Something was wrong.


    Elias woke with that certainty before his eyes opened. A strange sensation crawled across his skin—not pain exactly, more like the prickling awareness of being watched. He lay perfectly still, senses straining into the pre-dawn darkness of his shelter. No unusual sounds. No shifted rubble indicating an intruder.


    Yet something had changed.


    He reached for his knife, fingers closing around the familiar worn handle as he sat up. Weak light filtered through the cracks in his makeshift home, enough to see that he was alone. The sensation persisted, concentrated along his forearms and creeping up toward his shoulders.


    When he glanced down, the knife nearly fell from his grip.


    Black lines writhed beneath the skin of his arms like liquid smoke, forming intricate patterns that pulsed with his quickening heartbeat. They weren''t surface marks—they moved under his skin, as though his veins had been filled with something dark and alive.


    "No," he whispered, the word escaping before he could stop it. "No, no, no."


    Elias lunged for his waterskin, emptying it over his arms and scrubbing frantically with a scrap of cloth. The water beaded on his skin, running clear. The marks remained unchanged, continuing their hypnotic dance beneath the surface.


    He''d seen these marks before. Three years ago, he''d watched from hiding as Sentinels dragged a screaming woman from the slums, her arms bearing identical patterns. The Church had called it a blessing. Her family had mourned as though she were already dead.


    Elias sat back against the wall, mind racing. The Maw had chosen him. Of all the wretched souls in Valtaros, the divine gateway—if the Church was to be believed—had selected a slum thief with nothing and no one.


    He knew the process that would follow. The marks would spread until they covered most of his body. Within days, Sentinels would come with their tracking devices that somehow homed in on the chosen. They would take him to the Sanctum District, where he would be prepared for the Maw''s embrace. And then...


    No one really knew what happened then. The Church spoke of divine trials, of transformation, of chosen warriors returning with powers to fight the corruption. But Elias had seen one of the returned once, from a distance—a hollow-eyed man with strange scars and a presence that made even the Sentinels give him a wide berth. He hadn''t seemed blessed. He had seemed broken.


    Elias examined the marks more carefully, forcing down his panic. They had appeared overnight, which meant the tracking signature hadn''t yet reached full strength. He might have a day, perhaps two, before the Sentinels could pinpoint his location.


    Time to run? The thought came automatically, but he dismissed it immediately. No one escaped the Maw''s selection. The barriers around Valtaros might keep corruption out, but they also kept citizens in. Even if he somehow made it to the Outlands, what then? A quick death from corruption instead of whatever fate the Maw had designed?


    Better to learn more before choosing a course. Information was survival.


    He pulled his tattered shirt on, noting with relief that the fabric concealed the marks. A length of cloth wound around his neck would hide any that might spread upward. He couldn''t risk stealing gloves without drawing attention—unusual attire for the slums would make him conspicuous—but keeping his arms folded would have to suffice.


    The bread would remain secure in its hiding place. If by some miracle he returned, he would need it then.


    Outside, the slums were stirring to reluctant life. A child with stick-thin legs chased a rat between buildings. An old woman sorted through refuse, plucking out anything remotely salvageable. Two men argued over a dented metal cup as though it were made of gold.


    Elias kept his head down and arms folded, moving with purpose but not haste. Panic was a luxury for those who could afford to be noticed. He headed toward the center of the slum district, where information flowed as freely as the dirty water from the communal pumps.


    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    "You''re up early," called a gruff voice from a doorway. Marden, one of the few slum dwellers Elias occasionally traded with. The older man''s eyes narrowed. "And dressed for travel. Found a way over the wall, have you?"


    Elias forced his features into practiced neutrality. "Just restless. Thought I''d see what''s happening at the checkpoints." A reasonable excuse—checkpoint patterns determined which routes might be safe for smuggling or theft.


    Marden spat on the ground. "Sentinels are stirred up like a kicked hive. Second chosen one this week, they say. Some merchant''s daughter up in the Market Quarter. Family''s raising hell, offering bribes to keep her home. Won''t work, of course. The Maw takes what it wants."


