Arneth, Holy Empire of Light, 1908.

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                Despite the cold, his father’s hand was clammy and slick with sweat, but his grip was tight and firm, almost painful. They were huddled in a long queue, flanked by tall, armed men with black armour and bright red, metal masks. Like the blood that had run from the scrape on his knee when he fell playing in the tenement square. Brellian Harx could not see their eyes through the dark, narrow slits, but he could feel them watching him and it made his skin crawl.

                “Citizens of Arneth! The blood census is mandatory for all children of age,” called a high voice ahead, the same as before, over and over as the queue of ragged people shuffled forward. “Attempts to avoid the census will be punished. There is nothing to fear. To possess Holy Blood is to be divine. Welcome the chance your child will have.”

                Brellian looked behind him. There was a grubby faced girl looking back at him with wide, fearful eyes who he recognised from the factory floor, he tried to offer a smile but it came out queasy and trembling. The girl’s mother gripped her tight, her eyes nervous, scared. Just like Brellian’s father.

                Slowly, they moved forward, and Brellian could see a large, blood red tent ahead, set up in the centre of the vast Ward square, dwarfed by the dirty grey buildings and shadowed by the dark, soot-streaked forge smog that loomed over the industrial city. The tent was surrounded by the men in red masks, and another man stood on a podium at the head of the queue. He wore long black robes slashed with red and carried a staff crested with a strange, glowing red jewel.

                “The Covenant enacts the will of the God-Empress,” the man on the podium called, and Brellian recognised the high voice. “To obstruct the duty of the Covenant is heresy!”

                Brellian looked up at his father, his angular features pinched and pale, his dark hair was streaked with grey and his face was dirty with factory grime. His father glanced down at him, a wavering smile flashing across his lips.

                “Who is that man, Dad?” Brellian asked.

                “He’s a Priest Covenant, son,” his father replied. “He’s just overseeing the census, is all.”

                As they neared the tent, Brellian could hear sounds from within, whimpers and cries, somebody begging. Sobbing. It made his heart pound in his chest. The queue stopped again and Brellian could see a man and his daughter beckoned up to a table before being ushered through the heavy flaps of the tent. “What’s going to happen?” Brellian asked.

                His father turned to him, crouching down to look him in the face. Brellian was shocked to see there were tears in his father’s eyes as his calloused hand reached out and touched his cheek. “Everything is going to be alright,” said his father, “there’s nothing to worry about. I love you, Brellian.”

                When it was their turn, Brellian and his father were ushered to the table by the tent’s entrance. They passed beneath the podium and Brellian stared up at the ancient, hawkish features of the Priest Covenant. The Priest glanced down at him with disinterest before beginning his announcements again; “Citizens of Arneth! The blood census is mandatory for all children of age!”

                They were stopped before the table where a young, chinless man with protruding eyes sat in dark robes tied with a bright red belt. “Name and occupation?” He demanded.

                “Frennic Harx,” said Brellian’s father, his voice wavering. “Forge Servant.”

                “And his?” The man gestured at Brellian with his stylus.

                “Brellian Harx, Forge Servant.”

                “Age?”

                “Seven years.”

                The man’s eyes crawled over his registry, then he nodded and ticked them off. “A weak hereditary potency, eh?”  He glanced at Frennic Harx, then looked at Brellian with a smile that made him feel uneasy. “Perhaps your son will be more fortunate.” He signed a piece of paper and handed it to Frennic. “Give this to the Blood Priest,” he said, then waved them through and one of the masked men ushered them into the tent.

                Within the tent, Brellian was hit by a strange coppery smell that mingled with a pungent stench of disinfectant that assaulted his nostrils. He could see there were about twenty testing stations set up, a small table at each with vials, paperwork and a strange, box like, machine with a glass tube laid across it. There was a chair like the one at the barbers at each station, except these chairs seemed to have leather straps at each armrest. There were children sat on the chairs, their anxious parent stood nearby under the close watch of a masked man, while a blood priest loomed over the child. One child had been tied down with the leather straps and was thrashing wildly, his mother trying to sooth him while she sobbed.

                Brellian’s hands started to tremble.

                A guard directed them to a free station and Frennic handed over the slip of paper. The Blood Priest smiled at Brellian and tapped the chair. “Brellian, is it?” He said, glancing at the paper. “My name is Nerret, and it is a pleasure to meet you. Do sit, Brellian, there’s nothing to be scared of.”

                Brellian looked at his father. “Go on, son,” Frennic croaked, “it’s okay.”

                Gingerly, Brellian clambered up onto the red leather seat and laid back. There was a bright arc-light hanging above the station from the tent’s frame poles and the glare seared his vision. He blinked and looked away, his eyes watering, and watched the blood priest tinker with his equipment.

                “Would you roll up your sleeve for me, Brellian?” Nerret asked over his shoulder.

