Prologue – THE PRICE OF HOPE

  Nothing is ever free in the AshField. Most people learn this early on, but for many, it’s their last lesson.

  Nothing ever comes without strings. Something as small as clean water? They’re probably after your kidneys…

  A shelter from the storm after your home burned down? They probably started the fire…

  Kill or be killed may be a tale as old as time, but it’s a way of life in the dregs below the Vein.

  Sometimes you get a crazy idea – today will be different. I think they call it hope…it makes you stupid.

  And that’s how it all started…

  I stood in line outside the “Humanitarian Aid Station.” They’re scattered throughout AshField and the Vein. Prefab white boxes dropped in the middle of the sludge district like a pearl jammed into a grimy toilet bowl.

  They always bore the logo of some Vein company claiming to make life better for the people of the Ash. But they all had the golden sun of the Order on the other.

  Today, they were offering nutrient bricks and a med-scan – “FREE,” the sign said.

  Yeah...and I’m the Queen of the Fucking Towers.

  I hadn’t eaten in two days, and there was a fever crawling under my skin. It was different - hot, wrong, like something inside me was sharpening its claws.

  So, I stood in line, hunger besting common sense.

  I hoped “free” meant actually free.

  The clinic reeked of bleach, sweat, and despair. A contradictory sensory overload that should have sent me right back out the door.

  The floor tiles were already streaked with ash from a thousand boots, lights buzzing with a migraine hum. Nurse-bots jittered around, a little clumsy for automatons, but these were refabbed models, probably defects from the Towers patched up by a drunk electrician.

  Coughing kids. Laborers with shattered limbs. Scavengers, like me, drifting through the cracks, all looking for calories that didn’t taste like sewer rat.

  My turn.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  The tech barely glanced up. Vein contractor. Greasy screen. Greasier attitude.

  “Arm,” he lisped.

  I lifted my sleeve. Thin arm. Pale under the grime.

  He jabbed the sampler needle into me. I didn’t flinch. Ashborn don’t give them the satisfaction.

  “You’re running hot,” he muttered. “Fever?”

  “Just a warm personality,” I rasped. “Do I get the food chit now?”

  He smirked, finally looking at me, and smacked his lips a little.

  “Don’t be in a rush, girl,” he said. “Might be able to get you a little something extra…”

  “Cute,” I said. “Just give me the chit so I can leave…”

  His whole face drained when he looked back at his screen, wiped clean of whatever schemes he was brewing in the blink of an eye.

  The reflection of his monitor flashing deep red blanketed his face.

  [ GENETIC PROFILE MATCH: CLASSIFIED ]

  Our eyes locked briefly. His a mix of fear and hesitation, mine confusion. I’d never registered more than a blip in any Vein system, let alone triggered an alarm.

  His eyes drifted up behind me, and he mouthed one word as his chair slid backward through an opening that sealed shut behind him.

  ”Sorry.”

  “Wait,” I said, stepping back. “Keep the food. Keep the chit. Keep the needle. I’m leaving.”

  I turned for the door, but it hissed shut in my face.

  Heavy magnetic bolts sealed my fate.

  “Hey!” I shouted, banging the seamless door.

  Lights shifted.

  White fluorescents to a flood of blue.

  Containment blue.

  A box in the middle of a slum…

  “This isn’t a clinic,” I whispered.

  A voice crackled over the intercom, surgical in its indifference, “Subject identified. Anomaly confirmed. Initiate restraint protocol.”

  “Restrain what?! You’ve got the wrong girl…I just wanted food!”

  Reality kicked in. A mouse in a trap, the promise of a meal, the cheese already gone.

  The ceiling opened, and two mechanical arms dropped down. The heavy industrial claws used for gripping ship hulls, not people.

  I tried to dodge, but the hunger made me slow.

  A claw slammed into my shoulder, pinning me to the wall. Another wrapped my waist.

  Cold metal. No give.

  “Get off!” I shrieked, thrashing uselessly. My fever spiked, a wave of molten nausea rolling through my veins.

  Those arms could have ripped me in two, but I had no intention of going down without a fight.

  A panel slid open, and a single Order officer…perfect white uniform…perfect posture…perfectly indifferent that I was perfectly fucked.

  Another machine descended. Smaller, a tool designed for precision. One I recognized instantly. One that drained the last ounce of blood to my toes and the last hint of hope from my misguided psyche.

  The Solis-Brand press.

  A glowing iron circle. A sigil I’d seen burned into the wrists of people who never came home.

  They weren’t arresting me.

  They were marking me for death.

  “Please,” I gasped as the claws shifted, locking my left wrist into a steel ring. “I didn’t do anything.”

  The intercom responded, smooth as a scalpel.

  “Designation confirmed. Hybrid breach detected. Burn Protocol approved.”

  The iron crept down at an achingly steady pace.

  I didn’t look away. I couldn’t. I tried to pull harder, shaking the restraints.

  “Subject unstable – Initiate Sedation Protocol.”

  The words belched from the intercom before I could make them out.

  The brand was nearly on my wrist when I felt a prick in my neck.

  My eyes were instantly heavy, the thought of the impending pain fading…

  The metal touched skin, but I was already out.

  What comes next is not mercy…find out what happens in AshBorn: Burn Protocol!