He looked down at himself, his breaths hitching as he took in the state he was in.

His clothes were gone, replaced by thin, trousers. His torso was bare, revealing a patchwork of bandages wrapped tightly around his ribs and arms, completely covering his upper body. Blood had soaked through many of them, the rusty red stains standing out against the pale linen. He shifted again and winced as a sharp pain shot through his side. The bandages felt too tight, like they were the only thing holding his body together.

He shouldn't have been able to move. He shouldn't even be alive. He'd lost so much blood during the fight. He remembered collapsing, the world spinning, his strength fading. His wounds had been deep, the thought of the snow covered in his blood sent a shiver down his spine.

Atlas touched his ribs gingerly, half-expecting the pain to split him in two. It hurt, but not as much as it should have. His fingers brushed his chest, stopping just below his ribs. That spot. The place where he'd felt the warmth, the energy, his mana.

Mana.

The realization hit him like a bucket of icy water. He'd awakened his mana core in that fight, hadn't he? He could remember it vividly, the surge of energy, the power that had ignited in him, driving him to stand when he should've fallen. And now? Nothing. The warmth was gone, replaced by an emptiness so profound it felt like a part of him had been ripped away. His chest tightened at the thought, panic creeping in. He raised his hands more and felt the cold chill that was a bracket around his neck. The side of his face stung as his fingers brushed the skin, he quickly lowered his hand and looked around.

"Ren," he rasped, his voice raw and barely above a whisper. He tried again, louder this time, though it hurt to speak. "Ren! Where is he?"

Only silence answered him. The air in the cell was heavy and oppressive, the cold biting at his bare skin. His breath clouded in front of him as he looked around, desperate for any sign of where he was, or who had brought him here. He could see through the bars of his cell into the sprawling maze of Midtown below. The familiar sight did little to comfort him. Midtown was a place of suffering, but this—this was worse.

"Is anyone there?" he shouted again, his voice cracking. He tugged against his chains, ignoring the way they bit into his wrists. The metal clinked loudly, the sound echoing down the stone corridor.

"Hey, shut it, kid," a gruff voice snapped from somewhere nearby.

Atlas turned his head, squinting through the dim light. Across the hall, in another cell, a man sat slumped against the wall. He looked older, with a rough, weathered face and a long scar running from his cheek to his jaw. His eyes glinted in the faint light, sharp and impatient.

"Stop making noise," the man hissed. "You'll bring the guards down here, and trust me, you don't want that."

Atlas's jaw tightened. "I need to know where he is. The boy I was with, do you know anything?"

The man let out a humorless laugh. "What makes you think I know anything? I've been stuck in this shit hole longer than you. Just keep quiet."

Atlas swallowed the anger rising in his chest, his hands balling into fists. He wanted to yell, to demand answers, but he was exhausted. He slumped back against the wall, the cold stone pressing into his bandaged back with a sharp sting.

For the next few hours or maybe maybe days, Atlas couldn't tell, he did little but sit there, staring out at the flickering torches in the distance or the faint glimmers of life in Midtown below. Food came occasionally, shoved through the slot at the base of his cell door by a faceless guard. It was little more than a bowl of watery gruel, tasteless and cold, but he forced himself to eat. He tried questioning the guards once, but the sharp slap across his face silenced him quickly. His cheek still stung from it.

He spent most of his time trying to feel for his mana core. It gave him something to focus on, something to cling to in the stillness of his cell. But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how deeply he concentrated, he felt nothing. Just an empty void where that warmth should have been.

He didn't know how much time had passed. His wounds, while still sore, had begun to ache less.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the sound of heavy boots echoed down the corridor. Atlas tensed, his chains rattling faintly as he straightened. There was something different this time. He could feel it, the faint hum of power in the air, a presence that sent a chill down his spine.

A man stepped into view, his silhouette tall and lean. He couldn't have been older than twenty-five, his sharp features illuminated by the faint torchlight. His dark coat hung loosely around him, the edges swaying slightly with each measured step.

The man stopped in front of Atlas's cell, his piercing eyes meeting Atlas's. He didn't speak at first, just stood there, watching him with an unreadable expression. Then, without a word, he unlocked the cell door and stepped inside.

Atlas flinched as the man grabbed the chains binding his wrists. With a sharp tug, he yanked Atlas to his feet. Pain flared in his leg, and he staggered, barely managing to keep his balance. The man didn't care. He turned, dragging Atlas toward the hallway.

"Where are you taking me?" Atlas demanded, his voice hoarse.

