The First Glader

1

The world was sound before it was anything else.

Metal groaning. A low, grinding roar that seemed to come from inside his skull. Thomas jerked awake in the dark, lungs already burning like he'd been running.

He didn't know who he was.

He didn't know where he was.

All he knew was that everything was wrong.

Cold metal pressed into his back. The air smelled like rust and dust and old sweat. His breath bounced off walls that felt too close, a box around him. Literally.

His fingers scraped along ridged metal. No door. No handle. Just smooth walls and that grinding sound, getting louder, closer, like something huge was hauling him upward.

"Hey!" his voice cracked. "Hey! Someone—"

The sound swallowed him. The box shook, knocking his head into the floor. He tasted iron and panic and shoved down both. No memories rose to comfort him—no mother's face, no place, no name but the one word floating in his head like a scrap of paper in a storm.

Thomas.

He clung to it like it might anchor him.

The box jolted to a stop so hard it drove the breath out of him. Silence crashed down, heavy and complete. He lay there, heart pounding, listening to the kind of quiet that felt like someone holding their breath.

A fast, metallic series of clicks broke it. Light exploded overhead. The ceiling split into four sections, doors grinding apart, and blinding, white-hot sunlight poured in.

"Greenie's here!" a voice yelled from above.

Hands reached down through the opening—three, four, more. Dirty fingers, scraped knuckles, callused palms. They grabbed his shirt, his arms, tugged without asking.

"Hold still, shank," someone grunted. "We're tryin' to help you."

Thomas didn't feel helped. He felt like a piece of meat being hauled out of a crate. He scrabbled for purchase, shoes slipping on metal, until suddenly his shoulders cleared the edge and he was yanked out into the open.

For a moment, all he could do was squint and blink, eyes watering. Light stabbed into his skull. The world became a smear of color and noise.

Gradually, shapes resolved. A ring of boys stared down at him, forming a rough circle around the hole. Fifteen, twenty—he couldn't tell. All ages, all in worn shirts and patched pants, faces caked with dirt and sweat. Some grinned. Some frowned. A few just looked bored.

Behind them, stone walls towered into the sky. Four of them, covered in creeping vines, rising far higher than any building he could remember—which was nothing, but still. Trees crowded the edges of a wide, grassy square. Rough wooden buildings hunched in one corner. It looked like someone had dropped a farm into a stone prison.

His legs gave out. He dropped to his knees.

Laughter rippled around the circle.

"Whoa there, Greenbean," one of the boys said. He stepped forward, smirking, hands on his hips like he owned the place. Older than Thomas by a year or two, wide shoulders, thick arms. Dark hair. A sharp, hooked nose. "You gonna faint on us already?"

"I..." Thomas swallowed, throat dry. "Where am I?"

The boy snorted. "He talks. That's new." His smirk tilted meaner. "Welcome to the Glade, Greenie."

Greenie. The word dropped heavy. Thomas didn't know what it meant, but it felt like an insult and a label at the same time.

"What's your name?" another boy asked, stepping closer. Blond, hair long enough to curl around his ears, accent lilting. His eyes were tired, but not unkind. "You remember?"