“The first reaction to truth is hatred.”

  ― Tertullian

  Chapter 2: Unseen Hand

  When the Broadcast hit, I was stuck in a lecture. One of those endless ones where the speaker droned on, as I struggled to stay awake. As I looked down at my notes, long-since devolved into a mess of barely-legible doodles, I remember thinking:

  I can’t do this.

  And, with a dull jolt of realization - I’m fucking failing law school.

  If I was being honest with myself, really, truly honest, the signs had been right there from the start. I’d been struggling with the material for months now: Late-night cram sessions, half-hearted attempts to catch up in lectures, and endless hours spent trying to make sense of concepts that just wouldn’t click.

  I’d tried to push through, to convince myself that it would get easier, that I’d figure it out. But deep down, I knew the truth - I was drowning. Each case study felt like a foreign language, each lecture a blur of jargon and theories that slipped right through my fingers.

  I would like to say that I was trying, for I really was. But “I tried” is the refrain of losers, of failures, and something in my mind flinched away from that declaration of defeat.

  I remember the final, precious moments of mundanity like it was yesterday. The crowded lecture hall, the faint hum of idle chatter, the rustle of paper and the clack of keys as students shifted in their seats - so ordinary, so sane, with no sign of all that could come after.

  No sign that everything was about to change.

  I remember glancing down, with mild curiosity, when I heard the insect buzz of my phone. Frowning, wrong-footed, as I peered down at the glowing screen.

  What’s that? I thought, as I felt my brow furrow.

  Did you get a tatt-

  Then lightning coursed through my mind, the phone tumbling from my slack hand, and I fell down, down, down into the black.

  I don’t remember all of it, of course. There was so much of it - too much - dumped like ballast into my head.

  What I do remember: The infinite beauty and variety of the cosmos. The cold void of space, and the Great Darkness rushing to swallow up all the precious things it held.

  And the Mark. Hooked like a crescent moon, but also coiled somehow, like a twisting serpent. Not one sigil, but a vast profusion of them - constantly changing, transforming, becoming something new.

  This was the glyph for strength. This one for fortitude, this one for moving unseen, that one for a single, terrible blow that could shatter stone. A multitude of symbols and meanings, each one woven into the next. Like some intricate tapestry of shifting light, or a labyrinth without beginning or end.

  Bright. So terribly bright.

  They fell like rain, from the vast, lonely vaunt of the Aphelion. Not onto our world, but through it - reaching out, with filaments of lightning. Seeking the chosen champions, those whole of body and hale of mind.

  Suspended above infinity, I watched it happen, moment by moment. Watched Mark and Chosen fuse, becoming one. From my vantage, I saw the joining play out over and over again, across eternity.

  In that liminal space, I saw everything.

  I wanted it to be me. I wanted it to be me so badly, I would have given anything - everything - for it to be true. And if you think about it…Who wouldn’t?

  Who wouldn’t crave being Chosen? To be the one set apart, made special?

  I can’t fathom seeing that and not wishing, even just for a second, that it was you.

  But then the moment passed, and the world in its becoming began to move once again.

  The vision slipped through my fingers like sand, and I woke - shuddering, retching - to the cold light of the new day.

  My eyes snapped open, my head throbbing as if it’d been split in two.

  I was sprawled on the floor, my cheek pressed against the cold, gritty linoleum of the lecture hall. My notebook lay crumpled beneath me, ink smudged across the page I’d been scribbling on moments - or was it hours? - before.

  You can imagine the disorientation. The utter discombobulation of the moment. For the first, fleeting seconds, I couldn’t place where I was, or even who I was.

  But then it hit me. All of it, at once.

  Around me, the lecture hall erupted into chaos. Moments ago, hundreds of students had been slumped unconscious in their seats, or collapsed across the tiered rows - Now, they were beginning to stir.

  Some of them, at least.

  Through the ringing in my ears, I heard the low groan that rose from the crowd, punctuated by sharp cries of confusion and pain. I felt weak, weak as a kitten, as I pushed myself up on trembling arms - Stomach churning, vision roiling as I took in the scene.

  The girl next to me was clutching her head, her voice a shaky whimper.

  “What - what happened…?”

  She sounded like I felt. Dazed, uncomprehending, utterly wrung-out.

  Across the aisle, a guy was coughing - deep, racking coughs - gaping down at his twisted leg like he couldn’t believe this was happening. My guess was, he’d tumbled from his chair during the blackout, and woke to unjust and unreasoning pain.

