As he followed Rashawn down the halls of an apartment building, Peter decided something about the man. Swollen hills were rolling across his face, making it hard for him to see, but Rashawn didn’t waste a beat looking back. He simply walked on, certain that Peter would follow. His pace was easy instead of hurried, moving forward as if he was on the way to the kitchen. Rashawn wasn’t the slightest bit concerned. While another person might fret over the damage, he didn’t need a second look. The Reject could easily read severity; Peter decided, he had good eyes.

It made him look over the man again. From the ground, he was little more than a shadow, but up close Peter saw a survivor. His large, dark hoodie wasn’t only black. It bore sown on gray sleeves, padded with leather. It enhanced his slender frame with brown sweatpants, ended with similarly dark shoes. Dreadlocks poured out from his head, almost invoking the image of a lion. But Rashawn was more of a wolf, moving with the cold assurance of a beast that knew the land. He led the way around a corner to a room in the middle, throwing the door open with peaceful disregard. He disappeared into the bathroom of a studio apartment, its king-sized bed nearly filling the wall beneath a boarded-up window. While books stood stacked in six short columns, there was little else to the room but a hot plate and kettle. Dishes sat cleaned in the sink, but Peter could not find the remnants of a meal. The Reject returned with a first-aid kit and replied with a smile as he spotted roaming eyes.

“It's not much, but it's my place." He pushed the kit into Peter's hands, and dropped on the bed. A chair slid over on wheels as Rashawn kicked it, and Peter sat, opening the box.

“Thanks." He said as he pulled out gauze and alcohol. He soaked one and squeezed it tightly in his fist. Blue light seeped through the cracks between his fingers, and Rashawn's eyes widened as he watched the display. They only opened more as Peter's wounds faded, leaving him slacked jawed when a dyed gauze was tossed.

“Nice shot.” He smirked as it landed in a waste bin. He sat up straight, finally giving Peter that second glance. “What’d you just do?” His eyes moved from short brown hair down to a square chin.

“I used a bit of the Craft on myself.” Peter replied. Rashawn nodded, impressed.

“Don’t know what that is, but I’ve seen something like it before.”

“I guess a Reject wouldn't be able to use it."

Rashawn laughed, "Naw. We can't use anything we can't see with our eyes. That's God power, ain't it?"

“Yeah.” Peter looked at his hands. “But I can’t use it on anyone but myself.”

“You got a lot to explain. Remember I’ma Reject. Whatever’s normal in Sector Three, we don’t got it around here.”

Peter looked around. “What do you think I do for work?”

Rashawn followed his eyes. “With the way you’re lookin at my place? I don’t know, interior design?” Peter huffed up a chuckle, but Rashawn took a good look at him.

The square chin started the descent to broad shoulders and a strong upper body. Peter's arms looked like they'd turn a person to paste if his hands hit, telling Rashawn those soldiers felt every bit of pain. He might have said boxing next if that didn't stray so far from the right answer. This green-eyed man had careful sight. Those arms were used to fixing problems, not making new ones.

“Some type of Craftsman, am I right?”

“Smithing." Peter picked up a pipe leaning against the wall. He placed a flat palm against it, pressing the metal until most of it was flat. Pinching the top, he pulled his fingers down, giving the weapon an edge. Finally, a handguard was pulled from the "handle." He offered it to Rashawn, only for him to wave it back.

“The Craft lets you do that?”

“Not much else. Most of the time I’m making weapons, or making things like pipes.”

“But you can heal yourself?"

“Yeah. I know my body. I just push everything back in place.”

Rashawn pulled a binder from under his bed, pulling a pen free. He wrote something swift into the pages and tore a few more out. Effortlessly he landed them in the basket; a shot made thousands of times before. He looked at the new page like it was a treasure, and Peter looked at him.

“What’s in the book?”

“Theories and stuff.”

“About what?”

“One more question first. Where'd you learn to do that on yourself?"

“My older sister taught me.” Peter clenched his fists. “She’s why I was talking to the guards.”

“What’s the story?”

“She disappeared earlier today. Usually she’d tell me why, since she’s the only family I have. But she was gone when I came over for breakfast.”

“That bad?”

“No, just suspicious. She always told me to trust my instincts, and if I think it’s weird that she’s gone, look for two unarmed soldiers in Central Hall.”

