The medic unclipped the brace from Caelum’s leg, hands moving with that bored, practised speed that comes from doing the same thing a hundred times. Just another routine check. Nothing special. Another day, another piece of gear stripped away.

  She ran a scanner over his leg, the scanner humming and spitting out a mess of numbers—bone regrowth, scar tissue, integration rates, all the things that mattered to them. She didn’t even look at him, just at the readout, then gave a quick nod. Good enough, apparently.

  “Eighty-six per cent structural healing. The bone lattice is rebuilt and stable. But avoid high-impact or resonance surges for now.”

  Fourteen days since the white room. Since they’d sat him down and talked about ‘control’. Like he ever had a choice in the first place.

  Two weeks of drills, study, endless training, timing, control, letting the power move instead of trying to shove it through. Over and over, until it was muscle memory or nothing.

  He pushed himself upright, slowly and carefully, testing whether his leg would actually hold this time.

  No sharp pain, no sudden weakness. Just stiffness—the ghost of torn muscle, not the pain itself. Just a memory of what had been there.

  Modern healing tech had done its job. Directed bone growth, framework grafts, and meds to speed things up without messing with his sync. All clinical, all efficient.

  The RMA always looked after their investments. Potential Marked, potential asset. Not a person—just another resource to patch up and shove back out the door.

  He rolled his shoulder, bent his knee, and shifted his weight from side to side. Every move slow, deliberate, testing the limits. Seeing what still worked and what didn’t.

  Good enough.

  The washroom mirror was just a sheet of polished metal, edges warped from years of use. Not much to see himself in, but it did the job.

  He looked at his reflection longer than usual, half-expecting to see something different staring back at him. No such luck.

  Dark hair, cut short, combed over to one side. Sensible. Unnoticeable. His eyes were blue; not much to look at. Not attractive enough for lingering stares, not plain enough to be invisible. A face that wouldn’t stand out in a crowd.

  Looked nineteen, maybe twenty.

  One eighty tall. Thin, not large. Physique built by training, not vanity. Wide shoulders, fit as the RMA liked—durable and usefully-sized.

  No real mark left on his leg. The medics had done their job, erased the evidence entirely.

  The ARC interface gave a subtle pulse, a cue that he was still on the grid.

  Certification Trial – Deployment Status Pending

  He let out a slow breath. Today wasn’t about standing out.

  It was about not screwing up. Not giving them any excuse to cut him loose.

  His gear had come back last night, finally cleared for use. About time.

  Checked, scanned, scrubbed, logged. Nothing left to chance.

  The crate waited at the end of his bed, dumped right where they’d left it.

  He popped the lid and went through everything, one by one, careful not to miss anything. Habit, by now.

  His first rift knife lay in foam, just a little off from what he remembered. Someone had tweaked the weight.

  A reinforced underlayer suit lay folded beside it — matte black reactive fibre designed to disperse kinetic force and damp minor resonance backlash. A gift for awakening.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Three stabilisers, lined up like pills on a tray. He eyed them, knowing he’d need every one.

  Field pack, compact and crammed with the bare minimum. Just enough to get by.

  No spear, but he should be provided a new one before entry.

  A data slate sat at the bottom, tucked away like an afterthought. Probably nothing good on it.

  He powered it on, waiting for whatever bad news it had for him this time.

  Compensation Notice – Resource Acquisition

  The shard he had extracted during the first exposure had been classified as viable.

  Resonance Density: Above regional baseline. Integrity: 82%. Classification: Research-grade. 3000 Credits transferred.

  He gazed at the number. Not impressive, but not nothing.

  Enough to get a decent set of gear if he passed certification.

  The risk he took was finally converted into value.

  He locked the slate and shoved it into his pack.

  The waiting room outside the assignment hall felt too quiet.

  Metal benches lined the walls, each one claimed by clusters of cadets murmuring to each other. A dark display panel hung above the main doors, waiting to spit out assignments.

  Caelum stood near the back wall, arms folded, watching the room instead of joining in.

  Watching was safer than talking. He remembered the team they’d stuck him with for this trial.