  It was like a bomb had gone off, and we were fumbling our way through the aftermath. Nearby, a laptop lay shattered, screen flickering weakly before going dark: The air was thick with the acrid stench of burnt electronics, mingling with the sour tang of spilled coffee.

  There was a deafening crash, loud enough to make me flinch. At the front of the room, the professor staggered to his feet: He’d knocked over the podium, and papers fluttered down like fallen leaves, settling amid the rising chaos.

  “Everyone, please remain calm-” he was saying, but his voice was a cracked, embryonic thing. Blood wept freely from his nose and eyes - His hand went to his face, and he stared down at it, disbelieving, as it came away bloody.

  My ears rang, a high-pitched whine that made it hard to focus. I’d kept hold on my phone, somehow: With leaden fingers, I swiped at the screen-

  No signal.

  Blearily, I looked around. Others were doing the same thing, their faces tightening with panic as they realized the lines were dead. Already, I could hear the rustle of movement, the creak of seats - and behind it all, the rising tides of voices.

  Some pleading. Some shouting. All desperate for answers.

  Jesus Christ-

  Through the tall windows lining the hall, I caught glimpses of the campus beyond. Through the pounding rain, I saw it: a car on the street below, front crumbled against a tree as smoke curled lazily from the hood.

  I could hear sirens, in the distance. Something about the sound cut through the haze in my mind. Slowly, with the dim comprehension of a light bulb flickering to life, I realized: Whatever this was, it wasn’t confined to the lecture hall.

  I hauled myself to my feet. My legs felt like rubber, but - thank God - they didn’t give, as I staggered over a tangle of fallen backpacks. The room felt like it was spinning: I lurched forward, nearly fell, braced myself against a writing tablet as I tried to will the world back into making sense.

  Around me, things were getting worse. A student near the front was sobbing hysterically, cradling a bleeding gash on her forehead - She’d hit the edge of a table on her way down, and it looked like she was feeling every moment of it.

  “Work, damnit-”

  Another was yelling into his phone, as if sheer will alone would restore the signal. I didn’t blame him. There was an awful, sickening helplessness to the moment, like I’d gone blind and deaf all at once.

  Somewhere, a fire alarm blared to life. The piercing shriek made me wince, as it sliced through the clamor - Sending a fresh wave of students were stumbling towards the doors, every one looking as utterly bewildered as I felt.

  I pushed into the hallway beyond. Outside, the air was cooler, but no less chaotic. Faculty and students staggered about, some helping the injured, but most just frozen in shock. I could smell smoke drifting in from somewhere, faint but growing stronger: As shouts rang out in the distance, I slid down with my back to a pillar, the cool stone reassuringly solid against my back.

  What is this?

  What-

  I pressed my hands to my ears against the alarm’s relentless assault, trying to get the fog to clear. Trying to think.

  And then, out of the depths, swam the one thought that made everything worse.

  Claire, I thought. Then - Oh, shit.

  It’s funny what comes to you, at moments like this.

  I won’t lie: In a way, I’ve always been a little envious of my sister.

  It was sad but true: Up until that point, as the family's eldest - only - son, I'd been rather letting the side down.

  Nothing came easy to me, not really. For most of my life, I'd struggled, while she’d soared.

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  Don't get me wrong - My parents were loving, supportive, and most of all patient. But I had never been smart, never been brilliant in the way brilliance mattered.

  They were disappointed, all the same. Gently so, subtly so, hoping that I was a late bloomer. They'd given me all the opportunities I needed, believing that - one day - I would catch up.

  Find my rhythm. Unlock some hidden potential.

  Under their hopeful, well-meaning gaze, I’d tried piano, swimming, karate, archery, guitar, golf…all the things meant to add value to a life, in case there was some stone left unturned. Some undiscovered spark of genius that could be fanned into a roaring flame.

  I’ll admit it: I was lazy. At my core, it was just sloth. It was easier to slide into mediocrity than to make an effort. Oh, I kept up appearances, sure, but nothing ignited my passion. Nothing drove me to strive for more.

  I’d missed the point, of course. You can’t love something unless you work at loving it.

  My sister couldn't have been more different. Two years younger, yet light-years ahead. She was everything I wasn’t: self-directed, self-motivated, and ambitious. While I coasted, she had plans. She wanted to be a surgeon, have four kids, travel the world, and climb Everest, never mind how overdone the dream had become.

