Chapter 1 – The Princeling of Nothing

  Aurelion Prime: Drift 1

  He had to stop shivering. The stone bench wasn't helping. It was colder than the bathroom tile he’d slept on the night before. His uniform, hastily washed and half ironed, was still wet at the collar and cuffs.

  Emma side-eyed him. He knew what she wanted to say. That he should sit somewhere else. Not next to his sister. He didn’t care. If sitting next to her was the reason the other boys locked him in the bathroom overnight, he could accept it. Except it wasn’t the only reason, was it? The princeling who couldn't stop hovering around his big sister. That's what they called him, on their more mild days.

  He forced himself to relax, to let go of the numbing sensation. His wet hair curled at the tips no matter how hard he’d combed it down and his thumbs kept tapping at the bench.

  Four of their ten allotted minutes of stillness were already gone. If he was unable to comply before the morning tests they would make him repeat the last semester and separate him from Emma.

  You have to stop shivering, he ordered himself.

  Above the dome, Omma's shadow had begun to obscure the classroom. He didn't look up. He knew exactly what he'd see — the thing blocking out a quarter of the sky, gray and cold, like someone had made it out of wire and forgotten to add life.

  He could feel its weight pressing down on him even here, through stone and glass. Just like the title he carried, Heir Prime.

  Across from him, the circular wall hummed, reminding him time was almost up.

  Now still yourself. He took a deep breath and on the exhale, he pushed himself down into the bench and let go of all sensation. His body paused between one shiver and the next that didn’t come.

  The circular wall hummed softly, and the voice that came from it had more static than usual. “Mnemonic Heir Vellian, Seven,” it began. Flat. Emotionless. “Entry Code Twelve,” it demanded. Would his voice become this empty once he was librarian?

  Seven responded in perfect cadence, his high-pitched voice steady and precise. Across the line of benches, no one flinched. No one made eye contact.

  “Mnemonic Heir Iso, David. Entry Code Sixteen,” the wall demanded of him this time.

  He didn’t look at Emma. Though he felt the need to. He recited what was already there, at the surface, spilling out of him like bile. He didn't know what was his own memory or what was the Vault. Sometimes they blended together too well. Other times, not at all.

  “Entry Code Sixteen. Initiated during the sixth transmission war. Memory protocol designed to outlast planetary collapse. Priority of memory above emotion. Recall without revision. Store without bias.”

  A soft pause from the console: “Confirmed.”

  “Mnemonic Heir Iso, Emma. Calculate variant drift between neural scan Alpha and Beta, sector three.”

  “Point-zero-zero-seven percent,” Emma answered, her voice smooth, flat, and, naturally, correct.

  “Confirmed.”

  More names, more codes. The room moved forward like clockwork. Each heir was a gear in a machine that only needed one wheel, yet carved twelve. Each was as well-trained as he was. And all were older than him.

  He didn’t understand why the Isos had felt the need to make two heirs. And he didn’t care.

  If anything had meaning in this Delegate factory, as he sometimes called it, it was his sister. The only one who loved him. The only one he’d do anything for. Like getting up in the morning and answering pointless questions to a wall.

  And the only one he wasn’t supposed to have.

  Behind him, the white wall shimmered, turning from opaque to transparent, revealing the door again. It opened to let a dark figure through. The man looked so out of place in this white space that David had to blink a few times to make sure he was real.

  He wore a black suit. Not the usual uniform black or city black, but Library black, stitched with deep blue filaments that were standard. A faint pulse flickered beneath the skin of his collarbone—a badge embedded in bone. It was permanent and alive, glowing with his ID and allegiance, powered by his heartbeat.

  David swallowed. All Delegates carried those—a mark showing they were library property and identification in case of death. This one read: 112/Alpha/ID. The one hundred and twelfth delegate of the First Internal Division.

  The man folded his hands in front of him. A black communication Omma comm ring flashed under the bright light. He looked too young, too gentle. He wasn’t yet hardened by the silence of Omma.

  “Mnemonic Heirs,” he began, folding his hands behind his back. “Librarian Iso has entered terminal phase earlier than projected.” He swayed a little on his heels, stealing David’s attention from his words. “Transfer protocol initiates in sixty drifts. Per Directive 47.3, succession begins with blood. David Iso is not of age. The duty passes to the next eligible heir.”

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  The Delegate turned to face Emma. “By default of lineage, the honor falls to you.”

  He said "honor," and David heard "honor," but it sounded like a sentence. David’s vision narrowed until Emma’s profile was all he could see, her grace as she took in the Delegate’s words, her calm. He felt panic rising, pounding in his ears, but he pushed it down, past his lips, down his throat, as far as it would go.

  Emma’s mind would become a vessel, forever tuned to the archive’s machinery—never her own again.