  A tall boy near the centre benches caught his eye first.

  The cadet stood rather than sat, back straight, shoulders squared. Uniform immaculate, hair sharp, jaw set like he was born to lead.

  Dawson Hawkins.

  Caelum had seen the name on the exam boards. High scorer. High-Strata background. Electromagnetic ability. The kind of power the academy drooled over. The perfect poster boy.

  Hawkins talked with two other cadets, gesturing as if he were explaining something obvious to children.

  His voice carried across the room.

  “…teams without direction collapse fast. Someone has to coordinate.”

  Caelum tucked that away for later.

  Direct. Assertive. High-strata. Already assuming leadership.

  Near the wall opposite, a girl looked as if she were trying to disappear into the background.

  Her blonde hair fell forward as she bent over her notebook, pen moving with careful, almost obsessive precision. She ignored everyone around her. Striking, but with a kind of distance that made her untouchable.

  élo?se Belrose.

  Her uniform was perfect, every crease sharp, every button in place. She wore it with a kind of quiet formality that made her seem untouchable. Even her posture, upright and composed, put up a wall no one was meant to cross.

  Not shy exactly.

  Just withdrawn. Like she’d built her own little world and locked the door.

  When someone passed too close to her spot, she slightly moved further inward, eyes never leaving the page.

  Quiet type.

  Probably the type who noticed everything, even if she pretended not to.

  Caelum wondered what she was writing. Notes? A letter? Something to keep her mind off the room.

  Further down the row sat the girl he recognised from the certification hall these last weeks, her bandaged hands resting in her lap.

  Kifah Sultan.

  Her hands, wrapped in white gauze, clenched tight in her lap. She hunched over, shrinking into herself.

  Every few seconds, her eyes flicked to the door and then away again.

  Nervous.

  Not jittery—the kind of nervousness that sat heavy in the chest and refused to move.

  When another cadet brushed past, she flinched, then forced herself still.

  He’d heard she’d had a rough time in her rift. Something had shaken her badly.

  Across the room, someone caught him staring.

  “Caelum?”

  The voice was familiar.

  A boy with blonde, messy hair stood from one of the benches, recognition appearing on his face.

  Cadet number 634.

  Blancard. The name was now confirmed by the team assignment list, finally putting a label to the familiar face Caelum had noticed in the study hall a month earlier, before the exam. Until then, he had only half-remembered the other cadet’s presence, a recurring figure in the background, but the assignment left no doubt: they were, in fact, the same.

  They had attended the same lower academy district years ago—never close friends, but familiar enough that the memory emerged easily.

  Blancard approached with an easy smile.

  “Thought that was you,” he said. “Didn’t expect to see someone from our old school make it this far.”

  His tone was actually warm. That alone set him apart from half the room.

  Caelum nodded once.

  “Didn’t expect it either.”

  Blancard laughed softly, casting a glance around.

  “You see the lineup today? Some real heavy hitters.”

  His eyes glanced over to Hawkins.

  “Especially that one.”

  Caelum followed his gaze.

  Hawkins had now taken a seat but was still speaking confidently with two other cadets, explaining something with quick, decisive gestures.

  Blancard bent closer.

  “Heard he can launch objects like a railgun.”

  That tracked.

  Electromagnetism.

  Caelum pictured the kind of velocity that could generate. He made a mental note: threat level, high.

  Blancard kept going, voice sinking a notch.

  “And that girl over there—Belrose. Water affinity. Rare and highly sought after.”

  Caelum had already guessed as much.

  Water abilities weren’t common. Most cadets got stuck with something more volatile.

  His gaze wandered back to the quiet blonde.

  élo?se Belrose didn’t notice.

  Or if she did, she didn’t react.

  Further down the bench, Kifah sat stiff, bandaged hands in her lap, staring at the floor like she expected it to consume her completely.

  Four very different personalities, all crammed into one team.

  A leader, high-born and untested, convinced he was in charge.

  A recluse who looked allergic to teamwork.

  A survivor—nervous, anxious, barely holding it together.

  And someone familiar.