The streets narrowed as Marcus moved away from the elevated quarters of his district. The polished stone faded into cracked pavement, and the towering buildings gave way to shorter, mismatched structures patched with age and necessity. Here, the air was thicker with the scent of smoke, labor, and something far more human.
He wasn't used to walking these paths. The glances he received weren't hostile, just curious—someone of his class didn't belong here. But Marcus no longer cared about belonging.
He asked questions—carefully at first, then more directly.
"Do you know anyone who took the Walkers' Test?"
"Have you heard of someone who teaches the system?"
"Where do they go, the ones who pass?"
Most responses were shrugs or dismissive grunts. A few chuckled.
"You're a scholar's kid," one man sneered. "Go read a book."
But not everyone ignored him.
An old woman, sitting outside a crumbling tavern, looked at him for a long moment. Her eyes were cloudy but sharp.
"You're either brave or stupid, asking about that here," she said. "Both get you killed."
Marcus thanked her and kept walking. He didn't stop. He couldn't.
It wasn't until late evening that he found someone truly unusual—a man standing still at a busy crossing, cloaked in black, his right hand gloved despite the heat. On that glove, faintly visible under the grime and dust, was a shimmering mark: a seal.
Marcus knew the seal. He had studied it in his father's records. It belonged only to those sanctioned by the system. A true Walker. A living proof.
He approached, heart pounding.
"I want to ask something," Marcus said.
The man didn't respond.
Marcus stepped closer. "How did you do it? How does someone like me take the test?"
At that, the man tilted his head slightly. For a moment, Marcus felt as if he were being seen through completely.
"You don't take the test," the man finally replied. "It takes you."
And with that, he walked off, vanishing into the crowd like smoke.
Marcus stood there, stunned. The words echoed in his mind. It takes you.
He returned home that night, his thoughts louder than ever. He dove into his father's library again, deeper than before. Notes, journals, reports—there were whispers of Watchers, of those who supervise the process. There were accounts of failed candidates. But nothing concrete. No map. No steps.
But he wouldn't stop.
He wrote down one sentence at the end of that night:
"Even if the path is invisible, I will walk it until it appears."