  I favored my mother, the quiet nurturer. She favored my father, the self-made man.

  Sometimes, I think my parents gave me more leeway because of that. Maybe they thought they’d failed with me, that they could fix it with Claire, the next iteration of life.

  They let me drift, with the unspoken understanding that I’d be accommodated as long as I didn’t cause trouble.

  Not that I had ever intended to, at any rate. I liked the status quo too much.

  Is it any surprise that the Mark chose her, and not me?

  I remember how it felt, in that moment. How my blood ran cold, throat tightening as realization coursed through me.

  Claire has the Mark, I thought. For a moment, it felt like the world was sliding away, beneath my feet. The enormity of what it meant-

  I had to find her. Had to know she was safe.

  My gaze darted to the main doors, at the end of the hall. Beyond them, the quad was a battlefield of dazed figures and strewn debris. The rain was still falling, cold and stinging, soaking through my clothes as I stepped outside.

  The sky was wrong. Blood-red, seething with boiling black clouds.

  More car alarms. In the distance, I heard the unmistakable crunch of metal on metal - a crash, and it didn’t sound like the first.

  I could feel my heart hammering in my chest, fear and adrenaline surging through my blood. Even then, I knew the world had changed, perhaps for all time: That everything, everything I had ever known was just the prelude.

  Clutching my useless phone, I set off across the quad. Dodging stunned classmates, fallen branches and toppled chairs, I fought to keep my composure. With every step, I waded further into the chaos around me - the distant sirens, the screams, the surreal disbelief settling in like a heavy fog.

  Focus, I told myself. Claire needs you.

  Whatever had happened, I’d find her.

  I had to.

  You have to understand: Even then, I sensed the danger.

  It was the reward, you see. The prize that was being offered. The Broadcast had imparted some sense of the strictures levied upon it - you couldn’t wish for something world-changing, like mass death or eternal life. Those were beyond reach.

  But what you could wish for, what was still tantalizingly possible, would be enough to drive people to absolute madness.

  The limits may have been to protect us, but the offer itself would provoke. A chance to bend the world to your will, just a little - It was enough to set the heart racing, enough to make even the most rational among us throw caution to the wind.

  People would do anything, for that kind of hope. Kill for it, even.

  Wouldn’t you?

  I hadn’t been Chosen.

  I sensed it, as soon as I woke: There was no Mark, no abrupt flare of power and purpose. Despite everything, I felt the sharp pang of disappointment, a tiny kernel of resentment flaring deep within me.

  Why not me? Eight million people, and I couldn’t be one of them?

  Did I want it? I guess I did.

  Here’s the funny part: in those first moments, I couldn’t even think of a wish. After all, if I was being honest with myself, my life was fine. Sure, a few billion dollars wouldn’t hurt, but that was just idle daydreaming. The kind of thing not worth taking seriously, even in your fantasies.

  There was no cause I held dear, either. No burning passion for social justice or saving the environment. I didn’t have some grand dream of changing the world. Hell, the world seemed fine as it was.

  Maybe it wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. I had friends, family, and a halfway decent future. My problems weren’t worth a wish. My college stress didn’t even register in the face of everything else.

  But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I should want something more. That somehow, I was missing the point. Everyone else had a calling, a destiny, a reason to rise above the ordinary.

  And I? I was just...here.

  That’s what stung the most. Not that I wasn’t Chosen, but that I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be, not in any meaningful way.

  Maybe that’s why I wasn’t.

  But Claire had been, and that was where the trouble began.

  Did I sense, even then, what lay ahead? I think so. Or maybe it was just instinct, the urge to circle the wagons. Whatever it was, I felt it in the pit of my stomach - A cold twist, a warning.

  As I’ve said, she’d always been the ambitious one, the one with the drive, the spark. But now, she had this.

  The Mark. The calling. The purpose I never even knew I wanted.

  It wasn’t jealousy, not entirely. I think - or at least, I like to think - that I’ve never been jealous of my sister’s success. But it felt like she was moving on to something bigger, somewhere I couldn’t follow.

  For all my attempts to convince myself that I didn’t need to be Chosen, to tell myself my life was fine, deep down I knew I was scared of being left behind.

  And if I felt like that, imagine how the rest of the world felt. All those faceless billions, with their hungers, their urges, their blind, clawing need for something more.

  That thought had caught in my mind, like a hook. I couldn’t shake that feeling, that premonition of disaster, as I staggered across the quad.

  Somehow, I found the strength to run.

