Prologue
The glass of Dome Seven hums faintly above us, refracting the morning light into sterile shades of silver.
They say the world beyond is poison, nothing but dust and ruin. But when the storm shutters open for the Trials, I see the horizon for the first time – jagged metal towers jutting from the sand, like the bones of something ancient refusing to die.
For the first time, I don’t believe a word the Ministry has said.
For centuries, the Ministry of Health has kept our society alive in sealed, climate-controlled domes. Most of humanity was wiped out by the outbreak of Ash Fever, a mutating virus that sends its victims through three stages of hell.
The first stage, the Burn, starts with a grey dust-like rash on the skin. Then comes the heat – an unbearable sensitivity to sunlight, breath, and even touch. The Ministry calls it an “immune response.” But we all know what it really is: the body catching fire from the inside out.
The second stage, The Smolder, darkens the veins until the glow faintly beneath the skin, silver and sickly. Victims cough up black ash and lose their sense of feeling, like their nerves are turning to smoke. By then, the Ministry sends their drones to collect them — no one ever sees what happens after that.
The final stage, the Cinder Phase, gives the fever its name. The body hardens, then collapses into dust. There is no heat or flame—just the sound of something human turning to powder.
That’s what they tell us, anyway. But if the world outside is so deadly, why does the ash in the air breathe?
