Elias woke to softness—a sensation so unfamiliar that his mind initially rejected it as hallucination. The surface beneath him yielded gently to his weight, cradling rather than resisting. A bed. A real bed with a mattress stuffed with something other than moldy straw.
He kept his eyes closed, cataloging sensations. Clean fabric against his skin. The absence of the perpetual slum stench, replaced by subtle fragrances—incense, perhaps, and something floral. No sounds of rats scurrying in the walls, no distant shouts or moans from neighbors.
The marks beneath his skin hummed contentedly, no longer pulling but seeming to pulse in harmony with his surroundings. They had spread further during his unconsciousness, now covering most of his torso and creeping up his neck.
"I know you''re awake," said a gentle voice. Female, young, with the careful enunciation of the educated.
Elias opened his eyes. The room wasn''t large but was lavishly appointed by his standards—stone walls hung with tapestries depicting religious scenes, a polished wooden floor partially covered by woven rugs, a window with actual glass admitting diffuse morning light. He lay on a bed with crisp white linens, dressed in a simple gray tunic and pants of a material finer than anything he''d ever worn.
Seated nearby was a girl perhaps his own age, dressed in the modest robes of a Church acolyte. Her hands were folded in her lap, her expression a practiced mask of serene benevolence.
"Where am I?" Elias asked, though he already knew the answer.
"The Sanctuary of Chosen Preparation, within the Sanctum District," she replied. "You''re safe now."
Elias sat up, noting that his wrists bore faint marks from the bindings but had been cleaned and treated with some kind of salve. "Safe," he repeated, testing the word for irony.
The acolyte either missed or ignored his tone. "The Maw''s mercy has brought you to us, away from the squalor and danger of the outer districts. You''ll want for nothing during your preparation."
His gaze swept the room again, looking for exits, threats, anything that might be useful. A single door, presumably locked. The window, too small for escape and likely overlooking a significant drop. No obvious weapons, though the metal water pitcher on a nearby table had potential.
"How long was I unconscious?"
"Through the night. The healers administered a sleeping draught to help you rest after your... difficult journey." Her eyes flickered briefly to his temple, where the Sentinel''s blow had landed. "Are you hungry? Thirsty?"
As if summoned by her words, Elias''s stomach cramped painfully, reminding him that his last meal had been a small piece of stolen bread more than a day ago. The acolyte noticed his reaction and stood, moving to the door and opening it without using a key. Not locked, then.
She said something to someone outside, then returned to her seat. "Food will be brought shortly. Is there anything specific you require for comfort?"
The question was so absurd that Elias almost laughed. Comfort had never been a consideration in his life, let alone something he could request on demand. Instead, he asked, "What happens to me now?"
"You''ll undergo the sacred preparations, along with the other chosen ones. Tomorrow at dawn, you''ll be presented to the Maw." She spoke as though describing a great honor rather than what most in the slums considered a death sentence.
"And after that?"
Her expression softened. "The Maw''s trials are known only to those who experience them. But those who return come back changed, empowered to fight the corruption that threatens us all."
"And how many return?"
A hesitation. "The Maw''s wisdom determines who is worthy."
So not all. Perhaps not even most. The slum rumors seemed confirmed.
A knock at the door interrupted them. The acolyte opened it to admit an older woman carrying a tray laden with food—a bowl of steaming stew, fresh bread, dried fruits, and a cup of something that smelled herbal and sweet.
The sight and smell hit Elias with physical force. His mouth flooded with saliva, and he had to exert extraordinary willpower not to lunge for the tray like a starving animal. The acolyte placed it on a small table beside the bed, and the older woman departed without a word.
"Eat," the acolyte encouraged. "Regain your strength."
Elias approached the meal with calculated restraint, though every instinct screamed to devour it instantly. He tore a small piece of bread, examining it before placing it in his mouth. The flavor overwhelmed him—yeasty, slightly sweet, with a texture that yielded rather than resisted. Nothing like the stale, often moldy scraps he scavenged in the slums.
The stew proved even more overwhelming—rich broth filled with vegetables he recognized and meat he could not identify, seasoned with spices he had only smelled in passing at market stalls too expensive to even approach.
"It''s not poisoned," the acolyte said, a hint of amusement coloring her voice. "The Maw requires its chosen to be strong for the trials ahead."
Elias slowed his eating nonetheless, years of near-starvation having taught him that gorging led only to painful retching. Between careful spoonfuls of stew, he studied his surroundings more carefully. The tapestries depicted scenes from Church doctrine—the Maw''s first manifestation, the return of early chosen ones, triumphant battles against corruption. Propaganda, but perhaps containing truths if one knew how to separate fact from embellishment.
