The dining hall rivaled anything Elias had imagined from glimpses of the Sanctum District''s grand buildings. Vaulted ceilings supported by marble columns stretched overhead, adorned with intricate mosaics depicting the Maw''s first appearance and the salvation of early chosen ones. Tall windows of colored glass cast prismatic patterns across tables made from polished wood that gleamed like water in sunlight.
Sera led him to a long central table where several others in gray clothing were already seated. Elias counted eight chosen ones, including Maris, who pointedly looked away when he approached. The marks visible on their skin varied in density and pattern but shared the same fluid motion beneath the surface, like ink swirling in water.
"Your place is there," Sera indicated, pointing to an empty chair. "I''ll return when the meal concludes."
She departed with a small bow, joining other acolytes who waited attentively along the walls. Servants began bringing platters of food—roasted meats, freshly baked breads, vegetables prepared in ways Elias couldn''t identify, and fruits he had only seen from a distance in the Market Quarter.
Despite the luxury surrounding them, conversation remained sparse and tense. The chosen ones studied each other warily, district loyalties still evident despite their identical clothing. A muscular young man with a soldier''s bearing kept his hand near his knife as though expecting attack. Two women with the soft hands and straight posture of scholars whispered to each other, occasionally glancing toward the others with undisguised curiosity.
Maris had gathered a small court of three others who, judging by their mannerisms, also came from privileged backgrounds. Their hushed conversation was punctuated by nervous laughter and repeated glances toward the hall''s main entrance.
Elias focused on his food, savoring flavors he had never experienced while taking stock of his fellow chosen. One in particular caught his attention—a young man seated at the far end, who, like Elias, ate with the deliberate care of someone accustomed to scarcity. Slum-born, almost certainly, but with an alertness in his eyes that spoke of intelligence rather than mere survival instinct.
Their gazes met briefly across the table, a moment of silent recognition passing between them. The young man gave an almost imperceptible nod before returning to his meal.
The hall''s massive doors swung open as they were finishing, admitting a procession of white-robed Church officials. Conversations died instantly, all attention turning to the new arrivals. At their center walked a woman whose presence commanded the room immediately.
The High Priestess Seraphina stood taller than most men, her posture regal without seeming rigid. Silver-streaked dark hair was bound in an elaborate series of braids interwoven with thin chains of precious metal. Her robes, unlike the simple white of her attendants, shimmered with embroidered patterns that seemed to mimic the marks on the chosen ones'' skin. Most striking were her eyes—pale gray, almost colorless, yet intensely focused as they swept across the gathered chosen.
"Rise for Her Eminence, voice of the Maw''s divine will," intoned an elderly man at her side.
They stood as one, even Maris''s small court abandoning their affected indifference in the face of such authority. The High Priestess moved to the head of the table, her gaze touching each chosen one in turn. When those pale eyes fell on Elias, he felt a curious sensation—as though the marks beneath his skin responded to her attention, warming slightly beneath her gaze.
"Be seated," she said, her voice melodious yet carrying an undercurrent of steel. "We have much to discuss before tomorrow''s dawn."
They sat, the scraping of chairs against stone floor the only sound in the hall. The High Priestess remained standing, hands clasped before her.
"You have been chosen," she began, each word measured and precise. "Not by the Church. Not by me. But by the Maw itself—the divine gateway that stands between humanity and annihilation. Its mark now moves beneath your skin, changing you in preparation for what lies ahead."
She began to pace slowly around the table, her movements fluid and graceful. "Some of you came willingly when the mark appeared. Others..." her gaze flickered briefly toward Elias, "required more persuasion. It matters not. The Maw''s selection transcends human choice, just as its purpose transcends human understanding."
Maris shifted in her seat, clearly fighting the urge to speak. The High Priestess noticed and stopped beside her.
"You have something to add, child?"
Maris straightened, chin lifting. "My father—"
"Has petitioned three times for your release," Seraphina completed for her, voice gentle but unyielding. "And three times has been denied, not by my authority, but by divine will manifest. The marks have chosen you, Maris of House Rayburn. Neither wealth nor privilege can alter that truth."
