The pre-dawn cold bit into the stones of the tower, and even wrapped in rough blankets, Lysa curled up in silence. Kael slept with uneven breaths, his face pale under the moonlight. Outside, the world seemed motionless. But inside Lysa, there was turmoil.

  A name whispered through the cracks in her memory like old poison.

  Grenda Malvar.

  Sleep came against her will. And with it, the past.

  State Orphanage Number 12 — Southern District of Mydran, Cycle 814

  Lysa was five years old when she understood what it meant to be invisible.

  It was winter, and frost painted the windows with veins of glass. The children woke before the sun. In line, they marched to the concrete courtyard where they received their “ration”: a shallow bowl of porridge, a sip of warm tea. Children with Value 5 or higher were entitled to blankets. Those with Value 3 got toothbrushes. Those with Value 1 had hope of someday being adopted.

  Lysa was Value 0.

  The first supervisor she met—the one she never forgot—was named Grenda Malvar.

  Tall, broad-shouldered, with gray hair tied in a severe bun and a voice of smoke and hatred, Grenda always carried a baton. It wasn't magical. It didn’t glow. It didn’t need to. Just the sound—tap... tap... tap—echoing through the dark corridors was enough to silence even the most rebellious.

  Grenda never yelled. She didn’t have to.

  Her authority came from structure. From the System. From control.

  And from cruelty.

  — "Zero," she’d say, without looking at Lysa, "isn’t a name. It’s a mark. A warning. A mistake."

  Lysa didn’t understand then. She only knew no one looked her in the eye. Not the other children. Not the servants. Not even the higher-ranked caregivers.

  She was a ghost. A noise.

  A thing.

  The first punishment came when she tried to sit in a corner of the reading room to warm herself. A girl with Value 2 saw her and screamed. Grenda arrived seconds later.

  — "Touching the communal floor? You’re not even entitled to the shadow of the wood," she said.

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  And then came the blows.

  Lysa didn’t cry.

  Not out of pride.

  Out of habit.

  Crying changed nothing.

  The next week, the Value 2 girl secretly gave her a crust of bread. Grenda saw.

  — "Contamination through compassion," she said, and punished them both.

  Lysa was forced to kneel in the courtyard without a shirt for an entire morning. Grenda watched from the balcony, arms crossed.

  — "Cold teaches what books can’t," she said.

  When Lysa fainted, no help came. They only threw a bucket of water over her. And left her to dry in the wind.

  In the infirmary, she overheard a conversation through a crack in the door. One of the nurses asked why she was still alive.

  — "Cases like hers are useful to keep the other children obedient," Grenda answered. "She’s a reminder: ‘Be useful, or be like her.’"

  Lysa learned not to eat more than what she was given. Learned to sleep with one eye open. Learned that silence wasn’t a virtue, but a survival mechanism.

  But she also learned to observe.

  Grenda had rituals. Every Friday, she’d update the master registry—behavior notes, Value scores, transfer recommendations. Once, Lysa saw her smile. It was when the Director announced she’d be receiving the gold medal from the Civic Order for her “outstanding work with marginalized children.”

  That day, Lysa scratched a line into the wall with her fingernail.

  An invisible mark.

  The first.

  Cycle 816, two years later

  Lysa was seven.

  Still a zero. But more than Grenda assumed.

  She had memorized the supervisor’s schedule, learned to open doors with wire, and found the storage room where old food was hidden. She survived on crumbs, damp biscuits, and dried roots.

  And she waited.

  One day, she saw a Value 1 girl being dragged by Grenda. The girl had cried too much, talked too much. She was taken to the “room without walls”—a room with mirrors. Lysa heard the screams.

  When the girl came back, she no longer spoke.

  Lysa helped her walk. The girl didn’t thank her. Not because she didn’t want to.

  But because something had been erased.

  The final straw came on an autumn morning. The order was clear: all “Zeros” were to be transferred to the experimental containment center. A pilot project of the System.

  Grenda personally oversaw the process.

  — "They’ll be useful as biomass. Or as a warning."

  She smiled.

  Lysa was last in line.

  But instead of entering the carriage, she jumped.

  Ran.

  Barefoot.

  And hid among the ruins of the abandoned wing, behind the deactivated boilers.

  She stayed there two days.

  Grenda found her.

  But instead of killing her, she gave her a beating Lysa never forgot. Used her bare hands. Then tied her up, threw her into a cart... and sold her.

  The first of many sales.

  But Grenda was the first.

  The seed.

  The beginning of pain.

  Present

  Lysa woke up gasping.

  The moon was still high. Kael slept, unmoving. Cold wind blew through the stones of the tower.

  She reached for the dagger at her side.

  — "Grenda Malvar," she whispered. "Are you still alive?"

  She closed her eyes.

  And felt the System respond with a thin line of residual code.

  Active Record

  Location: Central District, Academy of Child Reeducation

  Lysa smiled.

  A small smile. Almost childlike.

  — It’s going to be you.

  The first.

  Crossed out in blood.

  She then sat, leaning against the wall, eyes locked on the night.

  But her mind was already moving to the next name.

  A woman draped in veils, with the scent of black rose.

  Lady Vareth Tyron.