Riven learned early that hunger had a sound.
It was a thin, scraping noise that lived behind the eyes, like metal dragged slowly across stone. It woke him before dawn, before the sirens, before the Spectrum drones traced their lazy arcs over the slum roofs. Hunger woke him every day, and it never left quietly.
He lay still on the floor, cheek pressed to cracked concrete, listening to the city breathe. Pipes knocked in the walls. Somewhere nearby, someone coughed until it turned wet. The air smelled of rust, old oil, and bodies that didn't get washed enough.
Light leaked through the broken slats of the window. Not sunlight—real sunlight didn't reach this level—but the pale glow of the Spectrum towers above, refracted through layers of filth and smog. It painted everything the same dull color.
Ash.
Riven had been born here, under that color. Uncounted. Unregistered until the day the system decided he was worth measuring.
He sat up slowly. Moving too fast made the hunger worse. His limbs felt hollow, like they were packed with dust instead of muscle. He rolled his shoulders, ignored the ache, and checked the corner where he kept his things.
Nothing had been stolen.
That meant today might kill him.
He stood and pulled on his boots. The soles were worn thin, the stitching gone in places, but they were better than bare feet on electrified pavement. As he tied them, the sirens finally began to wail—three short pulses, one long.
Selection Day.
The sound rolled through the slum, setting off movement like insects scattering from light. Doors creaked open. People stepped into narrow alleys, faces tight, eyes hollow. No one spoke. Talking didn't help. Talking didn't stop the Spectrum Order from choosing who would be counted—and who would disappear.
Riven joined the flow, keeping his head down. He knew the rules. Don't draw attention. Don't run. Don't beg.
The Order hated noise.
The square was already filling when he arrived. A flat stretch of concrete boxed in by collapsed buildings and watchtowers, their lenses glowing faintly blue. Drones hovered overhead, silent and patient.
At the center stood the pylons.
Tall black spines embedded with vertical bands of light—each band a color that decided a life. Ash. Crimson. Azure. Radiant. The Spectrum made visible, measured, undeniable.
Riven's stomach twisted.
Children stood with their parents. Adults stood alone. Some clutched charms, scraps of old faith that the system had never erased completely. Others stared straight ahead, eyes empty, already resigned.
A woman near Riven whispered to herself, over and over. "Not Ash. Please. Anything but Ash."
No one answered her.
The air shifted.
The Spectrum Order arrived.
They did not come in vehicles. They never did. They stepped out of nothing, frames phasing into existence with a low electric hum. Their suits were sleek, dark, etched with glowing lines that shifted color as they moved. Azure dominated—cold, controlled, distant.
Riven forced his eyes down.
An Azure turned its head. The lenses of its helmet flared briefly, scanning the crowd. Riven felt the touch like pressure inside his skull, fingers probing thoughts, measuring fear.
He slowed his breathing. Observation had taught him one thing: fear was loud.
The Azure looked away.
A voice filled the square. It did not come from any single figure.
"Remain still. Classification will proceed."
The pylons brightened.
Light washed over the square, sinking into skin, threading through bone. Riven felt it crawl through him, cold and invasive, like water finding every crack.
People screamed.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just sharp, broken sounds as the Spectrum found something inside them and named it.
Crimson flared around a man two rows ahead, violent and bright. He dropped to his knees, veins glowing beneath his skin as if lit from within. Azure followed—rare, precise, almost reverent. Radiant came last, a blinding white-gold that silenced the square entirely.
Then came Ash.
Around Riven, light flickered weakly. Dull gray. Thin. Unstable.
For a moment, nothing happened to him at all.
The voice spoke again.
"Ash Spectrum confirmed."
Something inside Riven went still.
Not pain. Not fear.
Finality.
Bodies collapsed. Ash Spectrums always did. Some convulsed as their systems failed to synchronize. Some went quiet immediately.
Riven stayed standing.
An Azure turned.
This time, it looked directly at him.
The scan lingered longer than it should have.
Riven felt sweat slide down his spine. He didn't move. Didn't blink. He was used to being unseen. Being looked at like this felt worse.
The Azure tilted its head.
"Delayed response," the voice said. "Note deviation."
Riven's heart slammed against his ribs. Delayed meant defective. Defective meant disposable.
"Proceed to trials," the voice continued. "Ash units only."
Mechanical grips seized him. Precise. Unyielding. Riven was lifted and thrown into a transport cage with others like him. The door slammed shut. Darkness swallowed them as the cage descended underground.
Someone cried. Someone laughed, high and cracked.
Riven closed his eyes.
The trials always began below.
The cage opened into a long corridor, walls slick with moisture, light strips flickering overhead. The air was cold enough to sting. Ash Spectrums were shoved forward by drones that buzzed impatiently.
At the end waited the Frames.
Ash Frames hung from racks like discarded skin. Dull, mismatched, patched and repatched. Many flickered even before activation.
Riven stared at the one assigned to him.
It was cracked.
A fracture split the chest plate, the circuitry beneath dim and unstable. A strange sense of relief washed over him. A cracked Frame might fail early.
Failure was mercy.
"Equip," the voice commanded.
Riven stepped forward and pulled the Frame over himself. It sealed with a hiss. Cold metal pressed against his skin. His vision filled with static and broken symbols before settling into a weak gray glow.
Pain followed.
Not sharp. Not sudden. A deep pressure that sank into bone and stayed there. Riven bit down hard, tasting blood.
Others screamed.
The corridor opened into a chamber so vast he couldn't see the far wall. The floor was broken, uneven, littered with debris and pits. Something moved in the dark.
"Trial parameters active," the voice said. "Objective: survive."
The floor dropped away.
Riven fell.
He hit hard, the impact rattling through the Frame. Something cracked—maybe the ground, maybe him. He rolled, gasping, as shapes lunged from the darkness.
Creatures. Low, twisted things, all angles and teeth. Their eyes caught the light, dozens of them.
Someone ran.
They didn't make it far.
Riven didn't move.
He watched.
Watched how the creatures reacted to sound. To motion. Watched how they ignored bodies that stayed still long enough.
A scream cut off abruptly.
The Frame pulsed.
Warnings burst across his vision. Instability. Degradation. Time remaining: unknown.
Staying still wouldn't save him forever.
When a creature crept close, sniffing, Riven moved—not away, but forward. He grabbed a shard of metal and drove it up into the thing's throat.
Warm fluid sprayed across his hands.
The creature thrashed, claws tearing into his side. Pain flared white-hot. Riven screamed, the sound ripped from him as he shoved harder until the shard hit something solid and the body went limp.
Silence followed.
Brief. Watching.
The others backed away.
Riven staggered, staring down at what he'd done. His hands shook violently. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to disappear.
The Frame flickered.
The gray light stabilized—just a fraction.
The voice returned, quieter now.
"Anomaly detected."
Cameras adjusted. Lenses focused. The weight of attention settled on him.
Riven was still alive.
He had been born uncounted.
And now, the Spectrum was watching.