Fire filled the sky.

  Not falling. Rising.

  A child stood barefoot on scorched stone, heat biting into his legs as the air warped around him. Buildings he did not recognize burned anyway, collapsing inward with slow, heavy sounds that shook the ground beneath him.

  Someone screamed nearby.

  Then stopped.

  The child dropped to his knees without knowing why. Small hands pressed into ash and broken glass, skin splitting, blood mixing with soot. The pain barely registered. Everything felt distant, muffled, like the world was being watched through thick water.

  A body lay beside him.

  A woman.

  Her face was turned away, dark hair matted with blood. One arm stretched toward the child, fingers curled as if they had tried to grasp something and failed. The heat had not touched her yet. She looked almost peaceful.

  The child tried to breathe.

  His chest refused.

  Something hot slid down his cheek. He reached up and felt wetness, thicker than tears. When he pulled his fingers away, they were red.

  A blood tear.

  The flames surged higher.

  The child opened his mouth to scream and woke abruptly.

  Stone ceiling.

  Cold light.

  Restraints.

  Karael’s breath came fast and shallow as his eyes snapped into focus. Metal bands held his wrists and ankles, not tight enough to hurt, just firm enough to remind him he was not free to move. The pressure inside him was muted, suppressed by something external that pressed back whenever it stirred.

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  This was not a medical room.

  This was containment.

  He lay still as the door opened.

  People entered. Not in a rush. Not cautiously. Like this was routine.

  A table was wheeled in. Slates activated. Numbers scrolled past too quickly for him to read. He recognized none of the symbols, only the tone. Flat. Clinical.

  Marr stood behind the group, hands clasped behind his back. He did not meet Karael’s eyes.

  A voice began to read.

  “Containment trial outcome. Subject survival confirmed.”

  Another voice followed. “Target neutralized. Structural loss within acceptable parameters.”

  No one addressed Karael directly.

  They spoke around him, over him, as if he were another piece of equipment being evaluated after stress testing.

  “Gauntlet degradation exceeded projections.”

  “Approved for repair. Usage limits to be adjusted.”

  “Recovery window?”

  “Minimum required. Training continuity prioritized.”

  Marr shifted slightly. “The fractures in his forearm need time.”

  The response came without pause.

  “Noted.”

  Nothing changed.

  Karael stared at the ceiling while his fight was reduced to data. The heat. The pain. The moment he had held pressure too long because stopping felt worse than dying. None of it existed here.

  Only results.

  A slate was turned so others could see it, angled away from him. Lines of text. Columns. At one point, a list appeared.

  Names.

  Some highlighted. Some dimmed. Several marked through entirely.

  Karael did not need it explained.

  These were assets.

  Some had failed.

  The slate changed again.

  “Subject viability confirmed.”

  That word stuck.

  Viable.

  Not stable. Not ready. Not trusted.

  Useful.

  The restraints released a moment later. Karael did not move right away. His limbs felt heavy, not weak, just weighed down by something deeper than fatigue.

  Hands helped him sit up. Efficient. Impersonal.

  As they escorted him from the room, he caught Marr’s eye for half a second. There was something there. Frustration. Concern. Helplessness.

  Then it was gone.

  The corridor outside was active. People moved with purpose. Training echoed faintly through the stone. Life continued, orderly and controlled.

  Karael was guided back toward his quarters, pressure beginning to stir again now that the suppression eased. It settled inside him, dense and obedient, like it always did.

  The image of the dream lingered. The fire. The woman’s outstretched hand. The blood tear he did not remember ever shedding.

  No one asked what he had seen.

  No one cared what it meant.

  He was viable now.

  And that meant the next time he was brought somewhere like that, it would not be a test.

  It would be a task.