Shadow slave: In The Eye of The Beholder

Silas stepped into the building and was immediately struck by the spaciousness of the interior. The halls were wide and well-lit, with clean lines and a sense of calm that felt foreign to him. He was led to a large hall where hundreds of young men and women—Sleepers like himself—were gathered, waiting for the induction ceremony to begin.

Groups had already formed, with clusters of peers chatting animatedly. Silas had arrived late; the ceremony was about to start, and his entrance drew a few curious glances. However, as quickly as they noticed him, they returned to their conversations. It made sense—everyone else seemed to have bags and suitcases, dressed in casual yet carefully selected attire for the occasion.

Silas, on the other hand, wandered in empty-handed, clad in a police-issued uniform. He was an outlier, and once they realized this, they chose to ignore him. Perhaps his sour expression didn't invite approach, but he wasn't here to make friends.

'What did I expect? 'Silas grumbled internally. 'Everyone's swarming around the legacies.'

Though it was hard to see the polished elites behind the crowds, the presence of the legacies was unmistakable. They radiated a subtle arrogance, an aura of inevitable success. Their images seemed manufactured, a crude attempt to embody the propaganda that had been propagated since the onset of the Spell.

Even if they didn't tower over the common Sleepers physically, their presence overshadowed everyone entirely. To them, the other students weren't peers but potential tools or pawns.

Silas recognized those expressions all too well; he'd been surrounded by them for a significant part of his life. As some of their eyes flickered toward him—the latecomer—they quickly dismissed him. Unlike the others who ignored him out of fear of standing out, the legacies did so because they saw no value in him. To them, his worn clothes and slight frame signalled that he wasn't worth their time

because he would simply perish in the dream realm, there would be no worth for them to pick and elevate the dirt beneath their feet. 

Silas clenched his fist, feeling the power pulsing in his fingertips. Anger surged within him whenever he caught the looks—the dismissive glances of those who assumed they were untouchable. But there was nothing he could do about it. Not here. He couldn't simply walk over and slaughter the legacies who had tarnished his life.

'I'll wait until we enter the Dream Realm. There, I can finally act.'

The thought repeated in his mind like a mantra, slowly calming the storm inside him as he entered the mosh pit of teenagers.

His plan was simple: cut the root before it could grow. Each legacy would be eliminated before they matured into the powerhouses destined to carry their clans. In the Dream Realm, they would have no protectors.

And in the waking world… Silas allowed himself a cold smile. He would snuff them out, right under their noses.

It wouldn't be easy. Each legacy had been trained from birth to face the nightmares, every one of them a force to be reckoned with. There was no need for propaganda to promote their efficiency in violence—they displayed it with lethal precision. But Silas had learned to see through their manufactured images. They were formidable, but they were not invincible.

Silas's eyes swept over the room, noting the three distinct groups that had formed. The first consisted of the legacies and their admirers, a large cluster but still dwarfed by the main crowd. The bulk of the sleepers—inner-city civilians—stood apart, perhaps too intimidated to speak to the legacies or simply finding solace among their own. Their shared fears and struggles made the legacies' polished arrogance seem distant, unrelatable.

The third group, far quieter, held the ones deemed unlikely to survive the Dream Realm. Silas could see it in their eyes—uncertainty, resignation. They stood together not out of camaraderie, but because they had no other place to be.

Yet not everyone fit into the Molds. Silas's gaze landed on two individuals who wore the same police-issued uniform as him but stood apart from each other. One caught his attention more than the other—a girl with silver hair, a shade lighter than his own ash-grey locks. She stood near the legacies but apart, her presence commanding attention without effort.

People drifted toward her, drawn like moths to a flame, but each was quickly turned away by her silence. She exuded the same sense of superiority as the legacies, but her cold indifference was different. She didn't see others as tools or pawns, but as unnecessary—beneath her notice, even the legacies themselves.

And yet, she wore the same dirty uniform as him. Just like him, she was cut off from the others.

Silas let his gaze wonder to the other outlier, stuck with the hopeless people deemed to die, but unlike them who wore timed expressions and fake smiles, he was lain against the wall, dried blood under his nose, and a devilish grin that stretched from ear to ear, as if he had pulled of the greatest heist in history and was absolutely ecstatic about his escape

The smaller boy, with lustreless black hair, drew wary glances and concerned looks as he quietly giggled to himself. He seemed a bit unhinged, yet his deep black eyes sparkled with intelligence and desire. Such a sight surprised Silas. He had seen many conniving figures in the outskirts, yet all of them hosted some anxiety or wariness. This boy exuded nothing but confidence, as if the world itself was his enemy and he welcomed the challenge.

The girl and the boy were opposites in every sense, yet both had the same unbending will in their eyes—the kind of will that could face any challenge head-on. Still, the way they presented themselves outwardly affected how they were treated.

One, left alone because she seemed too daunting, too unreachable even for the legacies.

The other, left alone because he seemed crazy and unreliable, not worth talking to in the slightest—a dead man walking.

Silas, who had been watching the two, suddenly received their gazes as well.

The girl looked at him nonchalantly for a few seconds before turning away, but unlike the others who merely glanced at his uniform, she looked directly into his eyes, as if searching for something deeper.

The boy, on the other hand, stopped giggling and met Silas's glance with annoyance written all over his face. Clearly irritated by the attention, his gaze still held curiosity and a flicker of analysis. Unlike the others who ignored him, he saw Silas as something more, his eyes filled with caution.

Silas considered walking up to the boy, tempted to speak to his peer, but before he could act, an awakened entered the room, calling out to the gathered sleepers.

"The induction ceremony is ready! Form lines and move into your seats. Remain silent until the speech is finished!"

As the sleepers shuffled into lines, Silas fell into step with the crowd, his mind already spinning with plans. The momentary connections he'd felt with the girl and the boy faded into the background as the weight of what lay ahead pressed down on him. He could feel the tension in the air, the collective breath held by the crowd, each sleeper a potential threat or ally, and each legacy an obstacle to his goals. The Dream Realm loomed closer, he had a little more than a month to train himself in order to prepare, to finally act and let loose with the desires that had driven him his whole life.