    Elias fought to keep his expression unchanged. "The Maw doesn''t favor us slum rats much, does it?" he said, working to sound casual.


    "More than you''d think," Marden replied, scratching his grizzled beard. "Took Henna''s boy last year, didn''t it? And old Sutter''s niece the year before. Figure the Church needs its sacrifices from all districts. Keeps the fear fresh."


    Sacrifices. Not chosen ones or blessed warriors. Interesting that even those who repeated Church doctrine slipped into more honest terminology when not being monitored.


    "How long between marking and collection?" Elias asked, then quickly added, "Henna still goes on about it. Made me curious."


    Marden shrugged. "Three days for her boy. Marks appear, spread for a day or two, then the Sentinels come knocking. Never seen one stay hidden longer than that. The marks call to them somehow."


    Three days. Perhaps less now, if the Church had improved their tracking methods.


    "Well," Elias said, stepping away, "plenty of daylight to waste. See you around, Marden."


    The older man gave a noncommittal grunt, already turning back to whatever task occupied his morning. In the slums, permanent attachments were rare. People disappeared too often—taken by sickness, violence, corruption, or the Church. Grief was another luxury few could afford.


    Elias continued toward the checkpoint, careful to maintain a casual pace and posture despite the crawling sensation spreading across his back. More marks appearing. Spreading faster than he''d anticipated.


    The boundary between the Outer Slums and the Market Quarter was crowded as usual—laborers waiting for day work, merchants'' servants returning with supplies, Sentinels checking papers and collecting impromptu "inspection fees" from those who lacked proper documentation.


    He positioned himself in a shadowed doorway across from the checkpoint, watching and listening. Information flowed here, between those waiting in line.


    "—whole family in mourning already—"


    "—tried to hide her, but you can''t hide from the Maw—"


    "—Sentinel captain himself came with a dozen men—"


    "—said they''re gathering all twelve at the Cathedral tomorrow—"


    Elias stiffened. Twelve chosen. Not just him and the merchant''s daughter, but ten others throughout Valtaros, all marked within days of each other. That pattern was familiar from Church sermons—twelve taken, to face the trials together. Which meant the selection was nearly complete. The countdown to collection had already begun.


    A commotion at the checkpoint drew his attention. A well-dressed man argued with a Sentinel officer, gesturing frantically toward the Sanctum District visible in the distance. Even from here, Elias could make out key phrases.


    "—my daughter is no criminal—"


    "—the Maw''s selection is divine law—"


    "—have connections in the Sanctum—"


    "—the High Priestess herself has been informed—"


    The man was eventually led away by two subordinate Sentinels, his protests fading. The officer remained at his post, expression grim but satisfied. Religious conviction, Elias noted, or an excellent performance of it. The officer believed in the righteousness of tearing families apart for the Maw.


    More interesting was the confirmation of the collection timeline. If they were gathering all twelve at the Cathedral tomorrow, that meant Sentinels would be sweeping the city today, focusing their tracking devices on finding the remaining chosen ones.


    Including him.


    Elias retreated from his observation point, mind working. His options were limited. He could turn himself in, gaining perhaps marginally better treatment than if he were hunted down. He could attempt to hide, though every hour the marks spread would make that harder. Or he could seek information about what truly awaited beyond the Maw''s embrace.


    The third option was the only one that might improve his chances of survival. There were whispers of those who knew more about the Maw than the Church permitted—scholars who maintained secret libraries, returned chosen ones who spoke truth to trusted ears.


    Finding such people in less than a day, however, would require luck Elias had never possessed.


    He turned toward the one place in the slums where secrets could sometimes be purchased—the Broken Lantern, a tavern that catered to those who moved between worlds. Smugglers, informants, disgraced Sentinels, even the occasional scholar slumming in search of forbidden knowledge.


    As he navigated the warren of alleys leading there, Elias became aware of a new sensation—a subtle warmth emanating from the marks, a feeling of being pulled in a specific direction. Toward the Sanctum District. Toward the Cathedral.


    The Maw had chosen him, and now it was calling him home.