The silence wasn't a silence anymore. It was a kind of stillness that moved—coiling beneath the floor tiles like something caged and patient. Something waiting.
Cael sat on the edge of his bunk, elbows digging into his knees, eyes fixed on the condensation trailing down the side of his water tin. Each drop curved just slightly, caught on the grooves of the steel, then fell, again and again. Beside him, Wren was already lacing her boots with mechanical precision. Across the room, Pax was mouthing numbers under his breath—counting the seconds, or the cracks in the ceiling, or maybe how many breaths he had left before their next "test."
The others were silent too.
No one asked questions anymore.
Because here, silence wasn't absence.
It was a warning.
And today, it pulsed heavier than usual.
When the door opened, it didn't creak—it hissed. Smooth. Final. The Drillmaster stepped inside with her usual glassy stare and sharp shoulders, but there was something in the set of her mouth that gave Cael pause.
She was too composed.
"Black Team. Formation Unit Six. Step forward."
Cael's legs moved before he told them to. Wren rose beside him, unreadable. Pax stumbled slightly before catching himself. Lyndra offered no words—just a small glance at Cael that might have meant "Watch your back" or "Don't forget your name."
The corridor they walked down was dimmer than the usual routes—longer, narrower, with walls that shimmered slightly from some unseen current. Fluorescent panels hummed above like they were struggling to stay alive.
Cael didn't recognize this path.
When the doors at the end opened, a wide chamber greeted them—vaulted ceiling, silver walls, and panels of reinforced glass running along the left side like a viewing gallery. It was a simulation arena, but larger, more polished. Monitors hovered from mechanical arms in the corners, blinking with feeds and data points in code none of them could read.
Behind the glass, Major Pieces stood watching.
Elijah was there, stoic and still, arms folded over his chest like a king surveying his broken court. Vera stood to his right, the faintest smirk etched into her mouth, but her eyes were icy and exact.
Cael's gaze snapped sideways the moment he saw Elara.
She stood back, near the wall, apart from the others. Her eyes didn't meet his. Not once. She stared at the floor, jaw tight, posture perfect. The blade at her back glimmered faintly beneath the pale lights. She hadn't aged—but somehow, she looked older.
"Today's exercise," the Drillmaster said, "is calibration."
That word sent a ripple through the Pawns.
"Each of you will engage in single combat with a Major Piece. This is not punishment. This is performance adjustment. A recalibration of expectations."
Wren muttered under her breath. Cael only caught one word.
"Hierarchy."
"You are not here to win," the Drillmaster added. "You are here to understand the gap."
The first name called was Wren.
She stepped forward with the grace of someone who knew they were walking into fire—and didn't care.
Her opponent?
Sora.
The Bishop of fire.
When she moved onto the floor, it was like watching a flame take form. Every step was fluid, deliberate. Her hair had darkened slightly since the injection, tinged crimson near the tips, and a faint glow pulsed just beneath her skin like the flicker of coal.
The room dimmed slightly as the lights redirected toward the arena floor.
Wren didn't hesitate.
She rushed forward, low and fast, baton raised. The moment her weapon sliced the air, Sora moved—no wasted energy, no flinch. Just a sweep of her hand.
A curtain of fire spiraled between them.
Wren dove through it.
Smoke curled from her sleeve, but she managed a strike—just one—that nicked Sora's side.
But Sora didn't bleed.
She smiled.
Then the temperature changed.
Flames burst outward, not to kill, but to corner. The fire formed a ring, flickering, scorching, boxing Wren in.
The girl stood inside it, breathing hard, eyes locked on her opponent.
Sora lifted her hand again—
But froze.
Something shifted in her. A twitch. Her lips moved as though whispering.
And then she turned her head… and looked upward.
Not at the Pawns. Not at the Major Pieces.
At the ceiling.
Then fire erupted from her arm—not at Wren—but into the roof above, scorching a panel, releasing a hail of sparks that hissed onto the floor.
The Drillmaster shouted something. The simulation ended.
Sora lowered her arm.
Smoke curled in thin tendrils from her wrist.
Wren stood still inside the scorched ring, untouched by the final burst. She didn't move until the flames vanished.
"Wren. Return to formation," the Drillmaster said.
No one clapped.
No one blinked.
The second name called was Lyndra.
Her opponent: Thorne.
He looked different. Broader in the shoulders, arms like iron beams. His presence changed the air.
The fight wasn't long.
Lyndra dodged twice. The third time, Thorne caught her with the flat of his fist—no elegance, no hesitation—and sent her sprawling. She scrambled upright, bleeding from the lip.
Thorne didn't press.
He just turned and walked off.
"Cael," the Drillmaster called.
He stepped forward before his legs could reconsider.
Across from him stood Rune.
And it wasn't the Rune he remembered.
This Rune had lost his grin, lost the softness in his shoulders. His blades hummed faintly with violet light, strapped to his hips like extensions of his hands.
He didn't nod.
He didn't greet.
He drew both weapons.
And attacked.
The speed was blinding.
Cael barely blocked the first blow—his baton shaking in his grip. Rune vanished and reappeared behind him, slicing sideways, narrowly missing Cael's ribs. Sparks danced where the blades met the training weapons.
But it wasn't just skill.
It was coldness.
Rune was testing him—not for weakness, but for something else. Something Cael didn't understand.
He countered, side-stepped, and managed one hit—a jab to Rune's side.
It didn't land.
Rune phased just slightly, blinked out of reach.
And returned the blow twice as hard, knocking Cael onto his back.
Breathing hard, Cael stared up at the lights, ears ringing.
Rune stood over him, eyes narrowed. Not cruel. Not gloating.
Just watching.
Then he bent low and whispered, voice low:
"You're not like the others."
Cael blinked.
Rune stood and walked off.
The Drillmaster didn't speak.
No one did.
Later, the barracks were a graveyard of noise.
Pax stared at his hands like they were foreign. Wren pressed a cold cloth to her forearm, not reacting to the bruises. Lyndra lay curled on her side, breathing slowly and shallowly.
Cael sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor.
He hadn't just been tested.
He'd been measured.
Weighed.
Watched.
Across the room, the door hissed open.
For a moment, he thought it was the Drillmaster returning.
But no.
It was Elara.
She didn't enter fully. Just stepped inside enough that her shadow crossed the floor. Her face was blank.
But her eyes…
Her eyes found him.
And for the first time since the injections, she looked at him—really looked.
"You held your ground," she said softly.
Cael didn't respond.
"You shouldn't have," she added. "They're watching you now."
He stood slowly.
"Elara—what are they doing to you? What was in the serum?"
She didn't answer.
She turned, ready to go.
"Elara," he said again, stepping toward her. "Wait."
She paused. Spoke without turning back.
"Don't trust the board."
Then she vanished down the hall.
That night, Cael couldn't sleep.
His body ached.
His mind burned.
He remembered the look in Rune's eyes. The restraint in Thorne's punch. The fire that refused to obey Sora.
They weren't themselves anymore.
They weren't just soldiers.
They were tools—shaped by pain, sealed by protocol, manipulated by something far above them.
Cael lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.
He thought of Lia's voice.
Of the board.
Of the quiet fire that had begun to smolder beneath his skin.
He didn't want to survive anymore.
He wanted to break something.
Badly.