The voice came again, closer this time.

  “Riven?”

  It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t urgent. It carried the brittle care of someone afraid that raising it might break what little was left.

  Riven’s head snapped up.

  For a moment he looked feral—eyes too bright, jaw clenched, breath coming fast enough to rattle the chain. Then recognition hit, and the anger drained out of him all at once, leaving something worse in its place.

  “Denzel?” he croaked.

  A shape shifted two cells down.

  The light was poor, but Kael saw the outline immediately—thin shoulders, a familiar slope to the left, the way the head tilted as if listening for permission to exist.

  “Yeah,” the voice said. “It’s me.”

  Riven sagged forward, forehead bumping the chain with a soft clink. He laughed once, weak and broken, then swallowed hard.

  “You’re—” His voice failed. He tried again. “You’re alive.”

  There was a pause.

  “Yeah,” Denzel said again. “Still.”

  That word didn’t mean what it should have.

  Kael leaned closer to the bars, fingers curling around cold iron. “How long?” he asked.

  Another pause. Longer this time.

  “…I stopped counting,” Denzel said.

  That was answer enough.

  The dungeon breathed around them—low, constant, the sound of water moving through stone somewhere deep below. The lights hummed faintly, steady and indifferent. Chains shifted as someone else tested their limits and learned what Kael already had.

  Riven dragged in a breath and lifted his head. His face was streaked, eyes red-rimmed and unfocused, but he forced himself to look at Denzel.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  Denzel exhaled slowly. “Below.”

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  Riven huffed a bitter laugh. “That helps.”

  “Sorry,” Denzel said. “I mean… below the tiers. Not Seven. Not Eight. It’s not really any tier. It’s just—” He searched for the word. “Under.”

  Kael glanced toward the stairwell at the far end of the chamber. The iron railing vanished into shadow after a dozen steps.

  “Who runs it?” Kael asked.

  Denzel was quiet for a moment. “Depends on the day.”

  That set Kael’s teeth on edge.

  “Enforcers come down,” Denzel continued. “Sometimes overseers. Sometimes… other people.” He hesitated. “They don’t wear uniforms. They don’t need to.”

  Riven shifted restlessly. The chain rattled again. “Why are we here?”

  Denzel laughed softly, without humor. “Intake.”

  The word landed heavy.

  Kael filed it away. “Intake for what?”

  Denzel didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice had gone flat.

  “For sorting.”

  A murmur rippled through the chamber. Someone farther down the line began to cry, thin and high, the sound of a child trying not to scream.

  Riven squeezed his eyes shut. “No,” he whispered. “No, no, no.”

  Kael didn’t interrupt.

  Denzel spoke again, quieter now. “They bring people here first. Everyone. Doesn’t matter where you came from. Seven, Eight, Nine. If you end up here, this is where they… see what you’re worth.”

  Riven opened his eyes. “Worth to who?”

  Denzel shrugged as much as his restraints allowed. “Buyers. City. Both.”

  Kael felt something cold settle in his stomach.

  “They don’t explain,” Denzel went on. “They don’t need to. You figure it out by watching who leaves.”

  “Leaves where?” Riven asked.

  Denzel looked at him. “Up.”

  “And?”

  “And they don’t come back.”

  Silence stretched.

  Kael watched the cells across the chamber. Watched the way some kids stared at the stairwell as if it might open on its own. Watched others avoid looking at it entirely.

  “How long between… selections?” Kael asked.

  Denzel swallowed. “No schedule. Sometimes hours. Sometimes days.” He glanced down the line. “Sometimes they take three in a row. Sometimes none for a while.”

  “That’s worse,” Riven muttered.

  “Yes,” Denzel said simply.

  A sound echoed from above—boots on metal, the clatter of a gate opening.

  Every head in the chamber turned toward the stairwell.

  Kael felt it immediately: the shift in the air, the way fear tightened and pulled inward. Chains went still. Breathing quieted.

  Footsteps descended.

  Not rushed. Not heavy. Measured.

  Three figures emerged from the shadow.

  Two wore enforcer gray, batons at their hips, expressions bored. The third walked between them without insignia—taller, broader, hands clasped behind his back as if he were touring a workshop instead of a dungeon.

  He stopped at the edge of the chamber and looked around.

  “Morning,” he said mildly.

  No one answered.

  He smiled faintly. “All right, then.”

  He nodded to one of the enforcers. “Start.”

  The enforcer moved to the first cell on the left and unlocked it with practiced ease. The door swung open with a groan.

  “Up,” the enforcer said.

  The boy inside hesitated. He couldn’t have been more than eleven.

  The baton struck the bars beside his head, loud and sharp.

  “Up.”

  The boy scrambled to his feet, chains clanking as he was dragged forward. The enforcer didn’t bother unshackling him properly—just unlocked the wrist restraints and shoved him toward the stairwell.

  The boy looked back once.

  Kael met his eyes.

  Then he was gone.

  Riven made a sound like he’d been punched.

  The man without insignia watched the process with mild interest, head tilted slightly as if evaluating stock. He pointed once, twice.

  “Not that one,” he said, gesturing toward a girl with hollow eyes. “Too damaged.”

  The enforcer nodded and moved on.

  “Next,” the man said.

  Another door opened.

  Another body disappeared up the stairs.

  Kael forced himself to breathe slowly. To watch. To remember.

  They took five.

  Then the man raised a hand. “Enough.”

  The enforcers stopped. The stairwell swallowed the last of the footsteps, and the gate clanged shut above.

  The man lingered a moment longer, gaze sweeping the remaining cells.

  “You lot rest,” he said pleasantly. “We’ll be back.”

  He turned and followed the enforcers up the stairs.

  The lights hummed on.

  The dungeon exhaled.

  Somewhere, someone vomited.

  Riven slumped back against the wall of his cell, shaking. “They’re selling us,” he whispered. “They’re just—”

  “Yes,” Denzel said quietly.

  Kael closed his eyes.

  Intake.

  Sorting.

  Value.

  The city hadn’t been losing children.

  It had been collecting them.

  And now the machine had their names.