The floor was colder than the training hall Karael remembered.

  Not temperature. Texture. The stone here was worn smoother, ground flat by years of bodies falling and rising again. His bare feet felt it immediately as Marr led him back onto the mat.

  Pressure off.

  Karael disengaged before Marr finished speaking. The pressure collapsed unevenly, leaving his chest hollow and tight at the same time. He drew a careful breath and let it settle.

  There were more people today.

  Still no venters.

  They stood in loose lines along the edge of the hall, stretching, adjusting wraps, watching with expressions that were not hostile but not curious either. This was routine to them. What Karael was about to do was not.

  Marr stopped near the center. The spear was not in his hands this time. It rested against the wall, upright, untouched.

  “Short rounds,” Marr said. “You defend. You move only when told.”

  He looked directly at Karael. “If pressure stirs, you end it yourself. I won’t call it.”

  Karael nodded.

  The first opponent stepped forward. Younger than Rysen. Broader. Hands taped, stance low.

  “Begin.”

  The strike came fast. Karael brought his arms up late and felt the impact drive into his forearms and chest. The force knocked the air from his lungs, sharp and sudden.

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  His chest tightened.

  Not with pressure.

  The sensation was familiar in a way that did not surprise him. Like breathing shallow for too long. Like knowing there was air somewhere and not being able to reach it yet.

  He adjusted without thinking. Slowed his breath. Let it deepen.

  The pressure stayed silent.

  The opponent stepped back. Marr’s hand lifted.

  “Reset.”

  They went again.

  This time the blow landed lower, catching Karael across the ribs. Pain flared, bright and immediate. His knees bent instinctively.

  The pressure surged.

  He cut it down hard. The rebound snapped through his chest and arms, sharp enough to blur his vision for a moment.

  “Stop,” Marr said.

  The hall froze.

  Karael straightened slowly. His breathing was uneven, but the pressure remained fully disengaged.

  “Again,” Marr said.

  The next exchange put Karael on the floor.

  He went down hard, shoulder first, then cheek. The stone pressed cold against his skin.

  He smelled hot rock.

  Not heat. Not burning. Just the smell, sudden and clear.

  For a moment, he was not surprised by it.

  Then the moment passed. He pushed himself up, palms scraping stone, and rose without looking at anyone.

  The pressure stayed off.

  “Reset,” Marr said again.

  They rotated opponents.

  Different bodies. Different rhythms. The strikes came from new angles. Karael blocked poorly, moved late, absorbed more than he avoided. Each impact sent a reflexive spike of pressure through him that he had to crush down immediately.

  Stay still. Don’t make it worse.

  The thought surfaced without emotion. Without analysis.

  He obeyed it.

  By the third short round, his arms trembled constantly. His breathing burned. Sweat ran down his spine and soaked into the mat beneath his feet.

  Marr watched without comment.

  Another strike landed clean, snapping Karael’s head to the side. White flashed at the edge of his vision. The pressure surged hard, fast, insistent.

  He caught it mid rise.

  Held it.

  Cut it.

  His chest screamed in protest, but the room remained unchanged. No distortion. No resistance. Just stone, bodies, breath.

  The round ended.

  Karael stood there, swaying slightly, waiting for something he could not name. Relief came slowly, quiet and strange.

  It did not feel like victory.

  It felt like something ending that he had waited for before.

  He noticed the feeling and pushed it away immediately.

  Marr stepped forward and placed a hand briefly against Karael’s shoulder, steadying him. “That was the first full round,” he said. “You kept it silent.”

  Karael nodded, unable to speak yet.

  “Next,” Marr continued, voice even, “we make it harder.”

  The fighters along the wall watched him differently now. Not impressed. Not intimidated.

  Interested.

  Karael drew another breath, deeper this time, and disengaged again just to be sure.

  The pressure stayed where it was.

  Silent.

  He looked at the space in front of him and braced his stance.