Forged By Falcrest

Atlas had been in the white room for hours, maybe longer. Time felt meaningless in a place like this. The walls were too pristine, too smooth, and they reflected the light in a way that made his eyes ache if he stared too long. He had tried everything to distract himself. Counting the cracks in the ceiling. There were none, so that game ended rather quickly. Tapping his fingers against the chair. The restraints dug into his wrists, stopping him quickly. There was nothing.

And to make it worse his nose itched. It wasn't just a mild itch either, it was the kind of itch that burrowed into his thoughts and refused to leave. He gritted his teeth, trying to ignore it, but the sensation only grew worse. Finally, he leaned forward, pressing his face against the edge of the table to try and rub the itch away. It didn't work, but at least it gave him something to focus on.

With nothing else to do, his mind wandered back to the fight. He didn't want to think about it, but the memories crept in anyway. The flames, the shouting, the blood… It was the first time he had seen someone killed, and the image wouldn't leave him maybe it wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't so gruesome. But instead he had seen a man get nearly decapitated. It was sickening even thinking about it.

Midtown wasn't exactly kind, he had seen stabbing before. But this had been different. The raw brutality of it, the finality of death, it was something he hadn't been prepared for. And he didn't think he ever would be.

The metal device around his neck only added to his frustration. He couldn't see it, but he could feel its weight, cold and unyielding against his skin. Every time he shifted, it pressed into the tender spots on his neck, irritating him further.

He longed for the warmth he had felt in the fight, that surge of energy, that brief connection to something greater than himself. It had been his mana, he was sure of it. For the first time in his life, he had touched it, felt it. And then, just as quickly, it had been ripped away. The emptiness it left behind was almost unbearable.

The door opened, pulling him from his thoughts. He straightened in his seat, lifting his head off the deck. His eyes narrowing as the woman from before stepped inside. Her calm, measured demeanor hadn't changed. She walked to the table with the same deliberate grace, her sharp eyes locking onto him as she sat down across from him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Atlas shifted uncomfortably, the restraints around his wrists pulling taut as he adjusted his position. Her gaze was unsettling, as if she could see right through him.

"Start from the beginning," she said. "Tell me everything. Don't leave anything out."

Atlas blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"From the beginning," she repeated. "Every detail. Why you were there. What you saw. What happened."

He hesitated, his throat suddenly dry. "I already told you I don't know anything about the attack."

"I'm not asking about the attack," she said, her voice calm but firm. "I'm asking about you. Start from the beginning."

Atlas leaned back in his chair as much as the restraints allowed, letting out a frustrated breath. "The beginning? You mean, like, Midtown? Because that's where it starts for me."

She didn't respond, her expression unreadable as she waited. The silence pressed down on him, heavy and unrelenting. Finally, he relented.

"Fine," he muttered. "You want the whole story? Here it is."

He began to speak, his voice low and steady. He told her about Midtown, about sneaking out with Ren that night. He described the wall, the climb, and the freezing air that bit at their skin. He told her about breaking into the manor, about the jacket he had been so desperate to steal. And then, hesitantly, he recounted the fight.

He tried to keep his voice steady, but the memories made it hard. The fire, the blood, the way the man's body had crumpled…. He could still feel the heat of the flames, the sting of his wounds where the woman's blade had entered, the cold weight of the dagger pinning him to the ground while she laughed at him.

Through it all, the woman didn't say a word. She didn't react, didn't flinch, didn't even blink. She just watched him, her piercing eyes fixed on him like he was a puzzle she was trying to solve.

When he finally finished, the silence in the room felt deafening. Atlas slumped back in his chair, exhausted from recounting the ordeal. He stared at her, waiting for some kind of response, but her expression remained unchanged.

After a long moment, she stood. "Thank you," she said simply.

And with that, she turned and walked out, leaving Atlas alone in the white room once again.

He let out a shaky breath, his head falling forward. "Could've just asked that the first time," he muttered to himself. "Would've saved us both some time."