Rashawn nodded. “Were those guys it?”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t think they know anything, but they mentioned someone named Grant. I’m going to look for him next.”

Rashawn laughed. “I didn’t think you were done, but damn. You really gonna keep goin at em.”

“Yeah. Until I’m not angry anymore.”

“I feel.” Rashawn looked back to his book. “Can you tell me more about sis’s craft?”

“It was different from others, if that’s what you mean. She was assign to farming for work. Usually, all they can do is make sick plants better, but when I got sick one day, she used it on me. Since then she’s been learning how to use it on people more and more.”

“And that’s why the guards got her!”

“I think. I don’t know, but I’ll get answers.”

“How old is sis?”

“She’ll be thirty-six this year.”

“how old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Y’all lost your people on Darkness Day?”

“Yeah. That’s what she always said. Does this have something to do with your theories?”

Rashawn scoffed. “Right. Like I said, I’ve seen something like the Craft before. Didn’t know what to call it though. The woman using it called it the Gift. I figure same shit. She got it because God gave it to her, right?”

“Sounds right.”

“Well, tell me why her Gift was never Blue?”

“That doesn’t make sense. God’s light is Blue. It had to be at least a shade of it.”

“Naw. Wasn’t Blue at all. This lady’s was Green. She could do a lot with it too. She patched me up a few times. She could stop pain anywhere in the body. She used to tell the older Rejects how to take care of themselves, and shit helped. Old folks used to call her a Witch.”

“What happened to her?”

“Damn. It was like six or seven years ago. Soldiers started popping up like they were lookin for her or somethin. Some kids a few years older than me snuck out with her. I bet she’s alive out there in the city.”

“I think I’m confused. What theory do you have?”

“Got a better question for you. How did I become a Reject?" Rashawn touched the scar on his forehead. Peter looked at it—a blatant reminder God wanted nothing to do with this man. All Rejects had scars upon their faces, permanently marking them as people you should avoid. It meant Sector Four was almost forgotten, making it more wildland than any part of the castle. It wasn't wild though, as far as Peter could see, and Rashawn made him wonder if the other Rejects were handling it well too.

“Sure, I want to know.”

“Can you remember what you saw on the first Blessing Day?”

Blessing Day. The day when the people of Cerulean laid their eyes upon god for the first time. The royal family foretold of its coming, and every citizen gathered in Central Hall in wait. A stage sat with a chamber upon it, and when doors opened Peter truly felt blessed. "Gods magnificence was too blinding for me to see through. I knew that seeing the light changed me though. I felt how much God loved me."

Rashawn nodded. “That’s what you Threes always say.”

“It wasn’t like that for you though?”

“Rejects get it bad, man. Being Rejected by God makes people desperate. Folks who didn’t listen to the Witch gathered close to the border of Three. They do anything for forgiveness.”

“Does that work?”

“Not once! But they still try. I think it’s cuz they don’t remember the rejection.”

“But you do.”

“Yeah. Shit hurt too much to forget. I mean, it was weird too, but the mother fucker cut my forehead next. I’m still mad!” Rashawn leaned back. “Anyway, while my people saw the same light as you. I saw a person I guess.”

“You saw God?”

“See, that’s the problem. What does God look like?”

“A strong bearded elder sitting on a stone throne.” The book of visions called him a presiding judge. When your time came you met him in a frigid court, a place made colder by your sins. If you could bear them without freezing to death, God would allow you peace in heaven.

“I didn’t see that.” Rashawn said. “I was four at the time, but I remember this thing that looked like a guy with a deer growing out of his upper body. He looked strong, yeah, but his fingers were hooves or something, and he was covered in feathers. Mans looked like he had antlers growing from his back, and had a deer head with five eyes.”

“That doesn’t sound right.”

“I thought the same damn thing. I thought to myself, ‘That isn’t God.’ and that’s when I got this scar, like it just knew.”

“Do you think the other Rejects saw the same thing?”

“Yeah, but nobody remembers. Meanwhile, my folks ditched me when I got scarred. They wasn’t hearin it.”

Peter thought he could see where this was going. “You’re trying to figure out what you really saw.”

Rashawn tapped his temple. “I also wanna know if the Twos and Ones are hiding somethin.”

“It might have something to do with why my sister is gone.”

