I rolled over in bed, my face pressed into the pillow as I tried to ignore the morning. The apartment wasn't big enough to keep kitchen smells from invading every corner, and Dad had this annoying habit of being a morning person.

  "Fish! If you don't get up, I'm giving your breakfast to the neighbor's cat!" Rell's voice carried through our thin walls.

  I groaned into the pillow. "That cat's already fat enough. Pretty sure it's part pig at this point."

  My sister laughed, the sound musical and light. "It's not the cat's fault you can't drag yourself out of bed."

  I finally rolled over, staring at the ceiling of our small bedroom.

  Sunlight filtered through the worn curtains, casting everything in a hazy glow. Another day in Freetown. Another day of not being Sacred.

  When I finally dragged myself into our kitchen, Rell was sitting at the table with her back to me, fingers working deftly through her long red hair. Same shade as mine, though she actually took care of hers. Tiny white flowers were being woven into an intricate braid, something she performed every morning without fail.

  "Is that jasmine?" I asked, grabbing my favorite chipped mug from the counter.

  "Lavender," she corrected, not turning around. "Mrs. Okemi from downstairs gave me some from her window box. She said it helps with headaches."

  I poured myself coffee, black and strong enough to wake the dead. "Are you still getting those?"

  A slight hesitation in her fingers. "On and off."

  Our father entered from the small balcony where he'd been reading, a leather-bound book tucked under his arm. Mikkel was tall and elegant in a way that seemed out of place in our cramped apartment. His own red hair—where we got ours from—was streaked with silver at the temples, and tied back neatly.

  "Good morning, Fischer," he said with a warm smile. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd died in your sleep."

  "If I did, would I still have to go to work?"

  Dad laughed, setting his book on the table. The cover was worn, the title faded but still legible: Origin Mechanics: A Comprehensive Guide. One of his many research books. Dad collected them like some people collected Sacred Cards.

  "Work builds character," he said, the same answer he always gave. "Besides, the Harbor Master would come looking for you."

  "Yeah, yeah." I grabbed a plate of the funny looking pancakes. "What's in these?"

  "Flour, eggs, milk," Dad said, sitting across from me. "And a little extract from those Nova Lilies I've been growing."

  I paused with the fork halfway to my mouth. "The ones that made Mr. Whitmore hallucinate for three days straight?"

  "These are a different strain." Dad waved his hand dismissively. "These help with mental clarity, they aren't psychedelics. And are perfectly safe."

  I took a cautious bite.

  The pancakes tasted normal enough, maybe a bit sweeter than usual, with an aftertaste like drinking starlight—if starlight had a flavor, which apparently it did.

  "So," Dad began, his tone shifting to what we called his 'professor voice,' "since you've got about twenty minutes before your shift, let's talk about the Sacred Signal integration process."

  I groaned. "Dad, it's too early for a lecture."

  "It's never too early for knowledge." He tapped the book. "The Sacred Signal doesn't care what time of day it is when it decides to infect you. Better to be prepared."

  Rell turned around, her braiding finished.

  The lavender flowers made a crown of purple against her deep red hair. "Let him eat first, Dad. Not everyone wakes up ready to discuss dimensional physics."

  "Fine, fine." Dad held up his hands in surrender. "But Fischer, you should know that the Awakening process is highly individualized. The Trial manifests differently for each person, drawing on their deepest fears and—"

  "—and traumas to create a personalized pocket dimension where they must survive to integrate with the Signal," I finished, speaking through a mouthful of pancake. "I know, Dad. You've only told me about eight thousand times."

  He smiled, not offended in the slightest. "And I'll tell you eight thousand more if that's what it takes for you to remember when it matters."

  "If it ever happens," I muttered.

  A brief silence fell over the table. At twenty-one, I was well past the average age for Awakening. Most Sacred showed signs by sixteen, seventeen at the latest. Every year that passed made it less likely I'd ever develop powers.

  Rell reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "It'll happen when it's meant to happen."

  Easy for her to say.

