Karael woke already tired.

  Not the deep ache that came after injuries or long deployments, but a thinner exhaustion that sat just beneath the skin. His chest felt heavy before he moved, the pressure already present, already waiting. When he breathed, it answered late and left late, like it was dragging its feet out of spite.

  He sat up slowly and waited for the familiar surge.

  It came, but uneven.

  That scared him more than pain.

  The door opened without warning.

  Ilyen Marr stepped inside.

  No observers followed him. No handlers lingered in the corridor. There was no slate in his hands, no hum in the walls, no sense that anything in the room was recording what happened next.

  That alone told Karael this was different.

  Marr studied him for a moment, eyes moving from Karael’s face to his chest, then back again.

  “You can do it now,” Marr said.

  Karael blinked. “Do what.”

  “Start it,” Marr replied. “Stop it.”

  No buildup. No caution. No explanation.

  Just fact.

  Karael swallowed. “It doesn’t feel stable.”

  “It isn’t,” Marr said. “Sit.”

  Karael moved to the center of the room and sat on the stone floor. It was cooler than the bench from the day before, solid and unforgiving. The pressure shifted as he settled, compacting low in his chest, heavy but not aggressive.

  Marr crouched a few paces away, close enough to watch but not close enough to interfere.

  “We’re not calling it breathing,” Marr said. “And we’re not calling it suppression.”

  Karael frowned. “Then what.”

  “Engagement,” Marr said. “And release.”

  Karael waited.

  “On is a decision,” Marr continued. “Off is a decision. Neither one happens by accident anymore.”

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  “That’s not how it feels,” Karael said.

  Marr nodded once. “That’s because you’re tired.”

  He gestured lightly. “Try.”

  Karael closed his eyes.

  He did not slow his breathing. He did not try to relax. He focused on the weight in his chest, the way it pressed inward, the way it leaned forward like it expected resistance.

  On.

  The pressure surged immediately, tighter and heavier, compressing his chest and spine in a way that stole a sharp breath from his lungs.

  Off.

  He cut it.

  The pressure dropped, not cleanly, not fully, but enough that his chest felt hollow for a brief instant.

  Karael gasped.

  Then it rushed back, harder than before.

  He leaned forward, hands braced against the floor, breathing ragged.

  “That was one,” Marr said calmly.

  Karael laughed weakly. “It felt worse.”

  “Yes,” Marr replied. “Again.”

  Karael shook his head once, then forced himself upright.

  On.

  The surge came faster this time.

  Off.

  The drop was shorter. Messier.

  The rebound hit like a punch from the inside.

  His hands trembled as he caught himself.

  “Again,” Marr said.

  Karael tried.

  Nothing happened.

  The pressure held steady, unmoved by his intent.

  He frowned, breath hitching. He tried again, harder, forcing the decision through fatigue.

  On.

  Off.

  This time the drop came late, delayed just enough to make his chest burn.

  Karael hissed and slumped back onto his heels.

  Marr watched without comment.

  They continued like that.

  Success. Failure. Success again.

  Karael lost track of how many times he tried. His hands began to shake visibly. His vision blurred at the edges, the room dimming and sharpening in uneven pulses.

  The pressure felt heavier with every attempt, as if it resented being handled this way.

  But something else changed too.

  The moments where it answered came more often.

  Short. Brutal. Clear.

  Repeatable.

  Marr shifted his position slightly. “No cues now.”

  Karael looked up. “What.”

  “No timing,” Marr said. “No rhythm. No warning.”

  He leaned back, folding his arms. “You decide.”

  Karael closed his eyes again.

  Without cues, everything felt louder. The pressure. His breathing. His heartbeat pounding against his ribs.

  He tried to disengage.

  Failed.

  He tried again.

  The pressure flickered, then surged back in anger.

  Karael grit his teeth and forced himself to stop trying to be careful.

  He chose.

  On.

  The pressure slammed into place.

  Off.

  It dropped.

  Clean.

  Sharp.

  Karael sucked in a breath and nearly laughed at the shock of it.

  Then it returned, heavy and offended.

  He sagged sideways, catching himself with one hand.

  “That one was yours,” Marr said.

  Karael nodded weakly. “It felt different.”

  “Because you didn’t hesitate,” Marr replied. “Partial intent causes instability.”

  Karael wiped sweat from his face with a shaking hand. “So I can’t… ease into it.”

  “No,” Marr said. “You commit or you pay.”

  They continued.

  On. Off. On. Off.

  Sometimes the pressure answered. Sometimes it resisted. Each success cost more than the last. His muscles burned. His chest ached. The room felt like it was tilting, just slightly, with every breath.

  Finally, Marr raised a hand.

  “Enough.”

  Karael looked up sharply. “I didn’t fail.”

  Marr shook his head. “You’re about to.”

  Karael tried to stand and nearly collapsed. Marr was there instantly, steadying him without touching his chest.

  “Sit,” Marr said.

  Karael sank back to the floor, breathing hard. The pressure was fully present now, heavy and unrelenting, but familiar again.

  Marr watched him for a long moment.

  “You can start it,” Marr said. “You can stop it.”

  Karael looked up, waiting.

  “You cannot hold it,” Marr finished.

  Karael nodded slowly. “Yet.”

  Marr did not correct him.

  Elsewhere, stone walls muffled raised voices.

  Rethik Vale stood at the edge of a narrow council chamber, arms crossed, listening as one of the senior officials spoke.

  “Our perimeter is thin,” the man said. “Too thin. We’re losing ground faster than we can rotate units.”

  Another voice answered, sharper. “We don’t have reserves. Not real ones.”

  Vale spoke evenly. “Which is why this matters.”

  Marr’s name came up. Then Karael’s.

  “An asset,” someone said. “Potentially.”

  “A liability,” another countered. “If uncontrolled.”

  Vale nodded. “Both.”

  Silence followed.

  “We need him,” the first voice said at last. “But we cannot afford him breaking containment inside the city.”

  Control over speed.

  That was the conclusion.

  Restrictions would remain.

  Deployment could wait.

  For now.

  Back in the training room, Karael lay flat on the stone floor, staring at the ceiling. His breathing was shallow, careful, each inhale measured to avoid provoking the pressure further.

  It didn’t matter. It stayed anyway.

  But when he focused, just for a moment, he felt it lean.

  Answer.

  He closed his eyes, exhausted but steady.

  If he could start it.

  If he could stop it.

  Then movement was only a matter of time.

  And he needed to see what would happen next.