"What''s your name?" he asked the acolyte, partly from curiosity, partly to establish some connection that might prove useful.
"I am Sera," she replied. "I''ve been assigned as your attendant until the ceremony."
"Assigned to watch me, you mean."
Her smile tightened slightly. "To ensure your needs are met and to answer any questions appropriate to your station."
Elias nodded toward the door. "Am I a prisoner, Sera?"
"Of course not. You''re a blessed chosen one." Her expression suggested she believed this sincerely.
"So I can leave this room? Explore the Sanctuary?"
A slight hesitation. "When you''ve recovered your strength, certainly. I can show you the permitted areas."
Permitted areas. So not a prisoner, but not free either. Exactly as he''d expected.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
"And the other chosen ones? Can I speak with them?"
"There will be a gathering this afternoon, once all have been properly prepared." Her gaze dropped to his arms, where the black marks swirled visibly beneath his skin. "The High Priestess herself wishes to address you collectively."
Elias finished the last of the stew, feeling strength return with each bite. Whatever doubts he harbored about the Church''s intentions, they clearly wanted the chosen ones physically capable for whatever lay ahead.
"I''d like to clean up," he said, setting the empty bowl aside. "And then see these permitted areas."
Sera nodded and showed him to an adjoining room he hadn''t noticed—a private washing chamber with a basin of steaming water, cloths, and scented oils. Luxury beyond imagining in the slums, where communal pumps dispensing brackish water were the only bathing option.
"I''ll wait outside," she said. "Call when you''re ready."
Alone for the first time since his capture, Elias took stock of his situation. The marks had continued their inexorable spread, now covering most of his body in swirling patterns that pulsed gently. He no longer felt the pulling sensation toward the Sanctum, presumably because he had arrived at his destination.
The whispering at the edge of his consciousness remained, however—a constant murmur just below comprehension, like water flowing over stones. Sometimes a word or phrase seemed to emerge from the babble, only to dissolve back into meaninglessness when he tried to focus on it.
He washed thoroughly, years of ingrained grime gradually yielding to the hot water and soft cloths. His reflection in a polished metal mirror revealed a stranger—pale skin now mapped with black whorls, hollowed cheeks and sharp features softened slightly by a single proper meal, eyes that seemed somehow older than the rest of his face.
The fresh clothing laid out for him was similar to what he''d woken in—simple but well-made in a soft gray fabric. Clearly, the chosen were meant to look humble despite their special status. The uniformity would erase district distinctions, making the Sanctum-born chosen indistinguishable from slum rats like himself.
When he emerged, Sera nodded approvingly. "Much better. Come, I''ll show you the areas available to you."
They left the room, entering a wide corridor with an arched ceiling. Other doors lined the hallway, presumably leading to rooms like his own where the remaining chosen ones were being prepared. Sentinels stood at regular intervals, their posture relaxed but attentive. Elias noted that none wore the insignia of Captain Keldric''s unit—these were Sanctum guards, not district enforcement.
The "permitted areas" proved more extensive than Elias had anticipated. A central courtyard garden with fruit trees and flowing fountains. A library containing Church-approved texts about the Maw and corruption. A dining hall where chosen ones would take their meals together. A meditation chamber filled with cushions and soft lighting.
All beautiful, all comfortable, all utterly alien to Elias''s experience. And all subtly reinforcing the Church''s central message: the Maw was divine, its selection an honor, its purpose beyond questioning.
"What do you think?" Sera asked as they completed the tour, returning to the central garden.
"It''s quite a step up from the slums," Elias replied neutrally.
"The Maw sees worth that others miss," she said, her tone suggesting she was quoting doctrine. "Many great heroes emerged from humble beginnings."
"And how many simply disappeared?"
Sera''s expression clouded briefly before her training reasserted itself. "The trials are demanding, yes. But necessary. The corruption would have consumed us all long ago without the Maw''s chosen warriors."
Before Elias could respond, the garden''s serenity was broken by approaching voices—one calm and measured, the other raised in protest.
"—absolutely unnecessary! My father has connections throughout the Sanctum District. This entire situation can be resolved with the proper application of—"
"The Maw''s selection transcends mortal politics, young lady. No amount of coin or influence can alter divine will."
Two figures emerged from a connecting pathway—another acolyte, male and older than Sera, escorting a young woman in the same gray clothing as Elias. Her bearing and speech immediately marked her as upper district, probably the merchant''s daughter he''d heard mentioned in the market.
She fell silent upon seeing them, her gaze fixing on Elias with particular intensity. Not hostile, exactly, but calculating—assessing whether this stranger might be useful to her goals.
