In the world of Aurelion, a name was never just a name.
It was a record kept by the state, a measure of worth, a line in a ledger that decided how far a person could go before the doors closed. Names determined where you stood, how long you waited, and whether anyone listened when you spoke.
Some names opened paths before a child could walk.
Others were barely written at all.
Arden Kael learned this truth early, long before he understood why it hurt.
The capital city of Viremont woke slowly, wrapped in smoke and morning fog. The river carried the sound of factories toward the center, where stone buildings rose like monuments to order. Bells rang across the city, not for worship, but for assembly.
It was Contribution Day.
Once each season, citizens gathered at the National Registry to have their efforts counted and ranked. Work done, battles fought, supplies delivered, taxes paid, all of it recorded and transformed into numbers that shaped lives.
The square was crowded.
Workers stood shoulder to shoulder in worn coats. Soldiers waited in loose lines, armor scratched and dulled by use. Merchants whispered to their children, reminding them to stand straight and speak clearly.
Families stayed together.
Arden stood alone.
He was seventeen years old, tall but lean, his boots repaired so many times that the leather had lost its shape. In his pocket lay a thin copper disk, smooth from years of handling. His civil identification marker.
No crest.
No family seal.
Only a number.
He watched as the line advanced.
A man stepped forward with confidence.
"House Merrow," the clerk announced. "Rank Two confirmed. Contribution credited."
Applause followed. The young man accepted a bronze seal and smiled as his father placed a hand on his shoulder. Another step upward for the family. Another layer of security.
This was how progress worked in Aurelion.
Quiet. Methodical. Relentless.
Arden moved closer to the gates.
His mother used to speak of the Kaels in a softer tone, as if remembering something fragile.
"Your grandfather kept the rail lines running during the famine," she would say while sewing by candlelight. "Trains moved when nothing else did. People ate because of that."
Arden had believed her.
The registry had no memory of it.
No recorded contribution.
No confirmed legacy.
No inheritance passed down.
When his parents died during the third border war, the state sent a formal letter and a modest payment. His father was listed as an industrial casualty. His mother as a secondary loss.
Enough to bury them.
Not enough to change anything.
Since then, Arden had learned the difference between effort and recognition.
Only one of them mattered.
He reached the front of the line.
The clerk looked up, eyes tired, fingers stained with ink.
"Name."
"Arden Kael."
The clerk paused.
"Family."
"Kael."
The man flipped through the ledger. Slowly. Once. Twice.
Then he closed it.
"No registered house," he said. "No prior rank."
Arden nodded.
"Civilian," the clerk continued. "Rank Zero."
A thin iron disk slid across the counter. Cold. Unmarked.
"Rights?" Arden asked.
"Work assignments and rations," the clerk replied. "Nothing else."
No vote.
No political affiliation.
No marriage registration under a recognized family.
Rank Zero citizens did not found houses. They faded.
Arden took the disk and stepped away.
Behind him, cheers erupted. Another name had risen. Another seal gleamed in the light.
Arden did not turn back.
Across the square stood the recruitment hall.
Banners hung from its stone walls, each marked with a region name and a date. Victories and losses recorded without emotion. Proof that the nation remembered its wars, even when it forgot its people.
Arden entered.
Inside, officers assessed recruits with practiced efficiency.
Strong bodies to infantry.
Skilled hands to logistics.
Recognized names to command tracks.
A sergeant glanced at Arden's iron disk and exhaled.
"Another Zero," he muttered. "Labor corps or infantry?"
"Infantry," Arden said.
The sergeant studied him for a moment. "You understand what that means."
"Yes."
It meant the front.
It meant casualties.
It meant contribution paid in blood.
The stamp came down hard.
"Rhevan Plains campaign. Deployment in three days."
Arden accepted the temporary military marker they handed him. Still iron. Still anonymous.
But it was motion.
And motion meant opportunity.
That evening, Arden climbed the western wall of the city and looked out toward the horizon. Fires burned along the river. Somewhere far beyond the plains, armies clashed over land he had never seen.
Decisions made in councils echoed here, shaping lives without ever knowing their names.
Arden rested his hand on the stone.
He did not hate the system.
He understood it.
Visibility created power.
Power preserved families.
Families shaped history.
"I will earn it," he said quietly.
Not comfort.
Not safety.
A name that endured.
One that clerks would not question.
One that children would inherit.
One that the ledger would remember.
Far away, on the Rhevan Plains, the war registry updated.
And deep within the records of the nation, a new entry waited.
House Kael.
Status pending.