“It’s what I’m sayin.”

“Yeah, but what are you thinking?”

“Well, Peter. Want to sneak into Sector Two with me and see what they got lyin around?”

“I don’t care about what’s lying around, but I am still angry. Tell me the plan.”

⁘⁛⁘

A lab was alive with chatter in Sector Two. Women young and old gathered on one side, chatting with glee as a researcher tapped away at a console. He moved around the minimum space, slotting a ball into something that descended; checking levels on side screens. Every so often, he smiled up at them, making glee fill them more. On top of hearing Princess Brigid's speech moments ago, it made the women feel powerful—like they were an essential part of the world. But how couldn't it after what the researcher said? This moment would change everything in Castle Cerulean, pushing the people closer to the lord. They were picked by God, and each one felt like he had finally revealed the purpose of their life.

“All right ladies." The researcher stood tall—a lanky pale man with grayed hair. "Now that I've completed preparations, I can reveal what we have planned for you today. After helping Lady Brigid, we discovered we could potentially promote people to a higher Sector. This is still new, but if this works out, you all will become Priestesses and move to Sector Two." Enthusiasm swelled out of him as he spoke. "To be honest with you, ladies, I've been looking forward to this moment for a long time. God wants you all to be able to perceive him. I'm just here to further that along."

“Thank you, doctor.” An older woman waved down.

“Now, now, we’ll be equals. Call me, Francis. Besides, I’m just a researcher. Give all your thanks in prayer to god.” The console beeped, and the doctor grinned. “All right, I advise you close your eyes. It’s going to get bright for a moment.”

One by one they shut them. He clicked something on the panel, and a rod lowered from the ceiling. It rotated slowly around, washing them with a beam of light. With another click the researcher sped it up, smearing the flares dwelling in their chest. As a blue ring spun around them, his finger dropped to the final button. The ring suddenly stopped, then twisted the other way. The women came apart, pieces torn as if they were paper dolls. They swirled into particles, rising to the rod's bulb. As the platform darkened, the researcher clicked a red button. The ball from before rose again, now slightly glowing. He pulled on a glove and picked it up, turning on his heels to leave the room.

Francis stopped the moment he hit the lobby. Princess Brigid stood at the reception desk, talking to the young man manning it. He hurriedly silenced himself as Francis caught the corner of his eye, and Brigid turned, delighted as she waved. The doctor came over with a wide smile and she threw her arms around him.

“Did you see my speech?” She smiled up, and Francis’s smile softened.

“As matters have it. I did. You did exceptionally up there. Why, young Martin here was absolutely speechless." The receptionist blushed, lowering his head.

“I could tell when we spoke. Martin has quite a bit on his mind. I look forward to talking further.”

Francis laughed. “Martin, you can have the rest of the day off. It’s not everyday you get to meet a princess.”

Brigid beamed. “I feel my ears buzz when people call me that.”

“What a strange thing for a Princess to say!”

“You know what I mean! Without you, doctor, that speech wouldn’t have been possible.”

“Now, now. I’m just a tool of God. He gave me the knowledge so that I may use it for his people.”

“And you chose to use it, doctor! Even while others may have doubted the good…” Brigid looked at Martin. “Or doubted themselves.”

“That’s a way of the old world, I say! We are truly in touch with God now. We know better than to believe old lies.”

“Stop that!” Brigid put her hands on her hips. “God is good, but you still deserve appreciation. Thank you for being here, and everything you have done for my family and our people.”

Francis sighed. “Very well, Princess. I am happy I don’t have to see that frowning face anymore.”

“Good! I hope I didn’t interrupt though! It looked like you were in a hurry!”

“Yes. I am in fact. You'll have to excuse me Princess, but I have urgent business with your father." Light traced a sigil onto the lobby’s door, and the doctor smiled with sorrow. "Looks like I'm late." He gestured toward it.

“Tell father I said I want you back immediately!”

“Of course, my lady.” He stepped through and into a high-rise office.

No, it was probably better to think of it as a throne room. While it did radiate with the oozing arrogance of a better than thou trust fund kid, given a job by his father’s close friend, actual work was done in this room, by a man who deserved the position. Otto Ludvig Klein V stood at the window, overlooking Castle Cerulean below. The man struck a powerful form, broad with the strength of a warrior and a worker, hair still golden even as time chiseled his face. His dark suit made him the shadow of a titan in the light, compelling Francis to lower his head.

