Prison Time

I woke up to a loud, irritating banging sound. 

"Oi, you bastard, wake up!" A gruff, loud voice pierced my eardrums. 

I groaned and grabbed my pounding head as I sat up and looked around. I was in a cramped cell, the walls pressing in on me, rough stone slick with condensation, close enough that if I stretched my arms, my fingertips would scrape against both sides. The bed I'm lying on is nothing more than a slab of stone, my pillow a bundle of rags damp with something I don't want to identify. Chains rattle as I shift, and a sharp jolt of pain shoots up my arms—I'm shackled.

How amazing these situations I continue to find myself in.

"Oi, I'm not going to repeat myself. WAKE UP!" That last part was yelled. 

I finally make out a robed inquisitor on the outside of my cell. The dim lighting in this shithole does nothing to help.

"I'm up, damn," I mutter angrily. 

The heavy clank of metal rattles through the cell as the door's latch grinds open. The inquisitor steps inside, shadowed by the dim torchlight from the corridor beyond. The scent of stale bread and something vaguely edible fills the air. My stomach clenches. I haven't eaten since before that botched burglary. 

A tray clatters onto the ground, just within reach. "Eat," the Inquisitor commands. Low, gravelly, laced now with boredom.

I look up, which was a mistake; the pounding in my head reignites, sending tears to my eyes. The man standing before me is tall, easily over 6 feet, clad in dark leather, a jagged scar cutting across his jaw. With the signature black robe marking him as an Imperial Inquisitor. His eyes, cold and unreadable, settle on me with the detached interest of a butcher examining a slab of meat.

I swallow the dryness in my throat. "And if I don't?" I say with as much pride as I could muster in my current sorry state. 

"Then you'll be meeting with an Elite on an empty stomach." He crosses his arms, unfazed. "Not my problem."

The word Elite sends a chill crawling down my spine. Elites are people who are tested at what the imperial family calls the Rite of Manifestation; every 16-year-old in the country is supposed to undertake this trial to determine if they have the ability to wield magic. The ritual places a mark of power on individuals, granting them a power, sometimes in rare cases two. Although the only dual power wielder in recent memory was King Malik's own son, Prince Adrian. 

I turn 16 in three weeks. I've been dreading the Rite of Manifestation because if for some reason I am chosen to be an Elite, I can kiss any chance of leaving Avrael behind. I'll immediately be detained and sent to the capital, Lusa, and forced to attend training at the death camp, also known as the Imperial Academy where people with powers are crafted in killing machines and forced to fight the Kings never ending war of conquest. My only saving thought is that elites are rare; it's only one in every hundred thousand people.

I tighten my jaw, my fingers curling against the damp stone floor. "Meeting? So I'm not rotting in this hole forever?"

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Not forever. Just a few more days. Then, you'll be summoned."

"Summoned for what?" I press, though part of me isn't sure I want the answer.

He exhales through his nose, almost amused. "You think they tell me? I'm just here to make sure you don't starve to death before they get their hands on you." He nudges the tray with the toe of his boot. "Eat. You'll need your strength." 

I stare at the food: stale bread, a chunk of grayish meat, and a cup of water cloudy with floating specks. My stomach twists, but I know better than to refuse.

I grab the bread, tearing off a piece. "Who's the Elite?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. My mind flashes back to that blonde-haired prick who launched me like a sack of potatoes. 

The inquisitor steps back toward the door. "Doesn't matter," he says, cold indifference creeping back into his voice. "You'll find out what he wants soon enough, Ayato Daath. 

The door slams shut, and the lock clicks into place. I'm alone again—with nothing but stale food and the weight of those words pressing down on me.

They know my name.