Color rose in Maris''s cheeks, but she fell silent, the High Priestess''s quiet certainty more effective than any show of force could have been.
Seraphina continued her circuit of the table. "Tomorrow at dawn, you will enter the Maw''s embrace together. Twelve chosen ones, as tradition demands. What awaits you there, only those who have returned can truly know—and even they comprehend merely fragments of the divine purpose."
She stopped again, this time behind the chair of the young man Elias had noticed earlier. "Some of you seek to understand the process through reason and study." Her hand came to rest briefly on the young man''s shoulder. "A worthy endeavor, but incomplete. The Maw''s trials test more than knowledge."
Moving again, she paused behind the soldier-like man. "Some believe strength and skill at arms will see them through." A smile touched her lips. "These too are valuable, but insufficient alone."
She completed her circuit, returning to the head of the table. "Each of you brings different qualities, different perspectives. Together, you form a whole that is greater than its parts. This is by design. The trials ahead will demand all that you are—your strengths, your fears, your deepest truths."
The High Priestess raised her hands, and her attendants moved forward, placing a small wooden box before each chosen one. "Open them," she commanded.
Elias lifted the lid of his box carefully, half-expecting some religious relic or symbolic token. Instead, he found a simple bracelet made of dark metal links, unadorned except for a small circular plate engraved with a swirling pattern that mimicked the marks on his skin.
"These bracelets," the High Priestess explained, "are attuned to the Maw''s essence. Wear them through the night. They will prepare your minds for tomorrow''s transition and ensure all twelve enter the trials together, as one."
Elias lifted the bracelet, feeling its unexpected weight. The metal was warm to the touch, almost alive. When he slipped it over his wrist, it contracted slightly, adjusting to fit perfectly against his skin. The marks beneath his wrist responded immediately, swirling more rapidly around the area the bracelet touched.
"Tonight you will undergo the final preparations—ritual cleansing, meditation, and the blessing of your paths," Seraphina continued. "Your attendants will guide you through these sacred rites. But first, I would speak with each of you individually, to address any concerns that may burden your spirit before the trials."
She nodded to her attendants, who moved to stand behind each chosen one''s chair. "You will be called in sequence. The rest may return to your quarters or explore the permitted areas until summoned."
The elderly man at her side unrolled a parchment. "Maris of House Rayburn," he read formally, "you will attend the High Priestess first."
Maris rose, composure regained though her eyes still smoldered with resentment. She followed Seraphina and her personal attendants through a side door, leaving the rest in a heavy silence that lasted only until the doors closed behind them.
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"This is madness," hissed one of Maris''s court, a thin young man with aristocratic features twisted in disdain. "My father sits on the Inner Council. When he learns I''ve been bracelet-tagged like common cattle—"
"He already knows," interrupted the scholarly woman nearest to Elias. "They all know. The Church doesn''t hide the selection—they celebrate it publicly."
"They''ll be celebrating our funerals next," muttered another, tugging uselessly at the bracelet that now seemed permanently affixed to his wrist.
Conversations erupted around the table, fears and speculations flowing freely now that the High Priestess had departed. Elias remained silent, observing the dynamics as they unfolded. District rivalries resurfaced immediately—the wealthy clustering together, the scholars forming their own alliance, the soldier-type maintaining wary independence.
The young man Elias had noticed earlier rose quietly from his seat, moving with casual purpose toward the exit. None of the remaining attendants moved to stop him, confirming that they were indeed free to move about the "permitted areas" as promised.
Elias followed, catching up in the corridor outside. "You''re heading somewhere specific," he said, not a question.
The young man glanced at him, assessing. Up close, Elias could see that despite his slum-born appearance, his eyes held an educated sharpness.
"The library," he replied after a moment. "If we''re going to die tomorrow, I''d prefer to do so with as much information as possible."
"My thoughts exactly." Elias fell into step beside him. "I''m Elias."