The man didn't answer, didn't even glance back. His grip on the chains was firm, unyielding.

Atlas looked back at the prisoner across the hall, but the man only shook his head slightly, his expression grim.

Atlas was led into a room unlike anything he had ever seen before. The walls were a stark, clinical white, smooth and seamless, unlike the rough stone or timber he was used to in Midtown. Something strange lined the walls, a texture he couldn't place, almost like polished glass. It reflected the faint light in a way that made the room feel cold and unnatural, amplifying the eerie silence that seemed to press down on him.

The man dragging him forward didn't spare him a glance. Atlas limped behind him, the pain in his leg flaring with every step. His ribs throbbed with each breath, and the burn of reopened cuts sent jolts of pain through his nerves. It was a miracle he was even able to move, though every movement came with a price.

At the center of the room was a table and a single chair. The man didn't hesitate. With a firm shove, he forced Atlas into the chair. Atlas let out a grunt of pain as his sore body hit the cold surface. Before he could adjust, the man secured his arms and legs with strange leather bindings that buckled tightly, leaving him no room to move.

The warmth of the room, however, was unexpected. For a brief moment, it was almost welcome after the biting cold of the cell.

Still, Atlas tried to speak. "Hey—" His voice cracked, raw from days of shouting in the cell. "What—what is this? Where am I?"

The man didn't respond. He turned on his heel and left without a word, his boots clicking softly against the floor. The door slid shut behind him with a mechanical hiss, leaving Atlas alone in the stark silence.

Atlas twisted in the chair, testing the restraints. They didn't budge. He craned his neck to take in the room. There was nothing—no decorations, no furniture apart from the table and chair. Just endless white.

"Great," he muttered under his breath, wincing as his ribs protested even that small motion. "This is just perfect."

Minutes passed, or maybe hours—it was hard to tell in this strange place where time felt like it didn't exist. He leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling, trying to focus on something other than the dull ache spreading through his body. His mind kept wandering to Ren. Was he okay? Was he even alive?

The silence was unbearable. He tugged again at the leather bindings, frustration bubbling to the surface. "Hey!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the white walls. "I know someone's out there! What do you want from me?"

No response.

'Pricks, I bet someone's watching.'

Atlas slumped back into the chair, letting out a shaky breath and closed his eyes. The image of the woman with the daggers flashed through his mind for the millionth time, he watched as she slid her daggers through his stomach, she enjoyed every second of it. His eyes snapped open, pushing away the memory's that had been haunting him.

The door hissed open.

Atlas's head snapped up. A woman walked in, her footsteps deliberate and measured. She was pretty, her features sharp and devoid of any emotion. Her posture was stiff, her movements precise. She wore a simple gray uniform that matched the starkness of the room, and her eyes were cold and calculating as they locked onto him.

She didn't hesitate. She crossed the room with purpose and sat across from him, her back straight, her hands folded neatly on the table. Atlas stared at her, trying to make sense of the oppressive aura she carried. It wasn't like the Nightblade or the woman who had attacked him. It was more subdued, Subtle. But just as scary.

"Name," she said, her voice flat and emotionless.

Atlas hesitated, his mouth suddenly dry. "Atlas," he croaked.

"Full name."

"Atlas… just Atlas."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, though her face remained impassive. "Why were you at the manor?"

"I—" Atlas faltered. Something about her presence made him want to answer, to spill everything. He fought the urge, clenching his fists against the bindings.

"Answer the question," she said, her tone unchanging. "Why were you there?"

Atlas licked his lips, his heart pounding. "I was… stealing. I needed a jacket."

Her gaze didn't waver. "And the attack? Who were you with?"

Atlas shook his head, wincing as the motion pulled at a sore muscle in his neck. "No one. I wasn't part of the attack. I don't even know what that was about. I was just—" He stopped, his voice cracking. "I was just trying to get out of the cold."

Her eyes bore into him, unblinking. "How did you survive?"

"I don't know," Atlas admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know how I'm still alive."

Her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, searching for something he couldn't name. Finally, she stood, her movements just as precise as before.

"You're an anomaly," she said, more to herself than to him. Her voice was calm, detached, as though she were commenting on the weather. "An Awakened like you shouldn't have survived when a Transcendent died. It doesn't make sense."

Atlas opened his mouth to respond, but she didn't give him the chance. She turned and walked out of the room, the door hissing shut behind her, leaving him alone once again.