  Rell hadn't awakened either, but she didn't seem to care. My sister found ways to be extraordinary without supernatural abilities—like somehow finding fresh flowers every single day, or making friends with literally everyone she met, or just being the kind of person who made rooms brighter just by walking into them.

  "Besides," Dad added, his voice gentle, "plenty of people live perfectly fulfilling lives without Awakening. The Houses like to pretend Sacred are superior, but that's just propaganda to maintain their control over the Gates."

  "Says the Sacred researcher," I pointed out.

  "I study what interests me. And right now—" he pushed his book toward me "—what interests me is making sure my children understand how the Signal works, in case either of you Awakens."

  I sighed, giving in. "Fine. Hit me with the lecture."

  Dad's eyes lit up.

  "Excellent! Now, we were discussing Origin rarity last time. Remember how it's determined by each individual's Trial performance?"

  For the next fifteen minutes, as I finished my pancakes and Rell packed lunches for our day, Dad explained the intricacies of Origin rarity classifications. How rarity affected power ceilings but not growth rates. How even a Common Origin could become formidable with proper leveling and evolution.

  "It's all about optimization," he said, gesturing with his coffee mug. "Take Vrocks, for example—those vulture demons. Individually, they have limited abilities. But in packs, with coordinated tactics? They've killed thousands of Sacred over the years."

  "How is that relevant to Origins?" I asked.

  "Because it's not just what power you get, it's how you use it and evolve it. A Sacred with a supposedly 'weak' Origin who understands its applications can outperform someone with a 'strong' Origin who lacks creativity."

  Rell glanced at the clock. "We should go. Fish has a shift in twenty minutes, and I promised to help at the community garden before my afternoon classes."

  Dad nodded, closing his book. "We'll continue tomorrow. Just remember, Fischer—the most important moment isn't when you get your Origin, it's what you do with it afterward."

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  I stood, grabbing my lunch from Rell. "Bold of you to assume I'll ever get one."

  "You will," he said with such certainty that for a moment, I almost believed him.

  The Harbor thrummed with its own heartbeat. Freetown's lifeblood flowed through these docks—ships from across Earth and the Anchors in the Reaches, all converging on our little slice of chaos. The air smelled of salt, fish, diesel, and the unmistakable tang of dimensional leakage.

  The three of us walked together through the morning crowd. Dad was heading to the research center where he worked as a consultant, analyzing Regalia components for compatibility with various Origin types. Rell would continue to the community garden project she'd helped start two years ago, transforming an abandoned lot into something beautiful.

  And I'd be hauling crates until my back gave out.

  "Remember," Dad said as we approached the main thoroughfare where we'd split up, "dinner at seven. I'm making that stew you both like."

  Rell hugged him, then me. "Be careful on the docks today."

  We parted ways at the intersection, Dad heading towards his job, Rell continuing to her garden, and me turning toward the docks. The morning crowd thickened as I approached the Harbor Master's office, a squat stone building that had stood for at least centuries, rebuilt so many times after surges that no one was sure what the original looked like.

  Dockworkers nodded as I passed.

  After three years hauling cargo, I knew most of them by name.

  "Fischer!" The Harbor Master's booming voice cut through the noise. Malik was a mountain of a man with skin like polished mahogany and a thick curly beard. "You're on Pier 7 today."

  I nodded, grabbing my work gloves from my locker. "Anything special I should know?"

  "House Azul reps will be watching over the shipment. So don't scratch the containers, don't drop anything, and for the love of all that's holy, don't make jokes about their fancy blue coats."

  "Just be careful," Malik said, his voice dropping. "And if anything starts glowing that shouldn't be glowing..."

  "Run like hell. Got it."

  Pier 7 was already bustling when I arrived.

  A cargo hauler had docked an hour earlier—one of the specialized vessels that traveled between Earth and the Anchors. This one, the Archivist's Wake, made regular runs to and from Athenaeum. Its hull was reinforced with dimensional stabilizers, glowing along the seams.

