Leximus lay rigid on the infirmary cot.
The narrow room smelled faintly of antiseptic herbs and charged Ether, the air thick enough that every breath felt measured, intentional. Pale light refracted through glass conduits along the ceiling, casting soft, wavering bands across his chest and face. Those bands moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, in time with the steady hum of the ward's containment lattice.
Four nurses surrounded him, arranged with deliberate symmetry—two at his shoulders, two near his legs. Their hands hovered just above his body, fingers spread, trembling despite the discipline drilled into them over years of practice. They did not touch him at first. Touch came later—after the elements did their work, after the body had been persuaded to accept what was about to be done to it.
Eveline stood at the foot of the cot, posture straight, eyes sharp and unblinking. She did not rush. She never did. Her presence alone imposed a strange stillness on the room, as if even the Ether hesitated to move without permission.
"Begin," Eveline said quietly.
The word was not loud, not commanding. It did not need to be. The nurses reacted instantly, as if a signal had passed directly through their nervous systems rather than through the air.
The first wave came from Water.
Leximus felt it before he understood it.
It wasn't pain at first. It was warmth—soft, enveloping, invasive in the gentlest way possible. It crept through his skin and into his muscles, loosening tension he hadn't realized he was holding. The sensation carried an intimacy that unsettled him, like slipping into a memory that didn't belong to him but insisted on being familiar anyway.
His breathing slowed without permission. Each inhale deepened, stretched, then released as though guided by invisible hands. His heartbeat followed, steadying, obeying. Muscles that had been locked in defensive rigidity softened one by one. For a brief, dangerous moment, he felt almost safe.
Then his arm moved.
Not gently.
There was no gradual adjustment, no careful negotiation with the flesh. Bone scraped against bone as something inside him decided where it should be and forced itself there. The sensation was sharp, immediate, undeniable. His body jerked against the cot, straps tightening instinctively in response.
The warmth did not fade.
That was the worst part.
It coexisted with the pain, wrapped around it, smothered it just enough to make it bearable while insisting—relentlessly—that this was natural. That this was correct. That this was how things were supposed to feel when the body remembered itself.
Leximus gasped.
His fingers twitched, nails scraping weakly against the metal edge of the cot, but no sound escaped his throat. His jaw locked, teeth grinding as his body betrayed him by complying.
The nurses exchanged quick glances.
One of them hesitated, eyes flicking toward Eveline before pushing more Ether into the process. The hesitation lasted less than a second, but it was there—a fracture in composure born of witnessing too many recoveries that looked too much like violations.
His ribs followed.
The sensation rippled outward through his torso, sharp and wrong, a cascade of internal corrections firing in rapid succession. It felt as if his body were being reminded of a shape it no longer fully recognized, each adjustment accompanied by a silent accusation.
Something resisted.
Not the flesh.
Something deeper.
Something that did not agree with being told what "whole" meant.
The resistance manifested not as pain but as pressure, a dull, inward force pushing back against the imposed order. It was subtle, almost theoretical, but Leximus felt it all the same—a refusal without words.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
Should this hurt?
Or worse—should it not?
The question surfaced unbidden, drifting through his mind even as the pain began to recede. The Water element continued its work, smoothing, soothing, enforcing compliance with a patience that felt eternal.
When it was over, there was no announcement.
No signal.
No clear boundary marking the end.
The sensations simply… settled.
Leximus lay still, chest rising and falling evenly. His arm rested where it belonged, aligned,obedient. His breathing no longer burned; each inhale no longer scraped against rawness inside his lungs.
He waited for relief.
It did not come.
He did not feel broken.
But neither did he feel restored.
Beneath the surface calm was a faint hollowness, like a pressure change before a storm. It was not pain. It was not discomfort. It was absence—something removed or displaced, leaving behind a space that his body did not yet know how to fill.
Eveline noticed it.
Her eyes lingered on Leximus longer than necessary, tracking micro-adjustments in his posture, the subtle delays between breath and heartbeat. Her expression did not change.
She said nothing.
After the assessment Rylan knew something was wrong the moment the test ended.
The chamber they stood in was designed to measure outcomes—vital stabilization, elemental residue, recovery thresholds. The instruments hummed softly, glyphs fading as the final readings locked into place.
The others felt relief.
Exhaustion.
Satisfaction.
They exhaled, shoulders loosening, tension draining away as success asserted itself through numbers and charts.