"Tavin. Northern Slums district." The lack of shame or apology in his tone was refreshing—many who escaped the slums tried to hide their origins.
"Outer Slums, eastern quarter," Elias replied.
Tavin nodded. "Worst hit in the last major breach. You survived that?"
"Barely." Elias had no interest in elaborating on the memories of that day. "You said library. You can read, then?"
"My mother was a transcriber for the Market Quarter record-keepers before the fever took her. She taught me." Tavin glanced sideways at Elias. "And you?"
"Self-taught. Mostly from discarded merchant ledgers and whatever I could scavenge."
They walked in silence for a few moments, two survivors recognizing a kindred spirit despite their different paths.
"What do you make of all this?" Tavin asked eventually, gesturing to the opulent surroundings and then to the bracelet on his wrist.
Elias considered his answer carefully. "I think the Church believes exactly what they preach—that the Maw is divine and its selection sacred. Whether that belief is correct..." He shrugged. "We''ll discover that tomorrow."
"If we survive to remember it." Tavin''s expression darkened. "The Returned are few, and most come back... wrong somehow. I''ve seen one, in the Market Quarter. The way people avoided him, even the Sentinels—it wasn''t just respect. It was fear."
They reached the library, a circular chamber lined with shelves containing scrolls, bound volumes, and ancient tablets. The center of the room held reading tables illuminated by carefully placed oil lamps that cast a warm glow over the space.
Tavin moved immediately to a section marked with religious symbols, fingers skimming across the spines of volumes. "Here," he said, pulling down a heavy tome bound in dark leather. "Accounts of the Returned, annotated by Church scholars."
Elias selected another volume: "Manifestations of the Maw''s Blessing," according to its gilded cover. They settled at a table, falling into the comfortable silence of two readers absorbed in their search for knowledge.
The texts were heavily sanitized by Church doctrine, Elias realized quickly. Descriptions of the trials remained vague, cloaked in religious metaphor and deliberate obfuscation. Phrases like "divine transfiguration" and "spiritual rebirth" obscured rather than illuminated what actually happened to the chosen ones.
More interesting were the accounts of powers granted to those who returned. These descriptions, though still wrapped in religious language, contained specific details: enhanced strength and reflexes, accelerated healing, and unique abilities that varied from person to person. Some could manipulate elements, others could sense corruption at great distances, still others could transfer injuries from one person to another.
"Listen to this," Tavin said quietly, finger marking a passage in his book. "''The Returned bear the marks of their trial in both body and spirit, their flesh inscribed with the Maw''s judgment and their gifts determined by the nature of their worthiness.''" He looked up. "It suggests the trials are different for each person, or at least that each person experiences them differently."
"And the powers granted correspond to how they survived the trials," Elias added, sharing his own discovery. "Though how the Church determines this is unclear, since even the Returned themselves seem unable to fully articulate what they experienced."
Their research continued as the afternoon light shifted through the colored glass windows. They were joined occasionally by other chosen ones who browsed briefly before departing, none showing the sustained interest that Elias and Tavin demonstrated.
Eventually, an acolyte appeared at Elias''s shoulder. "The High Priestess will see you now," he announced formally.
Tavin nodded to Elias as he rose. "I''ll continue here. Find me later to share what you learn."
Elias followed the acolyte through a series of increasingly ornate corridors, finally arriving at a set of doors inlaid with silver patterns that seemed to move in the flickering light of wall-mounted torches. The acolyte knocked once, then opened the doors without waiting for response.
"Enter," he instructed, remaining outside as Elias stepped through.
The High Priestess''s private chamber was not the ostentatious display of wealth Elias had expected. Instead, the room was almost austere—stone walls unadorned except for a single tapestry depicting the Maw as a swirling vortex of darkness and light. Simple furniture crafted with precision rather than ornament. A writing desk covered with unfurled scrolls and open books. A meditation area defined by a circular rug woven with symbols matching the marks on his skin.