  The crew was a mix of regular sailors and a few low-grade Sacred with Origins useful for navigation or minor protection. They worked efficiently, securing lines and preparing the cargo for unloading.

  The House Azul reps were standing at the pier entrance. Three of them, wearing the signature blue coats that had earned them their nickname. Two men and a woman, all with the unmistakable signs of being Sacred—eyes that gleamed too bright, skin perfect and unblemished, the casual confidence of people who could rewrite reality with a thought.

  I kept my head down as I approached.

  "Fischer!" A familiar voice called out. I looked up to see Thomas, one of the hauler's and probably the closest thing I had to a friend on the docks. He was wiry and quick, with a perpetual five o'clock shadow.

  "Hey," I said, joining him by a stack of secured containers. "These the crates?"

  He nodded, pointing to black boxes with shimmering locks. "Those go directly to the research facility. We don't touch them."

  "Fine by me." I glanced at the manifest. "Looks like we've got about forty standard containers to move."

  "Better get started then." Thomas handed me a loading harness—a simple exoskeleton frame that attached to my shoulders and hips, providing mechanical assistance for heavy lifting.

  For the next few hours, we worked steadily, moving containers from the ship to the waiting transport vehicles. Each box contained dozens of carefully packaged Soul Crystals—the physical manifestation of Essence harvested from beasts in the Reaches.

  We were about halfway through when the surge sirens began to wail.

  Everyone froze for a split second, then moved with practiced efficiency. It was routine. After centuries, Freetown had surge response down to an art form.

  "A minor surge," announced a calm voice over the Harbor's speaker system. "Eastern Gate anomaly detected. Projected emergence: Grade 5 entities, count estimate 75-100. SDC response units deployed. All non-essential personnel, please proceed to designated shelters."

  Thomas sighed, setting down his container. "Third one this week. Active as fuck lately."

  "Should we...?" I gestured toward the nearest shelter entrance, a reinforced bunker built into the Harbor Master's building.

  "Nah," Thomas said, checking his watch. "It's over in the Eastern District. SDC will have it contained in twenty minutes, tops. No way they will get to us."

  Minor surges were handled so efficiently these days that they were more an inconvenience than actual danger. Still, I couldn't help the familiar twist of anxiety in my gut. My father's voice echoed in my head: Complacency kills more people than beasts do.

  The dock supervisor made the call: "Continue operations. Keep your emergency beacons handy. First sign of trouble, head for the shelters immediately."

  We returned to work, though everyone moved a bit faster now, conversation dropped in favor of vigilance. In the distance, I could see SDC response units mobilizing.

  I couldn't help watching them as I worked.

  The Sacred Defense Corps—the professionals, the ones who stood between civilization and the horrors of the Reaches. Every kid in Freetown grew up wanting to join them. Most grew out of it when they realized what it actually meant: fighting nightmares for a living, dying young more often than not.

  But still, they looked impressive as hell.

  "Stop staring and let’s get this shit done," Thomas said, nudging me.

  "Just watching the response," I muttered, returning to my work.

  "Still hoping for that Awakening, huh?"

  I shrugged. "Wouldn't mind being able to do something more useful than move boxes."

  "Hey, without us moving boxes, those fancy Sacred assholes wouldn't have all their precious crystals." He patted a container. "We're part of the war effort too."

  "Yeah, the part that gets eaten first when containment fails."

  He laughed.

  The next container I grabbed felt... slightly irregular. The weight was normal, but it vibrated against my hands, a subtle tremor that traveled up my arms and settled uncomfortably in my chest.

  "Hey, Thomas?" I called. "This one feels weird."

  He came over, frowning. "Weird how?"

  "It's... vibrating."

  Thomas placed his hand on the container and immediately pulled back as if burned. "Shit. That's unstable as fuck." He looked around frantically. "We need to get a Sacred over here. Now."

  Before I could move, one of the House Azul representatives was beside us—the woman, who'd apparently been watching more closely than I'd realized.