  David noticed the slight pause before the word honor. The Heir chosen should have been male — everyone in the room knew what the Silence Rite could do to a woman's memory. To her voice.

  David’s body stiffened, the delegate’s words burning into his mind. The title meant for him, by blood and legacy, would go to Emma? Because he wasn’t old enough? Because the old Librarian was dying faster than he could grow up?

  David's hands pressed flat to the bench, his weight shifting forward. This was his burden, wasn’t it? Hadn’t he dreaded it ever since he understood what it meant? Hadn’t he been preparing for it as long as he could remember?

  The Delegate studied him, a silent understanding in his gaze, and tightened his jaw in warning. If he rose from that bench, it would be against the Library, and he would be expelled. Or worse, deconstructed, a fancy way of saying disposed of. It wasn’t unheard of.

  David glanced at his sister—his sister, who had never once let a crack show—and all the rage he felt toward Omma turned to ash on his tongue.

  No! Not her.

  She nodded then, jaw clenched. One blink. Then she was standing. Her hands didn’t shake like his. Even though failure meant the fracture of the Iso name.

  Behind the Delegate, the door hissed open, and he turned and left without another word, as if he hadn’t just rewritten both their lives in under sixty seconds.

  David sat still. The sterile room spun. His palms stuck to the stone with cold sweat. It was absurd; he didn’t want to be a Librarian. But he didn’t want Emma to take his place either.

  From three seats down, a voice cut the silence. Smooth. Sharp. Female. “Thank Omma,” Giorgia said, “that the Librarian’s dying faster than your little brother can reach eligible age.”

  The only other girl in the class voiced his thoughts with the exact amount of venom.

  Emma didn’t turn. But he did. That was the only reason they had picked Emma. Giorgia’s expression didn’t show hate, but shared grief.

  His chest tightened. That low, crawling feeling behind his ribs came back. It always showed up before he made a mistake or said something with too much emotion.

  It was worse this time. Because Giorgia was right.

  “Confirmed,” said the room.

  He followed Emma into the corridor, where the lights were dimmer and the air less electric. But the silence was worse. Wider. A stretch of echoing steps and hushed voices.

  They didn’t speak as they walked. They never had to.

  Until now.

  Through the corridor windows, the city spread beneath them, so far down the lights looked like embers.

  At the end of the hall, Emma stopped. Her posture was still perfect. Her hands were untrembling.

  “I know it was meant for you,” she said. Her voice trembled, barely noticeable and her gaze fixed on a wall fixture.

  It was only for a moment. Then her eyes caught his. “But it makes me happy, if only for a little while, until you come of age, if they allow it. They might. They might make an exception just this once—to let me take your place, and maybe carve my own path…”

  It sounded like comfort. So very like her to think of him first.

  But it wasn’t. Still she tried. And even though training was supposed to teach him not to feel, his tears streamed down unbothered and unwiped.

  The Silence Rite might crush her.

  “It will be here waiting for you,” she said, searching his eyes. “Always.”

  Will you? he wanted to ask.

  Her words sounded like an apology for taking what was his.

  For not refusing.

  Some Heirs did.

  But if she turned it down, the Iso line would never be considered again. A shame so complete it would stain every record, every mention of their name. She wouldn’t do that. Not to him. Not to any Iso child who came after.

  She hadn’t stolen the title from him. Only its weight. And he hated that it was hers to carry. Because he wasn’t old enough. Because he wasn’t ready. Because all he could do was let her walk into it alone. If she disappeared into Omma, what would be left for him? Without his shield, his sister, what would become of him? He didn’t care that she wanted it. He just didn’t want it for her. No one came back from Omma.

  He looked at her. Then past her. Past the straight hair that fell like water down her shoulders. Past the uniform she kept perfectly pressed. Past the face that had been his only comfort since the first memories settled into his Vault.

  His throat tightened, and he nodded. Just once. Just because she needed him to. And because it was the only thing he could do.

  He wouldn’t say goodbye. He wanted to. He wanted to hug her, kiss her, hold her so tight no Delegate could pry them apart. But he’d been taught not to. And he didn’t think he would survive it.

  Emma turned first. Walked away with the calm certainty they were both trained to wear like a suit of armour.

  He stood there a moment longer, watching her disappear. Taking her steady, silent steps, and his whole reason for not breaking apart, with her.

  Then he turned and walked the other way.

  Back to his room.

  Back to silence and grief.

  He pushed down the panic, the fear — and worst of all, the unwanted relief that was already curdling into guilt. He was free, and he would never be free again without his sister.

  He pushed it down, down, down to his core, to his heels, into the floor, and stomped it as he nearly ran down the corridor.

  He would not crack.

  At least he would not do that to her.

  Not again.