The training floor was already hot when Karael arrived.

  Not the steady warmth he had grown used to, but the uneven kind that came from repeated venting. Heat clung to the stone in patches, air shimmering where pressure had been released and torn free only moments before.

  Two venters stood near the center ring.

  One planted his feet, shoulders squared, breath drawn deep. Karael felt the pressure build before he saw it, a familiar surge that radiated outward without subtlety. The venter braced and released.

  The air cracked.

  Heat bloomed violently, rolling outward in a visible wave that rattled equipment and forced the non venters nearby to step back. Stone dust shook loose from the walls. For a heartbeat, the venter was dangerous.

  Then it was gone.

  He staggered, hands dropping to his knees, breath coming fast and shallow. Another venter moved in to cover him automatically.

  The drill reset.

  Karael took his place at the edge of the formation. Pressure suppressed. Gauntlets warm from earlier use, already carrying the faint ache that never fully left anymore.

  The next scenario began.

  This time, Karael moved.

  He did not brace. Did not plant. He stepped through the opening created by the previous release, timing his motion between instability and collapse. When contact came, he engaged pressure for the briefest instant.

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  No bloom.

  No crack.

  Just a contained impact that ended as quickly as it began. The gauntlets hissed softly, bleeding away the rebound. Karael disengaged and moved clear.

  The space stayed quiet.

  That was when the tension surfaced.

  A veteran venter glanced at him, jaw tight. “You’re late,” he said, not accusing, just stating.

  “I moved when it was clear,” Karael replied.

  “You made us wait.”

  Karael felt the pressure inside him shift, not rising, just pressing heavier against his chest. “I didn’t vent.”

  “That’s the problem,” the man said. “We don’t know how to read you.”

  Another release went off nearby, loud and obvious. Heat surged again, forcing the group to adjust. The contrast was stark.

  Chaos, then silence.

  They rotated positions.

  Karael compensated. He moved later, held back further, let the others dictate the rhythm. The cost settled into his joints almost immediately. His forearms burned. Pressure rebounded harder without a clean outlet.

  No one thanked him for the adjustment.

  Ilyen Marr watched from the edge of the floor, arms folded, spear resting against his shoulder. He said nothing until the veteran spoke again.

  “We have to account for his output,” the man said, voice tight. “Or lack of it.”

  Marr stepped forward once.

  “Karael’s last three deployments logged zero secondary propagation,” he said. “Yours did not.”

  That was all.

  No emphasis. No challenge.

  The conversation ended.

  The drill resumed with new spacing. Not comfortable. Not friendly. Functional.

  When it was over, no one lingered. Venters recovered in familiar patterns, sitting hard, breathing through exhaustion, heat bleeding away from their bodies in visible waves.

  Karael stood apart, pressure contained, fatigue settling in later and deeper. Ilyen did not approach him. He did not need to.

  As Karael removed his gauntlets, fingers stiff and aching, he understood something clearly.

  Venting made him obvious.

  Containing made him difficult.

  Competence had earned him tolerance.

  Nothing more.

  The next assignment notice appeared before the heat had fully left the room, and Karael felt the pressure in his chest settle heavier than before.

  He wondered how long tolerance lasted.