  "Step back," she ordered, her voice calm but firm.

  We didn't need to be told twice. Thomas and I retreated several paces as she placed both hands on the container. Her eyes glowed briefly, and I felt a wave of pressure wash over us—her Origin activating, doing something to stabilize the contents.

  "The containment field has degraded," she announced, looking toward her colleagues.

  Before they could respond, a commotion from the eastern side of the Harbor drew everyone's attention. The surge sirens changed pitch—higher, and more urgent.

  "Attention," the Harbor system announced, no longer quite so calm. "Surge escalation. Grade 4 entities detected. Count revised to 200+. All personnel proceed to shelters immediately. This is not a drill."

  The docks erupted into controlled chaos.

  Workers abandoned their posts, heading for the shelters with urgency. The House representatives conferred quickly, then the woman turned to us.

  "Get to shelter," she ordered. "We'll handle the containers."

  Thomas grabbed my arm. "Come on, Fish. Lets get the hell out of here.."

  I let him pull me away, but my eyes remained fixed on the eastern skyline, where flashes of light marked combat in progress. The surge had escalated.

  As we reached the shelter entrance, I glanced back one last time. The House Azul representatives were moving the unstable containers, energy surrounding the boxes as they floated them back toward the ship.

  The sirens continued to wail as the heavy shelter doors closed behind us.

  By evening, the surge had been contained.

  Seventy-three beasts were destroyed, twelve casualties among the SDC forces, four civilians who hadn't reached shelters in time.

  When I finally made it home, the apartment smelled of cooking spices—Dad's stew was simmering on the stove. Rell sat at the kitchen table, looking slightly pale but smiling as I entered.

  "There he is," Dad said from the kitchen. "We were starting to worry."

  "The harbor was locked down for extra checks after the surge," I explained, dropping my bag by the door. "How was everyone's day?"

  "Productive," Dad said, stirring the pot. "I managed to stabilize that Regalia component I've been working on. Could make an excellent defensive piece for the right Sacred."

  I turned to Rell. "And you? Garden go okay?"

  She nodded, though I noticed she was fidgeting with a lavender sprig, rolling it between her fingers. "We planted a new section today. Medicinal herbs. Nothing major, but might help someone someday."

  "Always thinking of others," Dad said, pride evident in his voice as he brought the stew to the table. "That's my Rell."

  We ate together, sharing stories from our day. I told them about the surge, the unstable containers, and the House Azul representatives.

  "Interesting that you sensed the instability," Dad said, his expression thoughtful.

  I shrugged.

  "Or perhaps," he suggested, "a sign your sensitivity is developing. Sometimes that happens before the actual infection begins."

  "Don't get my hopes up," I warned.

  Rell had been quieter than usual throughout dinner. As we finished, she rubbed her temples slightly.

  "You okay?" I asked.

  "Just tired," she said. "And... I don't know. I've been feeling strange."

  Dad immediately looked up, his attention sharpening. "Strange how?"

  "It's hard to explain." She frowned slightly. "Like something's humming just below my skin. And sometimes I feel like I'm... not quite here? Like I'm watching myself from somewhere else."

  A brief look passed over Dad's face—something intense and focused that vanished so quickly I might have imagined it.

  "Probably just fatigue," he said gently, placing his hand over hers. "You've been pushing yourself too hard with the garden, your classes, and all your volunteer work."

  "Probably," she agreed, though she didn't sound convinced.

  "Early night for you," Dad decided. "Both of you, actually. Fischer, you look dead on your feet."

  I couldn't argue with that. After dinner, Dad insisted on cleaning up alone, shooing us both toward our rooms. As I passed Rell in the hallway, I caught her staring at her reflection in the small mirror on the wall, a puzzled expression on her face.

  "Rell?" I stopped. "You sure you're okay?"

  She blinked, as if coming back from somewhere far away, then smiled. "I'm fine, Fish. Just tired like Dad said."

  I wasn't convinced, but I nodded anyway. "If you say so. Night, then."

  "Goodnight."