Cursed-Soul-Chapter 21: Worth of Being worthy-

They camped there that night. Not a word was spoken for a while.

Keiran sat against the wall, staring into the flickering beam of his flashlight. Selara inspected the crates, checking for anything useful. Vael traced one of the symbols with his finger, frowning.

It felt like they had crossed a threshold. There was no going back.

"We can't wait for the Selection," Selara finally said. "Whatever they're planning—it's not just a show of power. It's a purge."

"Agreed," Keiran said. "We move soon. But we need a real plan. The tunnel can get us in or out. But it won't stop Armon. We need to know what he's hiding."

"I think I know where," Selara murmured. "I overheard something. Kennedy spoke with a guard last week. Said Armon's quarters—there's a chamber below it. Off limits. Even to the guards."

Keiran looked up. "A private basement?"

Selara nodded. "If he's hiding anything... it's there."

Vael sat up straighter. "Then we go in. Before the Selection. We find what he's keeping. Secrets, evidence—anything."

Keiran nodded slowly. His fingers curled around the flashlight, tight.

Then he turned to the wall again. "The Oath shall break the chain," he repeated.

Something burned behind his ribs.

Something waiting.

Above ground, night stretched over the town.

But not everyone was asleep.

In the factory, far above their heads, Armon stood by the window of his office.

Kennedy hovered behind him, silent.

"They slipped away," Armon said.

"Do you want them watched?" Kennedy asked.

Armon smiled.

"No. Let them think they're clever."

He turned, lifting a piece of paper from his desk.

Written on it, in jagged scrawl:

"You know nothing of the storm."

Armon's hand curled around the note. His smile widened.

Then he walked to the door.

"We let the rat run," he said softly. "But not forever."

The note had been short.

Ink smudged, yet deliberate. Words carved like a blade into the parchment:

"Not every ghost stays in chains."

Armon crushed it in his gloved fist.

The wind rattled the factory shutters as he stood in the middle of the basement chamber—the same one Asheron had once been held in. Now, only broken restraints hung limp from rusted beams. The guards around him shifted uneasily, their armor clinking in the silence. Blood still painted the stones beneath them in blackened streaks.

"Vanished?" Armon's voice was a whisper too calm. "He vanished?"

Kennedy didn't flinch. "No signs of tampering. No help from outside. One moment he was there. The next..."

"Ghosts don't disappear," Armon murmured, eyes narrowing. "Not unless they were never meant to be caught in the first place."

His gaze drifted to the chains once more.

Then he turned. "Double the patrols. Every corner of this factory and town, every shadow, I want it watched."

Kennedy hesitated. "And the Selection?"

Armon's smirk twisted like a wound.

"Oh, the Selection proceeds. In fact... accelerate it. Let's see how the rats scatter when the fire starts early."

Meanwhile, far from the factory's tightening grip, three figures emerged from the tunnel into the night, breathless and covered in dust.

The secret door in the side of the factory had been resealed with crates. The tunnel gate was locked behind them. Every trace of their path scrubbed clean.

Keiran led the way through narrow alleys, every corner watched with a cautious eye. The sounds of chaos in the square had faded, swallowed by the deepening dark.

They didn't speak until they reached Selara's apartment—small, worn, but safe for now.

The door closed.

Only then did the weight of what they had found settle in.

Vael paced, boots tapping out his restlessness. "That place... that chamber beneath the tunnel..."

"It wasn't just a tunnel," Selara murmured, lowering herself onto a chair. "It was a prison. A vault."

Keiran leaned against the wall, still trying to steady his breath. "And someone—or something—was meant to stay in there."

He reached into his coat, pulling out a torn fragment he'd found on the chamber floor. It wasn't paper. It was skin. Dried. Etched with arcane script.

Vael grimaced. "The throne's secrets go deeper than we thought."

"Deeper than any of us are ready for," Selara added quietly.

But Keiran said nothing. His eyes lingered on the piece of skin in his hand, tracing the marks again.

One symbol burned into his memory. Not a word—but a seal. The same one he'd seen long ago in the eyes of a dying priest. A memory he couldn't place, now clawing its way back to the surface.

The next day, the factory floor felt different.

The air was heavier. Thicker.

Children were quieter. Even the guards barked fewer orders—watching, waiting.

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Word had spread like oil on fire: the Selection had been moved up.

A whisper passed between workers like a curse: "Tomorrow or today. It begins"

Keiran caught the way one of the older men nearly dropped his tools when he heard it. He saw the way two women in the back reached for each other's hands without speaking.

It wasn't just fear.

It was dread. A slow poison winding into their bones.