“Come join me at the window, Francis. Witness our kingdom by my side.”

Francis complied—stride measured by respect and haste. At his side, Otto still towered, rising to where few men could be his equal. Francis had to applaud every time he saw the man. He was the perfect vessel for a king, his face alone driving rebellion from the eye. But even still, his children could make him humble. Francis was honored to stand near him but knew it wouldn't last for long.

"Because of the three pillars, Francis, our people have a blue sky." Otto began. "There are many born in this kingdom that has never known the darkness outside. With our three pillars, they will know of no other world than heaven. Our people are at peace, and they do not begin to know why." He chuckled. "My youngest has told me that the people believe I merely reshape the castle. They do not know how much I keep our world in working order. The flow of water and electricity. The very force that makes our trains move. So much of Cerulean moves because of me, but I know that I would be nothing without you. What I do for the castle, you do for the body, and what you do for the body my queen does for the soul. Our pillars make Cerulean a paradise, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, my liege. And may I say your control is truly impeccable.”

“You may, Francis. It takes precision and finesse, every ounce of God’s Blessing is carefully measured. Of course, you can imagine why suddenly filling the cup may cause major disturbances.”

Francis’s jaw tightened. “Were there any casualties?”

“Fortunately not, but you’ve revealed your hand Francis.”

“I wasn’t trying to hide it, sire. I know why you summoned me here, I was actually on my way.”

“Then please tell me. Why was there a sudden unauthorized sacrifice?”

Francis produced the ball. “Please take this sire.”

Otto did, and as his fingers touched it he felt the lives of fourteen people. His fingers tightened around it, and a flaring gaze fell on Francis. “What did I just feel?”

“Sire, there was no sacrifice scheduled for today. In actuality, I was working on creating a group of new priestesses, twenty-two women to be exact. It was going to utilize the same process as your daughter’s transformation. It was guaranteed to work. But just like the first time, it didn’t.”

“Guaranteed, but it failed twice.”

“It was sabotaged, sire. I wasn’t sure of it the first time, but after Brigid was done, I made precautions. Think of that ball as a flashed drive of sorts. Our new machine works by scanning the light within people and as matters have it, it can differentiate the light between them too."

“So this ball is showing me the saboteurs...Who are they?”

"I suspect that they're soldiers, sire. Since wing granting, I have noticed small disturbances in the lab and my quarters. Unimportant things have disappeared; things that bear old significance. My candidates were carefully chosen, and their names were distributed among my closest assistants. I suspect that a soldier got their hands on this list and tried ingratiating themselves to potential priestesses, hoping it'd lead to a wing granting for them."

“They have insulted God with this act. I shall execute them swiftly. After interrogation.”

“May I offer an alternative?”

Otto cocked an eyebrow. “What do you suggest?”

"I want to sacrifice them. It'd be better if their lives went to God's design. It'll immediately hasten our plans. Our new machine happens to make sacrifices pure."

“I approve of this, Francis. I trust that such an error will not happen again.”

“Of course not, sire. I’ll make my channels of information more secure.”

“You are dismissed doctor, although my wife wants to see you next.”

“I suspect it’s about the same thing.” A sigil etched a door again, and Francis sighed deeply as he stepped through it.

This one brought him into a small solarium, where a statuesque older woman sat in a chair. "Older," felt like a stretch as he looked at her. While she did have six years on him, her presence felt frozen at fifty. And fifty felt like a deliberate choice. It made her an academic woman—a headmaster with no patience for disorder. She might have invoked the image of an elf if elves didn't seem beneath her. Queen Priestess Valerie Klein sat with a cup of coffee in her hand, and a steaming pot sitting beside her. She sipped as he came to stand before her, and she gestured for another seat.

“Sit down, Francis. There is much I’d like to speak to you about.”

He complied but figured he'd get ahead. "That sacrificial surge wasn't intentional, my lady. Some soldiers have interfered with my original plan but they shall be dealt with swiftly!"

“Good, but that sacrificial surge may have been providence.”

“Did something happen for you?”

“Yes. I was granted a crystal clear vision.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I don’t see how I could have answers for that.”

“I only need one. Help me understand why you were in it.”

…