Atlas didn't have to wait much longer. The door opened once again, honestly he was getting sick of it, a man stepped inside. He was older than the others, probably in his forties, with sharp features that seemed chiseled from stone. His skin was weathered, but his movements were precise, deliberate. His dark hair, streaked with gray, was combed back neatly, and his eyes—piercing and cold—seemed to see straight through Atlas. He carried himself with an air of authority, the kind that demanded respect without ever needing to ask for it.

The man wore a black coat that reached his knees, its high collar brushing the bottom of his jaw. The edges of the coat swayed slightly with each step, the faint clink of metal emanating from beneath it. His boots echoed against the pristine floor, their polished surface reflecting the cold, sterile light of the room.

He walked over to Atlas without a word, his gaze unwavering. Reaching down, he unfastened the restraints holding Atlas in place with a practiced ease, the leather bindings releasing their grip on his arms and legs. Atlas flexed his wrists, wincing slightly as blood rushed back into them.

"Don't try anything," the man said,

Atlas didn't need the warning. He could feel the man's power radiating off him, like heat from a forge. It wasn't just strength—it was control. Precision. This man had an aura about him, one that reminded Atlas of the Nightblade he had seen at the wall. The weight of his presence pressed against Atlas's chest, making it hard to breathe.

The man straightened and gestured toward the door. "Come with me."

Atlas hesitated, his mind racing. He was sick of this. Sick of the questions, the waiting, the constant feeling of being watched. Whatever this was, it was bigger than him, way bigger. He didn't know what he'd gotten himself into, but he wanted out.

The man's hand rose again, this time more insistent. The air seemed to shift, a subtle ripple of pressure brushing against Atlas's skin. It wasn't a direct threat, but it was enough to make him understand. He didn't have a choice.

With a sigh, Atlas pushed himself off the chair, his legs shaky from sitting for so long. He followed the man out of the room. The walls outside were just as pristine—smooth, seamless white that stretched endlessly in both directions. The light was cold and artificial, casting no shadows. The whole place felt sterile, almost unnervingly so.

Atlas glanced around as they walked, his mind trying to piece together the purpose of this place. He had never seen anything like it. Midtown's stone and timber were a far cry from this futuristic, alien architecture. Everything here was too clean, too perfect. It didn't belong in the same world he came from.

"Hmmm," he muttered under his breath. "I guess it does make it more nerve racking."

The man didn't respond, didn't even look back. He walked with purpose, his footsteps steady and unhurried. Atlas followed, the tension in his chest growing with every step. He had no idea where they were going, but something told him he wasn't going to like it.

***

Atlas had been wrong—plain and simple, dead wrong. He loved where this man had taken him.

The building was a far cry from the sterile white of the interrogation rooms. Lined with dark wood and sturdy stone, it felt familiar, comforting even. Atlas let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. For the first time in days, he felt like he wasn't in some strange nightmare.

Inside, the place was bustling with activity. Men and women in robes hurried down the hallways, carrying trays of supplies or guiding patients on stretchers. The faint scent of herbs and antiseptics hung in the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation and the occasional barked order.

Atlas realized they were in a hospital. Relief washed over him, bringing a small, involuntary smile to his lips. Finally, maybe someone would take care of the pain gnawing at his ribs and the burns still stinging his skin. He couldn't remember the last time he wasn't hurting. The thought of relief, even temporary, was enough to lift his spirits.

The man leading him glanced back and caught the smile. A knowing look crossed his face. "Yeah, you got pretty messed up, kid,"

Atlas started to nod, but the cold collar around his neck shifted, pressing into the raw sore it had worn against his skin. He winced, the pain sharp enough to make his smile falter.

They rounded a corner and stopped at a desk where a woman was seated. She looked busy, her hands darting between stacks of papers and files, but she glanced up as they approached.

"I need this boy healed,"

The woman barely looked up at Atlas before reaching for a small sheet of paper.

"Just fill this form out for me, will you?" she said, sliding the paper and a pen across the desk.

Atlas blinked at the paper, then at the pen, and then back at the woman. A sinking feeling settled in his chest. He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, not meeting her eyes.

