Chapter 1: Strategic Asset
824 Words
“Sector Twelve is stabilizing. No spikes in neural waveforms," Amber muttered, eyes glued to the flickering console.
“Copy that, Sheel. No feral activity in the last twelve hours." The night shift technician's voice crackled through her headset, laced with boredom.
Amber twirled the thin whistle hanging from her neck. “Then we wait."
She sat alone in Frostline Border Research Station's comm tower, windows fogged from subzero storms outside. The whistle caught faint moonlight—a small, silver relic that somehow held the line between order and madness.
“Console Thirty-Seven," the AI suddenly chimed. “Incoming override transmission. Classification: Crimson."
Amber blinked. “What?"
All screens turned red.
The technician on the line hissed, “That's a Level-Zero directive. I didn't even know those still existed—"
His voice cut off.
The main display flashed a single phrase in looping code:
> STRATEGIC ASSET IDENTIFIED. MANDATORY RELOCATION. COMPLIANCE REQUIRED IN 00:59:41.
Amber stood slowly. “Asset?"
A sharp knock rattled the steel door behind her.
It slid open before she could respond. Two figures stepped inside—tall, silent, clad in matte black armor. Marshals. Their helmets showed no insignia, only mirrored plates that reflected her own stunned face.
“Amber Sheel?" the left one asked, voice filtered and mechanical.
She nodded. “Yes."
“You've been summoned. Collect essential items only. Departure in one hour."
She stared. “I—There must be a mistake. My shift's not even over."
The right marshal stepped forward, scanning her with a wrist tablet. “Confirmed identity. Alliance Directive 908-C authorizes immediate transport. This facility is now under restricted lockdown."
Behind them, her colleagues peeked around corners—none daring to intervene.
Amber's throat tightened. “What kind of transport? Where am I going?"
“Destination: Classified. Risk tier: High." The left one paused. “Compliance is mandatory, not optional."
Her fingers went to the whistle on instinct. “I'm not trained for combat. I'm not a soldier."
“You're not being deployed as one."
That didn't ease her panic.
She was escorted back to her quarters. The Marshals stood watch as she shoved her notebook, some dried food, and a second coat into her satchel. Her fingers hovered over her comm pad, tempted to send a distress ping—but a red lock symbol had already sealed her network.
Of course. They'd thought of everything.
She picked up her whistle.
“Ready?" the Marshal asked.
Amber squared her shoulders. “As I'll ever be."
Outside, snow flurried like shards of broken glass as they boarded the armored dropship. The engines glowed blue beneath the hull, silent and predatory.
“Strap in," one said.
She obeyed, heart pounding. The seat clicked shut like a coffin lid.
As the ship lifted into the air, slicing through aurora-lit sky, Amber finally whispered, “Am I being punished?"
Neither Marshal replied.
---
The flight was long and wordless. Somewhere above the clouds, she dared to speak again.
“What exactly am I to the Alliance now?"
The right Marshal turned slightly. “A Strategic Asset."
“That's not an answer. That's a classification."
He hesitated. “You'll understand when you meet your assignment."
Amber's pulse jumped. “Assignment?"
The left Marshal gave a rare response. “Commander Raven Blackfang."
Her stomach dropped.
“You mean the warlord from the Northern Division?" she asked, voice thin. “The one who—who lost control during the Blood-Ice Campaign?"
“Yes."
“The one who slaughtered three harmonizers?" she added, jaw tight.
“Three confirmed. Fourth went missing. Presumed dead."
“Why me?"
Silence.
Amber gripped the whistle again. “I'm not compatible. I've only trained on feral civilians, not military-grade Alphas."
“Your whistle is the only one with viable dampening effects on his neural surges," the right Marshal said flatly. “You will be briefed upon arrival."
“What if I refuse?" she whispered.
Neither turned.
“Then the Alliance loses its last hope of controlling him," the left one said. “And the Northern Legions face extermination."
Amber fell quiet.
Snow clawed the windows like something alive. The drone of engines deepened as the dropship veered sharply north.
She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, pulse syncing to the vibration of metal and wind.
Somewhere in the corner of her satchel, the battered notebook jostled open, revealing scribbled phrases from dreams she never remembered having:
> *“The boy with crimson eyes saved me once."*
> *“Don't forget your voice."*
> *“Snow sings. Listen."*
Amber gripped her seat.
The ship descended, and outside, a black fortress loomed—half mountain, half prison. Ice curled along its towers like the claws of a waiting beast.
Blackfang Keep.
As the ramp lowered, the Marshals escorted her forward.
She hesitated just before the threshold. “What happens if I fail?"
The right one finally turned.
“Then we advise you not to."
- Writer
