The next day.
The quarry shift had been as brutal as ever. When the evening siren sounded, Kair was still standing.
Two days until the selection.
Behind the northern wall of Camp 7, there was a place no one knew about.
Or rather, everyone knew about it, but everyone pretended not to.
It was an old construction site. Years ago, Camp 7 was going to be expanded. Plans had been made, walls had been built, then the budget had been cut. Now, only a collapsed concrete platform and piles of rubble remained.
But for the young people, this place was something else.
It was a football pitch.
Kair went there after his evening shift ended.
The sun had set. The sky had turned a deep purple. The air was cold, but Kair didn't care. He carried an old bag over his shoulder. Inside were three things: a half-deflated ball, old boots wrapped in tape, and a water bottle.
As he approached the north wall, he heard sounds.
Shouting. Laughter. Footsteps.
He leaned over the hole in the wall and slipped inside. The concrete platform glistened in the faint moonlight. About twenty young people were running around on the platform. Most were Kair's age. They were all wearing the same worn Servus uniforms.
But here, now, no one was a slave.
Here, everyone was a player.
"Kair!"
The voice came from the centre of the platform. It was a tall, thin young man. His name was Reval. He was a year older than Kair. His hair was thinning from the dust, but his face was still young and honest.
"You're late," said Reval. He ran over to him. "The teams have already been formed."
"Sorry. My shift ran late."
Reval shrugged. "It always does. Come on, we'll take you."
Kair dropped his bag on the ground. He pulled out his boots. They were old, torn, and reeking. But the moment he laced them on, something shifted inside him.
It was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
As if he could breathe.
In the middle of the platform, two teams stood facing each other. The goals were made of stones. The lines were drawn with coal. The ball was patched, but it was still a ball.
"Kair on the right wing," said Reval. "I'll stay in midfield. You run, I'll pass."
Kair nodded.
When the game started, he didn't think about anything.
He just ran.
When the ball came, Kair was ready.
He took it with his right foot. The opponent was coming at him. He was a big lad. Kair didn't know his name. Maybe he was a transfer from Camp 9. Maybe he was from another barracks in Camp 7.
It didn't matter.
Kair made a feint to the right. The opponent took the bait. He took the ball with his left foot and slipped past.
He ran.
The front was open. Reval was shouting: "Centre! Centre!"
But Kair didn't see the centre.
As Kair approached the ball, he saw it.
The ball's trajectory. The keeper's dive. The inside of the post.
He hadn't kicked yet, but he saw it.
Gods? Or him?
He swung his foot. The ball tore through the air. It flew over the keeper's hands. It curved around the inside of the post and hit the net.
Exactly as he had seen it.
There was a moment of silence.
Then the roar erupted.
"GOAL!"
Reval ran over, grabbed Kair by the shoulders. "Where did you learn that?"
Kair didn't answer. Because he didn't know.
He just knew.
The game lasted an hour.
Kair scored three more goals. Reval scored two. The opposing team could only manage one goal.
When the game ended, everyone was exhausted. But there were smiles on their faces. Here, on this platform, they weren't slave children who would be selected in two days' time. Here, they were players. They were stars. They were free.
As Kair drank his water, someone from the opposing team approached him.
He was short. His face was stern, his eyes dark. He knew his name: Torvus.
He was one of Camp 7's best players. He had scored 71 points in last year's trial exam. But he had refused to enter the trials. Because his father was ill. If he had entered and passed the trials, he would have had to leave his father behind in Camp 7.
Now he would try again this year.
"You're good," said Torvus. His voice was cold. "But being good isn't enough in the trials."
Kair frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," said Torvus, "you're the Bastard's Son. Kalverra is a slave nation because of your father. No matter how well you do in the trials, they won't pass you."
Kair's jaw tightened. "What do you know?"
"My brother was in the Administration. He saw the list. Branded families. Yours is at the top." Torvus spat. "Don't even enter the trials. It's a waste of time."
Kair's stomach knotted. "You're lying."
"Lying?" Torvus stepped back. "Last year, there was a guy named Markan. He scored 68 points. But he was branded too. His father had insulted one of the coaches ten years ago. He did well in the trials. But when the results came out... he was eliminated. Call Markan tomorrow. He's at Camp 9 now. Working in the quarries. Sixteen hours a day. He never played football again."
Torvus turned and left.
After everyone dispersed, Kair was left alone.
He stood in the middle of the platform. Silence surrounded him. Moonlight hit the concrete floor. The wind blew gently.
He took off his boots. Put them in his bag. As he turned, he saw a movement.
At the edge of the platform, on the stones, someone was sitting.
An old man.
He wore a worn cloak. His head was hooded. His face was in shadow. The moonlight hit him, but his face remained invisible.
Kair froze. His heart began to pound.
"Who's there?" he said. His voice trembled.
The man did not answer. He just sat there. Motionless.
Kair took a step forward. "You... where did you come from?"
The man lifted his head. Two eyes glinted from beneath the hood. Old, but sharp.
"Kair," said the man. His voice was deep and soft. "You scored four goals today."
Kair recoiled. "How... how do you know me?"
"I've been watching you for a long time." The man stood up. He was heavy but his posture was straight. "The trials are in two days. And you will fail."
Kair's breath caught. "What?"
"You're branded. You're the Bastard's Son. The selectors won't pass you. No matter how good you are."
Kair lunged forward in anger. "Are you going to say the same thing? Everyone—"
"But," said the man. His voice was sharp and clear. "I can help you."
Kair stopped. His heart pounded in his chest. His father's words echoed in his mind: The gods see everything.
His eyes locked on the man's hood. "You... what are you?"
Silence. Even the wind had stopped.
The man lifted his head. A chuckle came from under the hood.
"You ask what I am?" His voice was harsher now. "Good. But you will learn your answer at the trials."
He took a step into the shadows.
"Know this—" His voice echoed in the darkness. "Some play the gods' game. Others... disrupt it."
Kair took two steps. "Wait! What are you going to do? How—"
But the man was gone.
There was only wind and silence.
When he returned home, his father was asleep.
On the table was a half-empty bottle. It contained cheap alcohol. What was sold at Camp 7 wasn't even real alcohol. Just a chemical concoction. But it still killed the pain.
Kair looked at his father.
His face was pale. His hair was thinning. His hands were shaking. Once, this man had been a footballer. A star. Thousands had cheered for him.
Now he was just a wreck.
Kair quietly went to his room. He lay down on the bed. He counted the cracks in the ceiling.
Twenty-three.
At the trials. You'll see then.
He closed his eyes. But sleep would not come.
End of Chapter.