"Is this really happening?" she thought. "Is this it? Am I being chosen?"
Anya, a twenty-year-old, lay back on the highest tower of Speal, her snow city, her head cradled in the crook of her arm, staring up at the mirrored planet.
It was massive today, so close it seemed to press against the world, a silver dome, veiling what ancient books once called the Sky. But this wasn't the same planet everyone else ignored. No.Today, it shimmered with something more. The entire surface rippled like polished glass, reflecting both the pale blue hue of Speal and the fading warmth of distant sunlight. It looked painted, a divine accident hanging just above them, beautiful and unnatural.
Most of the city had long forgotten to even look up. But not her. She believed it was there for areason.
And then came the ringing.
The frozen towers began to ring, the sound she had grown up with. Once, she would have leapt at it, excited. It meant only one thing: a new drop had arrived from the planet above. Her pulse quickened. Instinctively, she sat up and scanned the horizon. There, a small flicker, descending slowly.
She tracked it through the haze as it fell toward the eastern edge of the city, the farthest possible part from where she was now. It wobbled slightly, as if unsure of its destination, teetering between her city and the great body of Flect, the water just beside it. Their territories were divided by a single line, frozen snow meeting rippling sea in a quiet, permanent standoff.The object disappeared from view.
She remembered the last time she chased a drop: a book on waterfowl species, worn clothes, and random junk.
"Why do I always get the worthless ones while others find jewelry?" she grumbled.
This time, she stayed put. She was too high up. By now, someone else would've already claimed whatever fell.
The descent from the tower was long, winding through Speal's frozen veins, narrow alleys, snow-crusted stone paths, whisper-thin bridges curling between rooftops. She moved like one walking through memory. Her snug dodger-blue leather suit hugged close for warmth. A utility pouch hung low on her back. Frost clung to her boots. Breath curled from her lips like ghost smoke.
At the city's heart, five roads met in a cold, forgotten fountain. The old priest stood there again, shivering beneath the planet's mirrored glow.
His voice cut through the chill.
"The Chosen Day hasn't come in an age," he called to the passersby, eyes wide with fevered belief, "but it will happen sooner or later. It will be the Judgment Day, we are going to be judged for our sins!"
He raised his arms.
"At terror's end, we now stand! We must be prepared. The next time it happens, it's going to be chaotic!"
Then louder, nearly a scream:
"People of god, hear me, please! The Temple is your salvation!"
People barely glanced his way. Most walked past, unmoved. So did she.
She moved deeper into Speal, her thoughts still trailing behind her like footprints in snow.
The priest's words clung to her, not the message, but the tone.
Louder than before.
Urgent, almost panicked, as if something stirred that even he didn't understand.
The wind cut sharper here, tugging at her coat.
She turned down the usual street that led toward the shop, but stopped.
The path was buried in snow. Not the usual light dusting that coated the city, but piled deep, untouched, wind-packed and sealed like the world had tried to erase it.
She stepped forward anyway.
The first foot sank. Then the next. The cold pressed through her boots like biting teeth.
She paused, breath catching, then pushed another step, but the resistance was too much.
Her body tensed. It wasn't just cold. It felt wrong.
Like something wanted her to turn away.
She stepped back.
Her eyes lifted toward the only other option: the long alley curling around the older arches, a wide semi-circle that hugged the outer towers.
The long way. She rarely took it.
She hesitated only a moment more before turning toward it. Even if it meant being late, even if the shadows there moved differently.
She went on.
Anya walked into the shop, the warmth inside a stark contrast to the chill outside.
Shelves lined the walls, filled with an assortment of goods, some practical, others rare.
In the back, a group of men sat around wooden tables, playing The One in a Million, a popular gambling game.
Their voices blended with laughter, curses, and low whispers as bets were made.
Anya bypassed them, heading straight for the first shelf.
She picked up a thin slab of frozen wood, a map etched with grooves.
Her house in the north. Her friend's in the east. Another down south.
She ran her fingers along the paths she knew by heart,
then she set the map back.
Next, her gaze landed on a dress, something she had admired for a long time but couldn't afford.
With a quiet exhale, she picked up the items her mother had asked for and made her way toward the counter.
As she reached for her pouch to pay, a loud crash interrupted her.
She turned in time to see two of the gamblers locked in a fight.
One of them pulled a blade, the metal glowing with a frost-covered aura.
The air around it hummed, charged with energy. He lunged at the other man, who dodged with quick, practiced movements.
The rest of the table scrambled back, startled. A few gamblers tried to intervene, voices raised in protest, but it was already too late.
One strike led to another, a chain of blows and shouts escalating too quickly to stop.
At that same moment, The shopkeeper jumped over the counter, shouting as he tried to break up the altercation.
But just then, a painting swung into view. Anya grabbed it instinctively, her attention diverted.
The painting was old, dusty, but unmistakable. It showed the scene from the second-to-last Choosing Day, a moment she had only heard about in rumors.
In the center of the image stood the old Chosen, the only person ever to return from the planet above. No one knew what he had seen there; he never spoke about it. He had vanished into the temple without a word.
But it was what caught her attention at the top of the image that took her breath away. The planet above, the one she had admired just moments ago, looked far more ominous here, its reflection darkened and unnatural. She leaned in closer, as though the image might reveal something hidden within its strokes.
And then she saw it.
There, hovering just above the old Chosen, was the circle. The mark.
The unmistakable symbol that loomed ominously over him. This was the first time she had seen it.
She only knew of the aura rising, the power that surrounded the Chosen... but a ring above them? That was new. And that symbol, it was the one that had haunted her thoughts.
The shopkeeper shoved the gamblers out the door, yelling, "You think either of you is that Legendary Gambler? Idiots!"
Anya barely noticed. She was fixated on the painting.
The whole planet, suspended above them, seemed to mock the petty struggles below.
She paid for her things, the image still lingering in her mind, and left the shop, stepping back into the cold.