The space was different.

  Karael felt it the moment he stepped inside.

  The air carried more heat. More bodies. More movement layered over itself. Stone walls rose higher than the training rings he was used to, scarred and darkened by years of use. Weapon racks lined one side of the chamber, not ceremonial, not polished. Used.

  Non venters filled the floor.

  They moved in quiet lines, rotating through drills with practiced efficiency. Spears rose and fell in rhythm. Short blades flashed, vanished, reappeared. There was no wasted motion. No hesitation. Every step had weight behind it.

  No one stared when Karael entered.

  They looked once. Marked him. Returned to their work.

  That bothered him more than open scrutiny ever had.

  Marr waited near the center, spear resting upright against his shoulder. He did not greet Karael. He only nodded toward an open space along the outer ring.

  “Pressure stays off,” Marr said. “Until told otherwise.”

  Karael nodded and moved into position.

  The first drill was simple.

  Movement. Balance. Spacing.

  Karael stepped forward, then back, matching the pace of the group beside him. Without pressure, everything felt wrong. His limbs felt lighter than they should. Less anchored. His timing lagged by a fraction he could not explain.

  A spear butt passed close to his shoulder. Too close.

  He adjusted late and felt the imbalance ripple through him.

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  Again.

  Again.

  Sweat gathered quickly along his spine.

  The non venters adapted faster than he did. They read spacing instinctively. They adjusted angles without thought. Karael had spent weeks learning how not to break himself. They had spent years learning how not to be hit.

  Marr circled the floor, correcting posture with brief touches, quiet words. When he passed Karael, he paused just long enough to murmur, “You’re leaning.”

  “I’m fine,” Karael said.

  “You’re compensating,” Marr replied. “Pressure taught you that.”

  That landed harder than any strike.

  They rotated partners.

  Then again.

  Then again.

  By the time pressure was reintroduced, Karael’s legs were already burning.

  “Impact only,” Marr said. “Nothing before. Nothing after.”

  The first strike was clean.

  Karael stepped in, engaged pressure for a heartbeat, and felt the gauntlets hiss as they bled the rebound away. His fist connected with a padded target, force contained, controlled.

  He disengaged immediately.

  It worked.

  The second attempt did too.

  The third came too late.

  Pressure flared half a breath early as he turned. The man across from him staggered as if shoved, teeth clenched, face tightening in pain that was not his own.

  The drill stopped instantly.

  Karael stepped back, hands open. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “I know,” the man said, voice tight. “That’s why you’re dangerous.”

  No anger. No accusation.

  Just fact.

  The observers above did not move.

  Training resumed.

  The next partner was older. Scarred. Calm in a way that came from surviving long enough to stop proving anything.

  He came at Karael harder.

  Not reckless. Precise.

  Karael moved, pressure suppressed, heart pounding. He waited for the moment. Found it. Engaged.

  The strike landed.

  The gauntlets screamed this time, metal vibrating as stress bled through channels already weakened from weeks of use. Pain lanced up Karael’s forearm, sharp and immediate.

  He disengaged late.

  The veteran’s counter caught him in the ribs and drove the air from his lungs. Karael staggered but stayed upright.

  No one stopped it.

  Marr watched without expression.

  They separated on the bell.

  Karael looked down at his gauntlet. A fracture line had deepened, faint but unmistakable. Heat radiated from it in a way that felt wrong.

  “You held,” the veteran said. Not unkindly. “Barely.”

  Karael nodded, unable to trust his voice.

  When the session ended, there was no dismissal speech. No acknowledgment of effort or improvement.

  A slate was placed in Karael’s hands as he left the floor.

  Revised schedule.

  Most of it looked the same.

  One line did not.

  Live evaluation pending.

  Karael stood there for a long moment, pressure resting heavy and obedient inside him, before closing his fingers around the slate and moving on.

  Whatever they were preparing him for, conditioning was over.

  Now they wanted proof.