Atlas slumped in the chair, his head falling forward. The silence returned, heavier than before. His thoughts spiraled, questions piling on top of each other with no answers in sight.

***

Haley left the white room, the door sealed behind her. The sterile quiet of the hallway was a stark contrast to the chaotic thoughts swirling in her mind. The boy's words replayed in her head, every one of them ringing with the truth, her bloodline ability made sure of that. And yet, the situation didn't sit right with her.

She walked briskly, her boots clicking against the polished floor, until she reached a nondescript door. Inside, the atmosphere was tense. Three men waited in the room, their postures ranging from relaxed to rigid. At the head of the table sat Lukas, their elder and leader, his sharp eyes focused on a sheet of parchment in his hands. Despite his calm demeanor, she had seen what he could do. Transcendent were scary.

Derek, who had dragged the boy into the interrogation room, leaned casually against the wall, his arms crossed. He was smirking, clearly anticipating her report. Darcy, her other teammate sat stiffly at the table, his weathered face etched with suspicion.

Haley closed the door behind her and took her place near Lukas. Darcy was the first to speak.

"Well?" he asked, his voice rough and impatient. "Did the brat lie?"

Haley shook her head. "No," she said simply. "He told the truth."

Derek let out a low whistle, pushing off the wall. "A coincidence, then? Two street rats, both Awakening their cores during a Transcendent's death? Seems a bit too convenient to me." His smirk widened, but his eyes were sharp, calculating. "Bet he's hiding something."

Haley glanced at him, her expression unreadable. "He's not hiding anything," she replied. "My bloodline would've caught it if he was."

Derek shrugged, unbothered by her certainty. "Maybe. Or maybe he's just good at playing dumb."

"Enough." Lukas's voice was calm but commanding, silencing the room instantly. He looked up from the parchment, his piercing gaze settling on Haley. "What's your take?"

Haley hesitated for a moment, gathering her thoughts. "He doesn't know anything about the attack," she said finally. "He claims he was there to steal a jacket. That's it. But…" She frowned slightly. "If that's true, then why didn't he mention the body? The dead son was in the room he broke into. He should have seen it."

Darcy leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "You think he's suppressing something?"

"It's possible," Haley admitted. "Or there's more to this than we realize."

Lukas nodded slowly, his fingers tapping lightly against the table. "What about his injuries?"

"They don't make sense," Darcy interjected before Haley could respond. "The kid should be dead. Even with our ward healers working on him, he shouldn't have recovered this fast."

Haley inclined her head. "Darcy's right. If it's not his mana core keeping him alive, then it could be a bloodline we don't recognize."

"Bloodlines don't just appear out of nowhere," Darcy muttered, his skepticism clear.

Derek let out a chuckle, leaning back against the wall. "Easy enough to figure out," he said, his grin taking on a predatory edge. "Let me in there, Elder. I'll get him to spill everything."

Haley's jaw tightened, but she kept her voice even. "That's not necessary," she said firmly. "He's not hiding anything. Torturing him won't change that."

Derek rolled his eyes. "You're too soft, Haley. Sometimes a little pain is all it takes to get to the truth."

"Enough," Lukas said again, his voice cutting through the rising tension. He raised his papers and shook them.

"His records are… interesting," he said. "No family. No last name. He appeared in Midtown shortly after the War of Blades. Aged six, with no memories."

The room fell into silence as the implications of his words sank in. Darcy was the first to break it.

"Kids don't just appear like that," he said, his tone heavy with suspicion. "And for him to survive those injuries… even the Transcendent didn't make it."

"That's why we need answers, but it's also not uncommon. We all know how many orphans there were after the war. The only interesting thing is he doesn't seem to be from the lands of draegar." Lukas said, his tone calm but firm. He looked back at Haley. "Do you believe he knows more than he's letting on?"

Haley hesitated, then shook her head. "I don't think he's lying, Elder," she said carefully. "But I also don't think we've asked the right questions yet."

Lukas nodded, his sharp gaze unwavering. "Then ask them."

Darcy crossed his arms, his frown deepening. "And the other boy? What's the plan for him?"

A flicker of something cold passed through Lukas's eyes. He leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. "The other boy…" he said slowly, "requires more… delicate handling. We'll tread carefully with him."

Haley raised an eyebrow at his tone but said nothing. She knew better than to question Lukas's judgment.

Derek let out a low chuckle. "Delicate, huh? Sounds boring."

Haley ignored him, her mind already returning to the white room and the boy sitting alone inside it. There was something about him, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. Coincidence or not he had survived and see needed to find out why.