  The trip back was Hell.

  You saw the chaos in those first days. You know what it was like.

  The streets were a nightmare. Smoke choked the air, mingling with the cold, relentless rain. Traffic lights blinked uselessly or sat dark. Abandoned cars choked the roads, some wrecked, others just left behind by panicked drivers.

  We lived in a cramped flat off-campus, one that had belonged to some distant cousin - Some forgotten, benighted branch of the family tree, finally called upon to contribute.

  Driving was a risk - a terrible risk - but the city was plunging headlong into madness. The less time I spent out there, in that gauntlet of chaos and danger, the better my odds of making it home in one piece.

  I had a death-grip on the steering wheel, as I wove through the wreckage. I’d always been an indifferent driver at best, but the unfolding catastrophe brought out the very best in me. Tires squealed on the wet asphalt as I swerved past a flipped sedan, heedless of the shouts of the panicked crowds.

  The radio was dead, and so was the GPS. White noise hissed over the channel, as I wove through the side-streets: It was a uniquely helpless feeling, driving by memory, trying to make sense of the once-familiar streets.

  And the things I saw-

  A house, blazing despite the downpour, its residents huddling in shock outside.

  Looters, smashing windows, staggering out of shop-fronts with whatever they could carry.

  A man with a dozen watches on each arm, another dragging a trolley piled high with the contents of a pharmacy.

  There was no logic to it, no sanity: It was like an abscess had burst, and all the pent-up madness was spewing forth.

  I had the doors locked, the windows rolled high. As the streets narrowed, a woman clutching a crying child darted into my path - I had to break hard, only to accelerate again when she started beating on the window, shouting for help.

  Not my problem, I told myself, numb with terror. Deaf to the words she shouted at me, as she pounded on the glass with a bleeding hand.

  It’s not my problem. I can’t help you.

  I can’t help anyone.

  She was still shouting as I sped away, her form receding to nothing in the rear-view mirror.

  Where were the police? Where was the army?

  Where the fuck was everyone?

  Every mile was a fight. Overturned cars, howling dogs beside still bodies. A sinkhole gaped in an intersection: It’d swallowed a bus and half the road, a cloud of dust and steam boiling forth like a miasma.

  I remember staring as I hunched over the dashboard, the constant press of rain blurring my view.

  Only now - now - were things truly beginning to sink in. That the world had changed forever, that everything I had taken for granted was smashed beyond repair.

  I could feel the frustration, scraping away at me. I’d been carried this far by barely-restrained panic: If I stopped, I knew, it would all hit me at once.

  I was weeping, I think. Weeping, silently, in fear and overload. All I wanted to do was to wake from this nightmare, to be elsewhere.

  Let this not have happened-

  But then I thought: Be real.

  Don’t be a fucking pussy, Daren.

  Claire needs you.

  That’s the least you can do.

  I couldn’t stop. Not now, not when Claire was waiting. Not when every second felt like a thread snapping.

  The car protested, gears grinding, as I mounted the curb. I winced as it scraped a fallen streetlight, the metal-on-metal squeal setting my teeth on edge. Breath hitching, I shoved the fear down, knuckles tightening on the wheel: It wasn’t much further, now.

  Not much further at all.

  The apartment loomed ahead, a shadowed hulk against the storm. There was something horrific about the sight of its cracked windows, glinting like broken teeth in a loved one’s mouth: A reminder of something once whole, now marred beyond recognition.

  I parked crookedly, the car’s engine groaning as it settled. Throwing the door open, I stumbled out, the air thick with smoke and ruin - Utterly exhausted, shaking like a leaf, I ran towards it.

  Towards her.

  Towards whatever was left.

  The dark lobby was empty.

  The ground was littered with the detritus of a dozen lives - Handphones, crumpled receipts, forgotten keys, wrappers and half-empty bags of groceries. A child’s toy, a small stuffed bear, lay abandoned beside a dropped umbrella.

  Someone had lost a shoe.

  Overhead, a flickering light threw jagged shadows across the walls, giving the room an eerie, tomb-like feel. A tiny part of me couldn’t help but think-

  How could it happen this quickly?

  Less than twelve hours ago, everything had been achingly ordinary. But now-

  The elevators were dead. Pointlessly, uselessly, I wasted precious seconds hammering the call button, before I gave up. With a dry swallow, I pushed into the suffocating silence, heading for the darkened stairwell.

  Our apartment was on the twelfth floor.