When the horn signaled the midday shift, Vael fell in step beside Keiran as they crossed the floor.

"They know," Vael said under his breath. "Everyone. But no one speaks it aloud."

Keiran nodded. "That's the design. If they speak it, it becomes real."

"And if they resist?" Selara joined them, her face pale but composed. "They're marked for the next Selection."

"What even is it?" Vael asked. "I've heard whispers. The banners. The music. The 'celebration.' But what happens?"

Keiran hesitated.

He remembered the boy he'd seen after the last one. Limp. Hollow-eyed. Carried back wrapped in cloth, not speaking.

"They say it's a ritual," he said finally. "A gift to the throne. A way to keep the 'blessing' of the factory going."

Selara's jaw clenched. "A blessing soaked in blood."

Night fell again.

Keiran sat by the window of Selara's room, watching the empty street below. One hand rested on the piece of dried flesh—the arcane scrap that now felt like it was pulsing in his palm. Alive.

"You should sleep," Selara said gently.

"I can't," Keiran murmured. "Every time I close my eyes, I hear something... moving in that chamber. Like something's still there. Like it knows we were watching."

Selara didn't answer. She stood beside him in silence, hand on his shoulder.

Then—footsteps. Outside.

A knock. Slow. Deliberate.

All three froze.

Keiran moved first, blade unsheathed.

He opened the door a crack—

Asheron stood there, his hat tilted slightly, face unreadable.

"You need to move," he said quietly. "Now."

Keiran's mind raced with thoughts "How and when" but he didn't argue nor questioned.

They moved to a different apartment—abandoned, once used by an old woman who vanished during a past Selection. Dust covered the walls. Cobwebs in corners.

But it was safer than being found.

Asheron said little, only this:

"Eyes are on you now. The throne can sense when its cracks are widening."

And then he vanished again. No door. No step. Just gone—as if he'd never been there.

Keiran stood alone by the boarded window.

He heard the factory bell ring in the distance.

One more day.

And then the Selection.

Whatever that meant—whatever price it demanded—it was coming.

The air in the factory was thick with anticipation. For days, whispers of the impending Selection had circulated among the workers, each rumor more unsettling than the last. The vast, dimly lit hallways seemed to close in on Keiran as he moved through the throng of laborers, their faces etched with anxiety.​

At the assembly line, the usual clatter of machinery was subdued. Conversations were hushed, eyes darting toward the towering figure of Armon, the factory overseer, who stood on the elevated platform overlooking the main floor. His presence was a constant reminder of the authority that loomed over them all.​

Selara was stationed a few feet away, her hands deftly assembling components, but her attention was elsewhere. She caught Keiran's eye and gave a subtle nod, a silent acknowledgment of the tension that gripped them both.​

As the day wore on, the oppressive atmosphere only intensified. The usual mid-shift break was skipped without explanation, leaving the workers fatigued and on edge. Keiran's stomach churned, not from hunger, but from the gnawing unease that had settled deep within him.​

Suddenly, the factory's main lights dimmed, casting long shadows across the floor. A hush fell over the workers as Armon stepped forward, his voice echoing through the cavernous space.​

"Attention, all," he began, his tone devoid of emotion. "The time has come for the Selection."

A collective shiver ran through the assembly. Keiran felt his pulse quicken, his breath catching in his throat.​

Armon gestured, and a group of guards emerged from the shadows, their uniforms pristine and their expressions impassive. They moved with practiced precision, weaving through the crowd, selecting individuals at seemingly random intervals.​

Keiran's mind raced. He had heard stories of the Selection but had never witnessed it firsthand. The chosen were led toward a set of heavy iron doors at the far end of the factory, doors that were seldom used and shrouded in mystery.​

Selara edged closer to Keiran, her voice barely a whisper. "We can't let this continue," she murmured, her eyes blazing with determination.​

He nodded, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. "But what can we do?"​

Before she could respond, a guard seized her arm. Keiran reacted instinctively, reaching out to pull her back, but another guard intercepted him, gripping his shoulder with bruising force.​

"You're both coming with us," the guard intoned, his grip unyielding.

Keiran and Selara exchanged a glance, a silent pact passing between them. They wouldn't go quietly.​

As they were led toward the ominous iron doors, the reality of their situation settled heavily upon them. The Selection was no longer an abstract fear—it was their immediate fate.​

The doors creaked open, revealing a dimly lit corridor that descended into darkness. The guards pushed them forward, the cold air from the passageway sending a chill down Keiran's spine.​

With a final glance back at the factory floor, now a sea of anxious faces, Keiran squared his shoulders. Whatever lay ahead, they would face it together.