"Uh… I don't know how to do that," he admitted.

The woman froze, her eyes wide with what Atlas could only assume was horror. She looked at him like he'd just stomped on her cat and then kicked it down a flight of stairs.

"Oh, bloody hell, boy," the man grumbled, stepping forward to snatch the paper and pen. He scrawled something across the form with quick, sharp strokes before slamming it back onto the desk. "Just send a healer and get this done. We have things to do."

The woman nodded mutely, grabbing the paper and scurrying off like she couldn't get away fast enough. Atlas watched her go, then turned back to the man, who was now glaring at him.

The man crossed his arms, his sharp eyes fixed on Atlas. "Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head in apparent disbelief.

Atlas shrugged, unbothered by the reaction. "What? How is that my fault?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "Where I grew up, there wasn't exactly a queue of teachers lining up to help."

The man's scowl deepened, but he didn't say anything. Atlas guessed he was trying to think of a retort, but honestly, there wasn't much he could say. Midtown wasn't the kind of place where kids got to learn things like writing, well there were schools but they cost money. Something Atlas didn't have.

The only education Atlas had ever received was from himself, and Granny Lucy occasionally but she had her hands full just keeping everyone alive.

Besides, he figured, what did it matter now? He was here, wasn't he? He'd gotten by just fine without knowing how to fill out some stupid form.

The man let out a sharp sigh, dragging a hand down his face. "Let's just get this over with," he muttered. "We don't have all day."

Atlas smirked slightly, letting his gaze wander around the bustling hospital. Whatever was about to happen, he figured it couldn't be worse than the interrogation rooms.

***

They were waiting in a small cubicle. The man stood beside the door, his arms crossed and his boot tapping impatiently against the floor. Atlas shifted uncomfortably in the chair, glancing around the cramped space, his fingers fidgeting with the edges of his trousers.

He couldn't take the silence anymore. "So… what's your name, anyway?" he asked, tilting his head up at the man.

The man looked down at him, his dark eyes sharp and assessing. "I'm Reaver Lukas," he said curtly, his tone making it clear he wasn't interested in a conversation.

But Atlas wasn't one to back down from a little coldness. If anything, it made him more determined. Talking was something he was good at, he could do it for the both of them.

"So, what's going on?" Atlas pressed, his voice light despite the tension in the room. "Am I free to go after this?"

Lukas shook his head, a look of mild irritation crossing his face. "Don't be ridiculous, boy."

Atlas frowned. "What do you mean? Why not?"

The man sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was dealing with an irritating child. "Are you dense? No Awakened can just roam around freely. It's not how things work. I'll be taking you to the academy."

Atlas froze at the words, his heart skipping a beat. "The academy?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

That… that was everything he had ever dreamed of. He had spent countless nights staring at its gates from the shadows of Midtown, imagining what it would be like to walk through them, to learn, to grow. The thought alone plastered a wide, uncontrollable smile on his face.

Finally.

Finally, he could have the chance to prove himself, to be something more than just a street rat. The idea sent a thrill of excitement coursing through him, so much so that he almost forgot where he was.

Despite all the times he told himself it didn't matter, that reading and writing weren't important, that he didn't need those things, he knew deep down he was lying. He wanted it. He'd dreamed of it for years, even tried teaching himself with scraps of discarded books, but it was no use. It was too hard on his own.

And now… now he had the chance.

He was still lost in thought, his mind filled with visions of what the academy might be like, when the door creaked open. A man stepped inside, wearing the long robes of a healer. His presence immediately filled the room with a sense of calm, and his warm smile made the tense atmosphere feel just a little less suffocating.

"Hello," the healer said, "I understand you're in need of some assistance." His gaze shifted briefly to Lukas, giving him a respectful nod.

Lukas grunted in acknowledgment but said nothing.

Atlas straightened in his chair, trying to look composed. "Yes," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. "That would be… ideal."

The healer chuckled lightly at his choice of words, "Let's see what we're working with, shall we?"