HIERARCHY

The Dominion’s capital, Elyndor, awoke every morning the same way: with the chiming of the Hierarch Bells. The towers—tall, silver, and impossibly thin—ran across the city like metal spines, each humming with energy as the sun rose. On their surfaces glowed a strange sequence of floating symbols, counting and ranking every soul within the Dominion’s reach. For most people, that sound meant another day under the safety of order. For Kael, it meant another reminder that he had no place in it. He stood in the crowd as the morning announcements echoed across the Grand Square. A projection shimmered above the plaza: a swirling blue symbol, then text. TODAY’S RANK UPDATES: NO CHANGE. REMEMBER YOUR PLACE. People bowed their heads in obedience, some proudly tapping the glowing bracelets on their wrists that displayed their Ranks. Rank 1 to 100 — the Elite. Rank 101 to 1,000 — the Skilled. Rank 1,001 to 10,000 — the Workers. Anyone beyond that? Rankless. Kael touched his bare wrist — no bracelet, no Rank, no future. A sudden shove from behind knocked him forward. “Out of the way, gutter shadow,” a merchant spat. “Rankless shouldn’t stand where real citizens stand.” Kael swallowed his anger. He had learned early that talking back only earned beatings — or worse, arrests. The Dominion didn’t care about the Rankless. The council called them “errors of the system,” anomalies that the Hierarchy simply never acknowledged. But the people had their own words. Shadowborn. Unranked filth. Ghost numbers. Kael endured it all. But today, something felt different. A strange heaviness in the air. A whispering wind that only he seemed to hear. Rise… The word slid under his skin like a pulse. He flinched and glanced around. No one else reacted. People continued moving, bustling, obeying, bowing. He clenched his fists. He had heard that voice before — once, as a child, the night his village burned.