                Brellian looked at his father again, who offered him a mute nod of appeal. He rolled up the sleeve of his forge overalls to reveal his thin, pale arm as Nerret turned from his instruments and faced him. The Blood Priest had a glass syringe in his hand, it had a brass plunger and a long steel needle that glinted in the harsh glare of the arc-light. Brellian paled at the sight as Nerret kicked a wheeled stool closer to the chair and sat himself down. With a cold hand he clasped Brellian’s wrist and turned his arm over. “There’s a good lad,” he said, then glanced up at Frennic. “I understand there is a weak potency in the hereditary line?”

                “Yes,” Frennic muttered. “His mother’s side, very weak. Too weak.”

                Nerret grunted and returned his attention to Brellian. “Perhaps Brellian here will be more fortunate,” he smiled at him. “Now be brave, and be still, you’ll feel a slight prick and nothing more, okay, Brellian?”

                Brellian gave a weak nod.

                “Good lad.”

                Nerret pressed his cold thumb into the crook of Brellian’s arm for a moment, then moved the needle towards the raised vein. Brellian felt his head spinning and looked away. He winced at a brief, sharp pain in his arm, but it quickly faded to be replaced by a strange sensation that made him feel sick.

                There was a pressure in the crook of his arm again.

                “Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

                Brellian looked back as Nerret released the pressure from his thumb and dabbed at a small trickle of blood with a cloth. In his other hand, the syringe was full of Brellian’s blood. Nerret turned round on the stool and scooted over to the large box machine. It had an arc-cell slotted into the side and the glass tube was capped in brass at each end and slotted lengthways into a groove on the top of the wooden frame. Brellian watched as Nerret emptied the syringe into a fresh vial, opened the cap of the glass tube and placed the vial upright into a small brass holder in the centre. He closed the lid and turned to Brellian with a smile. “The moment of truth!” He said, before pulling a small leaver next to the arc-cell.

                Brellian could not tear his eyes away from the machine. There was a brief crackle, like the start of a muffled arc-generator, a gathering hum and a series of flashes within the tube that looked like forks of lightning in a far-off sky. He watched, wide eyed, as the blood in the vial, his blood, began to bubble slightly, like simmering soup on the stove. A small conducting element that hung above the vial shone briefly, before sending a wave of the miniature lightning bolts into the vial. The blood pulsed in the vial, then Brellian could see even smaller cracks of lightning rippling through it as if it were a blood-red storm sky trapped in some sorcerous bottle.

                Gradually, the storm flashes died away and the humming sound faded to be replaced by a small whirring sound. Nerret was staring intently at a small arc-bulb on the side of the machine and Brellian watched him clasp his hands as it suddenly came to life with a bright, blueish glow.

                “No,” he heard his father moan. His heart was racing.

                “Well, look at that,” Nerret cried, turning round with a beaming smile. “You are a lucky man, Mr Harx, you have a son with very potent Holy Blood!” His shining eyes slid down to Brellian. “You are blessed, my boy, blessed.”

                “No, no, no.” Frennic whimpered. Brellian looked round at him, saw his father pale, terrified.

                Nerret stood up. “Vephic,” he called to someone at the rear of the tent, behind the chair, “would you come and collect young Brellian here, he is a blessed boy.”

                Another blood priest, pale and gangly, swept over. “Of course,” he said. “My pleasure.” He put out a hand for Brellian. “Come along, Brellian.”

                Brellian stared at the hand and looked back at his father. “Dad?”

                “You can’t,” Frennic said, looking past Brellian. “You can’t.”

                Nerret frowned. “We can, Mr Harx. It is the will of the Holy Empress. I suggest you rejoice at your son’s good fortune. If he survives, he will be one of the God-Empress’s most powerful and holy servants.”

                If he survives? Brellian wondered with horror, his stomach roiling.

                “Come, Brellian,” the other priest, Vephic, said, placing a hand on his arm. Brellian wrenched away and leaped from the chair. He dashed towards his father but two long arms quickly swept him up in a bear hug from behind.

                “Leave him,” his father snarled, moving forward a step before the masked man grabbed him. Brellian was writhing in Vephic’s arms as he was turned from his father, he was bashing the priest’s chest with the back of his head, screaming and lashing out with his feet. His foot made contact with something and there was a sharp cry as Nerret stumbled back into the table, his nose streaming with blood.

                “Dad,” Brellian screamed. “Dad!”

                Vephic called for assistance and another, broad shouldered priest came over and grasped Brellian’s legs under one meaty arm. He was clasped tight, but he writhed and shouted all the same, wrenching his head round in search of his father, who he saw wrestling with the masked man, screaming his name, trying to reach him. The masked man drove an armoured fist into Frennic’s stomach that drove him to his knees. A sharp backhand across his face laid him across the floor. Brellian saw the masked man draw a pistol and point it at his father who was crawling, dazed on the floor, bloody spittle hanging from his mouth. His eyes met Brellian’s for a last moment, before Brellian was swept through the flap at the rear of the tent and into a dark tunnel.

From the tent there was a loud bang.

                Brellian screamed.