"Acolyte Tomas," Sera greeted her counterpart with a small bow. "This is Elias, awakened and completed his initial preparation."
"Well met," Tomas replied formally before gesturing to his charge. "This is Maris, daughter of House Rayburn."
Maris gave Elias a dismissive glance before addressing Sera directly. "Another acolyte. Excellent. Perhaps you can explain to your colleague that my detention here is the result of a misunderstanding. My father is a senior member of the Merchant Guild with direct connections to Elder Voss. This situation can and will be rectified before tomorrow''s ceremony."
Sera''s expression didn''t change, but Elias noticed her hands clasping slightly tighter. "The Maw''s selection is not a misunderstanding, Chosen Maris. It is the highest calling one can receive."
"Calling?" Maris laughed, a brittle sound. "Being kidnapped from my home and imprisoned here is a calling?"
"You were not imprisoned," Tomas corrected gently. "You were escorted with all dignity befitting—"
"By armed Sentinels!" Maris thrust her arms forward, sleeves falling back to reveal the black marks swirling beneath her skin—similar to Elias''s but with subtle pattern differences. "Because of these... these parasites! My father will not stand for this."
Elias watched the exchange with interest. Wealth and privilege hadn''t protected Maris from selection, just as poverty hadn''t exempted him. Whatever process the Maw used to choose its sacrifices, it appeared genuinely blind to social station.
"Your father," he said, drawing her attention, "will receive the same answer from every Church official he approaches. The Maw''s selection is final."
Maris rounded on him, eyes narrowing. "And what would a slum rat know of such matters?"
Her disdain was so familiar, so predictable, that Elias almost felt comforted by it. At least some things remained constant across districts.
"I know that we''re both marked," he replied calmly. "I know that no chosen one has ever escaped the Maw''s embrace. And I know that we''ll both face the same trials tomorrow, regardless of where we were born."
For a moment, naked fear flashed across Maris''s face before she reassembled her haughty mask. "We''ll see about that." She turned and stalked away, Tomas hurrying after her with an apologetic glance toward Sera.
When they were gone, Sera sighed softly. "She still believes her family''s influence will save her."
"It won''t," Elias stated, not a question.
"No." Sera''s voice held genuine compassion. "The High Priestess herself has denied their petitions three times already. The marks have chosen her, just as they''ve chosen you and the others."
Elias nodded toward a stone bench beside a bubbling fountain. "Tell me about these others. How many have been gathered?"
Sera hesitated, then seemed to decide the information wasn''t forbidden. "Eleven so far, including you and Maris. The final chosen one was located this morning in the outer farmlands. They''re bringing her in now."
"Twelve total," Elias mused. "A significant number in Church doctrine."
"You know our teachings?" Sera seemed pleasantly surprised.
"I know what all slum children learn—enough to fear, not enough to understand." He fixed her with a direct gaze. "I''d like to understand now, Sera. Tell me what the Church teaches about the Maw, about the chosen ones. Not the sermons given to the masses, but the deeper knowledge."
Sera glanced around, confirming they were alone. When she spoke, her voice carried the cadence of someone reciting sacred text.
"The Black Maw stands as gateway between worlds, created by divine will as humanity''s shield against the corruption that would consume us. Twelve are chosen to face its trials together, their souls tested, their bodies transformed. Those worthy return as the Maw''s champions, bearing gifts of power to fight the darkness. Those unworthy..." She hesitated.
"Are consumed," Elias finished for her.
She nodded slowly. "The Maw''s judgment is perfect. It takes only what cannot serve."
"And what determines worthiness? Courage? Strength? Faith in Church doctrine?"
The question seemed to trouble her. "The exact nature of the trials is known only to those who experience them. But our texts suggest that intention matters more than ability, and that no single virtue guarantees success."
Elias considered this. "Intention toward what?"
"That," Sera said with surprising gravity, "is the question each chosen one must answer for themselves."
Before their conversation could continue, a bell rang from a nearby tower, its resonant tone echoing through the garden.
"The midday meal," Sera explained, rising from the bench. "And afterward, the gathering of all chosen ones. The High Priestess will address you before the final preparations begin."
As they walked toward the dining hall, Elias found himself strangely calm. The initial shock of his capture had faded, replaced by a calculated assessment of his situation. He couldn''t escape the Maw—that much seemed certain. But perhaps he could understand it, prepare for it in ways the Church might not anticipate.
Whatever trials awaited beyond the Maw''s embrace, he would face them as he had faced every challenge in the slums—with ruthless pragmatism and the singular goal of survival.
The marks beneath his skin pulsed in response to his thoughts, as though eager to prove him either right or terribly, fatally wrong.