Seraphina stood at a window overlooking the city, her back to him as he entered. Without turning, she said, "You''ve been investigating the Maw''s nature through our texts."
Not a question, so Elias offered no response.
"A more productive use of time than young Maris''s continued protestations or the noble children''s petulant sulking." Now she turned, those pale eyes fixing on him with uncomfortable intensity. "Knowledge is power, particularly when facing the unknown."
"The texts reveal very little of substance," Elias replied carefully.
A smile touched the High Priestess''s lips. "Deliberately so. Some knowledge can only be earned through direct experience."
She gestured to a chair opposite her own. "Sit, Elias of the Outer Slums. Let us speak plainly with each other."
He sat, maintaining the calculated calm that had kept him alive in the slums. Up close, the High Priestess was both more and less imposing—her authority unmistakable, but her face showing lines of exhaustion and concern that her public persona concealed.
"You don''t fear me," she observed. "Nor do you hate me, unlike some of your fellow chosen. Interesting."
"Fear and hate are luxuries in the slums," Elias replied. "Survival leaves little room for either."
"Yet you ran when the Sentinels came for you. You fought capture with considerable ingenuity."
So she knew the details of his capture. Not surprising, but worth noting.
"Survival instinct," he explained. "Running from authorities becomes habit when you live in the Outer Slums."
"Indeed." She studied him for a long moment. "The marks have chosen well with you, Elias. Your pattern is unusual—indicative of particular potential."
He glanced down at his forearms, where the black swirls had continued to spread and evolve. "What do the patterns mean?"
"They are unique to each chosen one, reflecting aspects of their nature and potential path through the trials." She leaned forward slightly. "Yours suggest adaptability, resourcefulness, and something more... a capacity for transformation beyond the ordinary."
"Transformation into what?"
"That depends entirely on you." Seraphina rose, moving to her desk and selecting a small object from among the scrolls. "Captain Keldric reported something interesting during your capture—intervention by a deserter named Varin."
The abrupt change of subject caught Elias off guard. "He wanted to take me somewhere else. Study the Maw''s marks without Church oversight, he said."
"Varin serves interests that view the Maw as a resource to be exploited rather than a divine presence to be revered." Her tone remained even, but distaste flickered across her features. "They believe power can be extracted without undergoing the trials, that the Maw''s blessings can be... harvested without the spiritual transformation the trials provide."
"Can they?"
The High Priestess''s expression hardened. "Those who have attempted such shortcuts have either died screaming or become abominations—corrupted reflections of what the Returned should be. The Maw''s gifts cannot be stolen or shortcuts taken. They must be earned through the trials."
She placed the object she''d retrieved into Elias''s hand—a small medallion of the same dark metal as the bracelet, engraved with symbols he couldn''t decipher.
"Keep this with you during the trials," she said. "It cannot protect you, but it may guide you when the path seems darkest."
Elias closed his fingers around the medallion, feeling its warmth against his palm. "Why me and not the others?"
"Each chosen one receives guidance suited to their nature," she replied. "Some require words, others symbols, others silence. You require truth, however incomplete."
She returned to her seat, suddenly looking weary. "Ask your final question, Elias. I see it forming behind your eyes."
He considered carefully before speaking. "What determines who returns and who is consumed?"
"Not strength. Not intelligence. Not faith." Seraphina''s pale eyes seemed to look through him rather than at him. "Intention and transformation determine survival. Those who cling to what they were cannot become what they must be. Those who enter seeking only to extract power will find only destruction."
"And those who enter seeking survival?"
Her expression softened slightly. "Survival alone is insufficient. The Maw tests purpose beyond self. Remember that when the trials seem insurmountable."
She rose, signaling the end of their conversation. "Go now. Prepare yourself as you see fit. The night grows short, and dawn approaches swiftly."
As Elias left the High Priestess''s chamber, the medallion a reassuring weight in his pocket, he wondered which of the twelve would survive tomorrow''s trials—and which, himself included, would be consumed by the Black Maw''s embrace.