The entire scrap tower groaned like a dying god.
Kael ducked as a rusted boiler tank tumbled past his head, smashing into the floor below with a wet, metal crunch. He scrambled upward, fingers raw and bleeding, boot treads skidding on greasy ladders and bent girders. The wind howled through the slums of Lower Sector 9, whipping toxic ash across the skyline. Far below, the furnace pits belched orange light like the world's throat opening to scream.
"Just one more stabilizer coil," he muttered, reaching into the half-melted chassis of a mech the size of a barge. "Come on, you bastard, talk to me—"
A high-pitched whine sliced through the air. He looked up.
The sky was cracking.
Right above the tower, reality split like torn paper. A slit of blinding white opened above him, humming with impossible pressure. It wasn't light. It wasn't energy. It was command.
"No—no no no no no—" Kael turned, tried to leap back down the tower, but the pull hit him mid-step. Gravity flipped. The wind inverted.
And then the world folded in half.
---
Kael slammed hard against cold marble, skidding backward across a polished floor that burned with sacred glyphs. He rolled onto his back and coughed black ash from his lungs, blinking at a domed ceiling that shimmered with stars—too many stars. Constellations he didn't recognize.
A hundred murmuring voices surrounded him.
He sat up.
A thousand-foot amphitheater stretched around him in perfect symmetry, ringed with silver torches and floating script in languages he couldn't read. Dozens of other mortals stood on polished discs, all handpicked and resplendent—battle-scarred warriors, mages in robes etched with gold, queens in armor forged from the bones of beasts.
Kael wore a torn scavenger coat and smelled like engine grease.
An orb of molten glass hovered in the center of the space, crackling with authority. Its voice was a chorus of angels and engines.
"YOU HAVE BEEN SUMMONED TO THE DRAFT."
Kael wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. "Yeah? Can I decline?"
Laughter rolled through the amphitheater. Not kind laughter—cruel, amused, expectant. Some of the other mortals glanced his way and shook their heads. One, a silver-haired woman with armor of flowing blood, rolled her eyes.
From the opposite platform, a radiant youth stepped forward. His smile gleamed like polished steel. His aura pulsed with divine sanction.
"Don't embarrass the rest of your world, junkrat," he said. "Just accept your loss with dignity."
Kael squinted at him. "You a champion, or the host of a talent show?"
The boy's smile thinned.
Kael pushed himself to his feet slowly, every bone in his back popping. He wasn't afraid. He was pissed. The worst part was that his heart was racing—not with fear, but because something deep inside him was thrilled.
They'd pulled the wrong bastard.