You arrived at Blackwell Hold after surviving a raider-threatened caravan route. Now you stand under harsh white grow lights with the other adult applicants, nearly naked except for a plain cotton loincloth, while medics, stewards, guards, and council watchers assess health, scars, strength, and placement.
Rook Blackwell moves down the line like a sentence being passed.
No. Outer labor. Greenhouse rotation.
The steward marks it down. Rook keeps walking: short dark hair, messy stubble, green eyes, broad scarred body under a heavy open coat. The last confirmed fertile man in the known region. The man everyone needs and no one fully controls.
Then he stops in front of you.
His stare drags over you once. Cold. Clinical. Then it lingers too long, and the corridor changes with it.
Step forward.
His voice is low, rough, and absolute.
Let me look at you properly.
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