They peeled the scab off again.
He felt it before he opened his eyes — that sharp sting down his spine where the numbers sat, always raw, never healing right.
06/50.
Born marked. Sixth generation of a bloodline cursed for a crime that wasn't his.
He didn't remember the crime. No one alive did.
But that didn't matter in Sanctem.
The bell rang — three sharp clangs echoing off stone. Weight sorting again.
He and his sister would be split.
No one said it aloud, but the lighter ones went east.
She always went east.
They didn't say goodbye. You didn't do that here.
They locked eyes just for a second in the sorting yard.
She didn't cry. She didn't even blink. Just gave him that same nod she always did.
Like maybe today wouldn't be as bad as yesterday. Like maybe tonight they'd both still be breathing.
Ash duty.
The heat from the pits hit before he even reached the edge.
Burnt flesh, rusted grates, black dust that clung to everything.
He scraped bone from the drain until his knuckles bled.
They dropped a body beside him sometime near midday.
Still warm. Still twitching.
He didn't look twice.
This was the work. This was the world.
When the overseers finally released them, he went to the pipe.
Same as every night.
The one crack in the wall where they could sit, share scraps, lean into each other's silence.
She wasn't there.
He waited.
Ten minutes. Then twenty. Then longer.
The pit was never quiet, but somehow the noise felt farther away now — like even the screams had nothing to say.
He didn't move until he heard footsteps. Fast, panicked.
A boy — younger, out of breath, wide-eyed.
"06/50," he gasped. His voice was shaking. "It's your sister—"
He already knew.
He just stood there.
Still.
Then the boy said it.
"She's dead."