Chapter 03 – The Authority

28th April, Thursday

Today marks two weeks after my eighteenth birthday. A letter came in today. It was printed on pale blue paper, stamped with the Civic Authority’s insignia: a circle divided into nine. I thought my heart would stop when I saw it—though my parents didn’t notice.

“Just the standard follow-up,” my father said, pushing the envelope toward me as if it were nothing more than an electricity bill. But when I opened it, the words felt like chains tightening.

“Dear Citizen Lars McKnight,
The Civic Health Authority has detected irregularities in your recent biometric submission.
You are hereby required to present yourself for Secondary Assessment on Tuesday, 09:00 hours, at the Regional Bureau of Identification and Compliance.
Non-attendance will result in suspension of all civil privileges.”

Suspension of privileges. That meant no ID card. No work. No bank account. No existence.

2nd May, Tuesday

In the morning, the Bureau was crowded. Rows of pale walls, pale faces. People clutching their forms like lifelines. Some looked ill, some nervous. Everyone avoided each other’s eyes.

When my number was called, I stepped into a room with no windows. A man in a gray suit sat behind the desk. His badge read Dr. Kessler, Senior Examiner.

He didn’t greet me. Just stared at my file, flipping pages. “Your lung capacity was inconsistent with your physical profile,” he said flatly. “Your heart rate fluctuates abnormally. Your blood shows… anomalies.” Then, he looked up at me for the first time. His eyes were pale gray, unreadable. “Explain.” He said.

My throat tightened. Explain? What was I supposed to say? That I sometimes woke with claws instead of fingernails? That my body wasn’t mine anymore? “I—I’ve been stressed,” I stammered. “Exams. Lack of sleep.” I said while sweating a bit. Kessler tapped his pen against the file. The sound echoed too loudly in the sterile room. “Stress,” he repeated, as though testing the word. “Yes. That is often cited.”

He closed the folder. “You’ll need to return for monitoring. On a weekly basis. Until further notice.” He said it flatly again. “Weekly?” I asked.

His gaze didn’t waver. “If you wish to keep your privileges.”

Outside, the corridor stretched endlessly, doors on either side. People came and went, but their faces blurred. Every step felt like I was walking deeper into something I couldn’t escape. By the time I reached the exit, my hands were shaking.

At night, the wolf came stronger. I woke to find fur sprouting along my arms, my jaw aching with lengthening bone. I bit my own lip just to stay silent, terrified my parents would hear. When the change receded, I collapsed on the floor, trembling.

3rd May, Wednesday

In the morning, another envelope awaited me on the kitchen table. Not pale blue this time, but white. Smaller. Hand-delivered. It didn’t have any stamps, nor any insignias. Just my name, written in thin black ink. Inside was a single line:

“The sphere is waiting for you.”

Dear Diary, I wrote with uncontrollably shaking hands.
They know. Not just the Civic Authority but also someone else entirely. Maybe the book was never history. Maybe it was a prophecy. I don’t want to be the Guide. I just want to live a normal life.

But the diary gave no answers. Only silence.

10th May, Wednesday

Sleep became a negotiation. Every night, I promised myself I would stay awake. I brewed bitter coffee until my hands trembled, and I played a static-filled radio to keep my mind alert. But the wolf—or something beyond the wolf—always won.

When dreams came, they were not mine. I dreamed of the sea, endless and gray, a tide of iron and ash. The sphere sat there half-buried in black sand, humming so low it shook the marrow of my bones. Each pulse called me closer. Each beat whispered a name. “Guide.” Someone whispered again and again.

I woke one night standing barefoot in the street outside my house, my feet muddy with saltwater, though we lived miles from the coast.

11th May, Thursday

This morning, a man stood at the corner of our block. He was wearing a gray suit, no badge, and no expression. When I turned to look at him directly, he didn’t move. Just stared as though waiting for me to approach. When I blinked, he was gone.

After that, another letter arrived. This one bore no color, no insignia, not even handwriting. Just a typed line, slipped beneath our door.

“Report to the Southern Pier at dusk. Do not bring anyone. The Civic Authority thanks you for your compliance.”

I crumpled it, shoved it deep into my pocket, but the words burned. I hadn’t told anyone about the previous note, about the sphere waiting for me. Now the Authority was summoning me there, as if reading my thoughts.

At dusk, the pier was deserted. The sea hissed against the rocks; the air was sharp with salt. I expected at least a few officials in gray suits, the same faceless man from the corner. But it was empty, except for the fisherman.

He was older than the sea itself, face leathery, hands scarred. His boat lay tethered loosely to the pier. His eyes glittered unnaturally bright. “You came,” he rasped, as though it had been certain.

I froze. “Who are you?”

“I’m no one but an old fisherman. I touched it once.”

He lifted his hand. Three of his fingers were missing. Only his middle and thumb remained. “The sphere,” he whispered. “It doesn’t let go. Not of the hand. Not of the man.”

I stepped back. “Why are you telling me this?” I asked “Because you don’t get to choose.” He replied while grinning. His grin was too wide, too sharp. “It chose you before you were born. Same way it chose me. Difference is—you’re still whole. ”Behind him, the sea roared.

And there it was. The sphere, rising from the water as though it had been waiting for this exact hour. Metallic, seamless, and glistening like oil. Somewhat bigger now than I remembered from the news footage. It vibrated with an inaudible note that still rattled my teeth.

The fisherman bowed his head. “The Guide has come.”

“No,” I screamed. “You’re wrong. I don’t want any of this.”

But my hands betrayed me. My fingers flexed, claws glinting faintly beneath the skin. My body leaned forward, drawn to the sphere like a moth to flame. And in the waves, I saw reflections that weren’t mine—nine different shapes shifting, rippling: a wolf, a serpent, a crow, and others I couldn’t name.

I don’t remember walking home. I don’t remember leaving the pier. But my bed was wet with saltwater when I woke. The Authority isn’t asking me anything anymore—they’re directing me. And the sphere… the sphere is alive. Every night it calls me louder. Every night I feel less like Lars, more like something that’s been rehearsing my body for years. I’m not writing to understand. I’m writing because soon there will be no “I” left to write at all.