Rylan felt alignment.
It was subtle—no surge, no blinding clarity. There was no dramatic shift he could point to, no obvious marker declaring change. Instead, it was a deep, internal resonance, as if something inside him had finally stopped fighting the current and begun moving with it instead.
The sensation settled into his core, steady and persistent.
With it came exhilaration.
And a quiet, suffocating dread.
The exhilaration whispered of potential, of doors no longer sealed shut. The dread followed immediately after, reminding him that doors, once opened, rarely closed without cost.
He recognized the feeling immediately.
Readiness.
Not mastery.
Not completion.
An invitation.
And invitations could be refused—but never without consequence.
Rylan said nothing at first. He remained where he was, letting the others disperse, letting the moment stretch until the resonance inside him began to deepen, impatient, insistent.
He found Calvin in the corridor outside the meeting hall.
The stone walls there absorbed sound, muting footsteps and voices alike. Light from narrow windows cast long, angled shadows across the floor, slicing the space into stark divisions.
"I think I'm ready," Rylan said, voice low.
Calvin stopped walking.
The abrupt halt echoed more loudly than words would have.
For a moment, he only studied Rylan's face, eyes searching with practiced precision, as if expecting to find cracks that hadn't formed yet. He said nothing, and the silence pressed in, heavy with implication.
"You're certain?" Calvin asked finally.
"No," Rylan replied honestly. "But I know what this feels like."
That answer seemed to satisfy him less than certainty would have.
Calvin's jaw tightened, the smallest sign of unease. "I'll report it," he said at last. "Nothing happens until preparations are made."
Rylan nodded.
But as Calvin turned away, the resonance inside Rylan deepened further, coiling tighter, as if reacting to the delay with thinly veiled impatience.
The meeting hall was already tense when Calvin entered.
The long table dominated the room, its surface polished to a dull sheen that reflected the figures seated around it in distorted fragments. Tall pillars rose along the walls, etched with old insignias that spoke of authority long established and rarely questioned.
No one spoke.
No one needed to.
Sirius sat at the head of the table, fingers laced together, an unreadable smile fixed carefully in place. The smile did not reach his eyes. It never did.
Margret's hands were folded too tightly in her lap, knuckles pale. Larry leaned back in his chair, jaw clenched, one leg hooked rigidly around the other. Samantha hadn't sat down at all—she stood near the wall, arms crossed, weight shifted forward as if ready to intervene at any moment.
Calvin felt it immediately.
Fear.
Not panic.
Calculated fear.
The kind that sharpened thought rather than dulled it.
He took his seat beside Margret, the chair scraping softly against the stone floor. No one looked at him directly, but attention shifted all the same.
Sirius cleared his throat.
"Before we address the matter from the capital," he said lightly, tone almost conversational, "are there any other issues?"
Silence stretched.
It was not an empty silence. It was crowded with restraint, each person measuring the cost of speaking against the cost of remaining quiet.
Then Calvin spoke.
"Rylan is ready to advance."
That broke it.
Larry straightened sharply, chair legs protesting against the floor. "That's impossible. He joined months ago."
"And yet," Calvin replied, calm but firm, "he meets the conditions."
"Or he thinks he does," Larry shot back. "That kind of confidence gets people killed."
Calvin's gaze hardened. "He understands the cost."
Sirius watched them both, still smiling, as if observing a familiar play reach a predictable conflict.
Calvin continued, slower now, each word placed with care. "This didn't happen in isolation. When Leximus lost control, Rylan depended entirely on memory to stabilize him. When that failed, he pushed beyond safe limits suppressing the fallout. That pressure forced alignment."
No one interrupted him this time.
"The incident accelerated him," Calvin finished. "Whether we like it or not."
The silence that followed was different.
Heavier.
Less negotiable.
Samantha finally spoke. "You're saying the boy is changing others."
Calvin didn't answer immediately.
"I'm saying proximity has consequences."
That landed.
The words settled into the room, threading themselves through unspoken fears and half-formed suspicions.
Sirius tapped the table once.
The sound was soft.
Final.
"Preparations will be made," he said. "After today's primary matter is resolved."
Resolved.
Not discussed.
Not avoided.
Resolved.
The word sat uneasily in the room, its weight disproportionate to its simplicity.
"Then," Sirius continued smoothly, "let us address why the capital has suddenly taken an interest in a city they have ignored for decades."
No one relaxed.
Not even him