  I tore up the stairs two at a time, my heart pounding in my ears. The steps seemed endless, mocking me with every breath, every second. My lungs burned, but I pushed myself harder, faster. If I stopped, I knew my legs would give out.

  The stench of mildew and plaster dust pressed in around me, suffocating. My hands trembled as they gripped the railing, but I didn’t stop, my thoughts a frantic blur:

  Almost there-

  My head spun with exhaustion, but I shoved the fatigue aside, focus narrowing to the next step, the next landing. Faintly, distantly, I could hear the clamor that came from each floor I passed - shouts, crashes, doors slamming - but I didn’t slow.

  I didn’t dare. Each noise was just another reminder that time was slipping away.

  My sister was up there, alone. Whatever was happening around me, whoever was caught in it, didn’t matter: I had to get to her.

  The stairwell seemed to stretch forever, a maze of noise of fear, but all that mattered now was the door at the top. My hand slammed against the cold metal, hard enough to bruise my knuckles, and it flew open with a deep, damned groan.

  There was something final about the sound, somehow.

  It was suddenly quiet. The din from below was just a dull murmur, now, like the echo of someone else’s war. I spat, dryly, picking my way forward down the corridor - I could feel that cold dread coiling within me, but something about the silence, the darkness…

  -Something about it made the hairs on my arms stand on end.

  I had slowed, now. The frantic energy I’d felt, that had carried me this far, had dulled to a low ebb.

  There. Our flat was right around the next turn.

  For a moment, just a moment, I let myself believe that everything would be okay. That Claire was safe, that she’d locked the door and pushed all the furniture against it, and that she had everything in hand, the way I always knew she would-

  I stopped.

  The door hung open. Just a crack, just enough to reveal a sliver of shadow within.

  My blood turned to ice. A knot tightened in my gut.

  “Claire?” I said, my voice rough, hesitant. Barely more than a croak.

  Silence answered me. Carefully, with a trembling hand, I nudged the door wider, the faint creak slicing through the stillness. The air inside felt wrong - Stale, heavy.

  My eyes swept the room: a chair tipped over, a shattered light spilling shards across the floor. Our shared couch, overturned.

  Then I saw her.

  Claire lay crumpled in the living room, motionless. A dark stain - slick, hateful - pooled beneath her on the tiles, her clothes rumpled, even tattered.

  In places, it glistened a wet, oily black.

  A full second passed before I realized what it was, what the iron tang to the air meant.

  Blood.

  I felt the strength drain from my limbs, my legs turning to cloth beneath me.

  No, I thought. No.

  She’d been stabbed. Inexpertly, but with great enthusiasm. One, twice - Half a dozen times, until it was impossible to tell which wound had killed her.

  I-

  I expected her expression to register something. Anger, perhaps, defiance, or at least pain. But there was nothing: Claire’s face, my sister’s face, had gone slack.

  The thread had been cut, the tension gone, and only the untended ruin of absence remained.

  You have to understand: My prevailing impression was one of absolute shock.

  I remember thinking - This can’t be happening. This can’t have happened.

  I’d tried so hard. I’d done everything I could, the extraordinary, nightmarish trek across the burning city still raw in my mind. I’d-

  She was dead.

  She had been dead all along.

  I could feel the scream rising in me, sharp and feral, clawing at my throat. I knew, in that moment, if I let it out, I’d never stop.

  Like a man in a dream, I took a slow step forward. Another.

  And all I could think was: I promised-

  I promised to take care of her-

  Dead. Claire was dead, and I-

  Something snapped into place, and I stiffened, suddenly.

  My sister had been killed.

  It was then, right then, I knew - I wasn’t alone.

  I went still. Utterly still. Not daring to move, or even breathe. I felt my throat tighten, felt my mouth go dry, the beginnings of a migraine pulsing at my temples as every sense strained as one-

  And I heard: Plink.

  I turned. There was a figure in the shadows of the adjoining room, a silhouette framed by a dim light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

  His face was pale, streaked with sweat, green eyes wide with a feverish gleam. In his right hand, he clutched a knife, the blade still wet with Claire’s blood. A single, crimson drop fell to the floor - plink - as he moved, tapping lightly against the ground.

  And on his left arm-

  I saw it, then. Raw and new against his skin: A golden crescent, pulsing faintly, amber filaments spiderwebbing against his flesh.

  The Mark of the Ascendant.

  He’d stolen my sister’s Mark.

  TO BE CONTINUED