The training hall was larger than Karael expected.

  Stone pillars rose at even intervals, their surfaces scarred by old strikes and repaired fractures. The floor was smooth but not polished, worn flat by years of boots and falls. Weapon racks lined one wall. Another was bare, marked only by faint discolorations where pressure had scorched stone in the past.

  People were already there.

  Not venters.

  Karael felt it immediately. The air did not tense when they moved. No subtle resistance. No distortion. Just bodies shifting weight, breathing, warming muscles. Ordinary in a way that felt unfamiliar.

  Marr walked ahead of him, a long spear resting across his shoulder. The shaft was dark wood reinforced with dull metal bands, the head narrow and unadorned.

  “Pressure off,” Marr said without looking back.

  Karael nodded and disengaged.

  The pressure dropped, uneven but complete. His chest felt hollow, his limbs heavier than they should have been. He took a careful breath and followed Marr onto the floor.

  Conversations quieted.

  Not because of him. Because of Marr.

  A few of the fighters straightened when they saw the spear. One or two exchanged looks that were not curious.

  Respect, Karael realized. Or caution.

  Marr stopped near the center of the hall and turned. “This is not venter training.”

  No one argued.

  “You will not use pressure,” Marr continued. “If it touches the room, we stop.”

  His gaze settled on Karael. “If it touches them, you leave.”

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  Karael swallowed. “Understood.”

  Marr nodded once and turned to the others. “Single exchange drills. One step. One action. Then stillness.”

  A man stepped forward. Lean. Older than Karael. No visible weapons. His stance was relaxed in a way that felt earned.

  “This is Rysen,” Marr said. “He will hit you.”

  Rysen smiled faintly. “If you let me.”

  Karael positioned himself opposite him. He could feel his heart rate climb. Without pressure, everything felt louder. His breath. The scrape of boots. The distance between them.

  “Ready,” Marr said.

  Karael disengaged again, just to be sure.

  Rysen moved.

  It was not fast. Not compared to what Karael had seen from venters. But it was clean. One step. A sharp forward motion of the shoulder. Karael reacted late, hands lifting instinctively.

  Pain bloomed along his ribs as Rysen’s strike landed and withdrew in the same motion.

  Karael staggered back a half step.

  The pressure surged in response.

  He cut it immediately, chest burning as the rebound snapped through him.

  “Stop,” Marr said.

  Everything froze.

  Rysen stepped back, hands open. “You’re leaning on it,” he said calmly.

  Karael nodded, breathing hard. His side ached, but nothing felt broken.

  “Again,” Marr said.

  They reset.

  This time Karael focused on his feet. On keeping his weight balanced. On not thinking about the pressure waiting inside him.

  Rysen stepped in.

  Karael shifted instead of blocking, turning his shoulder just enough that the strike glanced off. He felt the urge to push back, to answer force with something heavier.

  The pressure stirred.

  He held it down.

  They separated.

  “Better,” Marr said. “Still late.”

  They repeated it.

  Each exchange was the same. One step. One motion. Then stillness.

  Karael took hits. Missed blocks. Learned where his balance failed him. Every mistake sent a spike of instinctive pressure through him that he had to crush back down.

  By the fifth exchange, his breathing was ragged. His muscles burned in unfamiliar ways.

  By the seventh, his vision started to narrow.

  Rysen landed another clean strike to Karael’s shoulder. The impact jarred his arm, sent a sharp pulse through his chest.

  The pressure flared.

  Karael caught it mid rise, teeth clenched, hands shaking.

  “Enough,” Marr said.

  Rysen stepped away. “You last longer than most.”

  “That’s not the goal,” Marr replied.

  Karael straightened slowly, every part of him trembling. “I’m useless without it.”

  Marr’s spear tapped the stone once. A quiet sound that cut through the room.

  “You’re worse than useless with it right now,” Marr said. “Because you don’t know how to stand without it.”

  He turned and drove the butt of the spear into the floor. The motion was smooth, economical. No wasted movement.

  “This,” Marr said, “is what fights look like before pressure.”

  He lifted the spear again and faced Karael. “You learn this, or you die the first time someone faster than you decides not to give you space.”

  Karael nodded, jaw tight.

  As they reset, Karael felt a familiar memory surface unbidden. The smell of hot stone. The sound of something collapsing far away. The way his chest had burned then, too, for reasons that had nothing to do with pressure.

  He pushed it down and focused on the space in front of him.

  Pressure off.

  Feet planted.

  Rysen stepped forward again.

  Karael moved.

  And this time, for a single breath, the pressure stayed silent.

  He knew he wouldn’t hold it long.

  But now he knew what he was fighting for.

  And he needed to see how far this could go.