The walk from the training yard to my quarters felt twice as long as the journey there. My legs weren't just tired; they felt like they had been replaced by heavy, vibrating pillars of lead that didn't quite belong to my body. Every time my heel struck the stone floor of the corridor, a dull shock traveled all the way up to my skull.

  The Manager didn't offer a shoulder to lean on. Instead, they paced beside me, their voice a relentless, rhythmic lash.

  “In through the nose, Sir Wren. Deeply. Out through the mouth. Control the panic of the lungs,” they commanded, their silhouette steady while I swayed like a reed in a gale. “Lift your shoulders. Open the ribcage. If you collapse now, the lactic acid will settle like concrete in your joints.”

  I reached the door to my room—a stark but clean space that smelled of cedar and old parchment—and made a desperate move for the edge of the bed. I just wanted the world to stop moving.

  “Do not sit down yet,” the Manager snapped, the words sharp enough to make me jerk upright despite the fatigue. “Sitting will contract your diaphragm. It will shorten your breath and signal to your heart that the work is over before the recovery has begun. Stand. Take your breaths. Or, if the gravity is truly too much for your current Tier, lay flat on your back and expand your chest. But do not huddle like a wounded animal.”

  I stood there, staring at the far wall, my vision swimming. My new white shirt was ruined, plastered to my skin with a mixture of sweat and the fine, grey dust of the practice field. I felt filthy—inside and out.

  “You could, also, utilize the shower,” the Manager added, gesturing toward the small washroom. “Get the salt and the yard-grit off you. The heat will assist the circulation. Provided you, once again, prioritize your breathing. A scalpel does not shake, Wren. It rests with purpose.”

  “You…. are… a… tyrant…” I wheezed. The words were ragged, forced out between desperate gulps of air. I felt like a drowning man trying to curse the ocean.

  I saw the shadow of the Manager’s hood tilt slightly. It was a small movement, but it felt heavy with a dark, clinical amusement.

  “A tyrant demands obedience for the sake of his ego, Sir Wren. I demand it for the sake of your survival,” the Manager replied, moving toward the door. “The Empire has spent a great deal of mana to bring you here. It would be a waste of resources if you were to expire from a simple case of respiratory neglect. Rest. Tomorrow, we begin the study of anatomy. If you are to be a surgeon, you must first learn where the blood stays, and where it leaves.”

  The door hissed shut, leaving me in the sudden, ringing silence of the room. I didn't lay on the bed. I followed the tyrant’s orders.

  I decided to follow the tyrant’s advice; the grit and salt of dried sweat marred my skin like a second, filthier hide, and I needed to find some kind of center before the shaking in my legs became permanent.

  To my surprise, the bathroom was decently sized—luxurious, even, by the standards of the pits I’d grown up in. The shower was a massive basin of dark, polished stone, large enough to house two or three of me comfortably. It seemed an odd architectural choice considering the bed in the other room was strictly sized for one, but I didn't care to solve the riddle. I just stepped under the spray.

  The water was warm. It was more than warm—it was a revelation. It hammered against my aching shoulders, unknotting muscles that had been coiled tight since I first stepped into that carriage.

  “I’m not a prisoner here, am I?” I whispered, my voice sounding hollow against the tile. “I mean, I’m a prisoner to the contract, sure. Twelve Tiers of service. A lifetime of debt.”

  I leaned my forehead against the cool stone wall, letting the water sluice over my hair. The allure of that much power—the promise of Tier 13—had been a siren song. It was too much to turn down. I never wanted to be the frog stuck at the bottom of the well again, staring up at a circle of sky I could never reach. I wanted the power to bust down the well itself. I would never be weak. I refused to play the boring, desperate game of the gutter ever again.

  I breathed in deeply, the small vents in the ceiling pulling the steam away, making the air feel crisp despite the heat. It felt almost as good as the water.

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  I pulled my hands from my face and looked down at them. The blood was long, long gone, washed away by the Manager’s cloth and the chemical soaps of the facility. Yet, as I stared at my palms, I could still see it. I could still see the knife—the long, straight blade with the single-sided protrusion of the guard—sliding with terrifying, silent ease into the man’s neck and up into the cranium.

  It had been so easy. That was the part that haunted the edges of my vision. There had been no magical resistance, no thunderous crack of bone. Just a soft give, and then the light went out.

  Now, even though the skin was scrubbed raw and pink, I felt as though they were permanently stained. I was told I was not a "killer." I was told I was the final arbiter of justice, the final judge, the executioner of the law. Did he deserve it? Absolutely. Forty children would never see the sun because of him. And yet, I was surprised at how simple it felt to snuff the life from another sentient being, all because I’d learned what kind of mad monster I was putting down.

  Was it the anger? Or was it the Talent, already smoothing the path for me to become the tool the Earls wanted?

  I turned off the water and stood in the sudden, dripping silence. I had cleaned myself physically during the introspection, but the weight in my chest remained. I found myself hoping, beyond all reason, that my hands would stay red in my mind's eye. I hoped I would never truly view myself as "clean" again. Because if I felt clean after this, it meant I had stopped being Wren. It meant the songbird was dead, and only the scalpel remained.

  Will this always be this easy for me? I certainly hope not.

  I stepped out of the vast, stone shower, the steam clinging to my skin like a humid ghost. After the introspection of the water, the air in the bathroom felt sharp and cold. On a small marble bench near the door, I found a folded robe of charcoal-grey silk. It was heavier than it looked, lined with a soft, brushed material that drank the remaining moisture from my limbs the moment I pulled it on. I tied the sash tight, feeling the strange weight of luxury—a sensation that still felt like a borrowed suit of armor—and stepped back into the main living quarter.

  The room was bathed in the soft, amber glow of recessed essence-lamps. It was half-hidden in shadows, making the space feel both larger and more intimate than it had when I first entered. My eyes were immediately drawn to the bed.

  Resting on the pressed linens was a new set of clothes, topped by a crisp, cream-colored envelope. I picked up the note, the heavy vellum slightly rough against my fingertips.

  Sir Wren,

  Your uniform while out and about in the prison, and your uniform for whenever your work is ready to be done. You are free to dress however you would desire within your room, in public, or in adventuring gear whenever you are planning to delve a rift. Speaking of, tomorrow speak with me about how you feel about the prisoner’s Talent you [Imprint]ed, as you call it.

  I know this work must be hard on someone so young; the law is heavy, the law is hard, but the law is the law. Forgive me. I digress. Speak with me about his Talent. I’ll see if I have any Skill Shards in my collection that would directly assist. I would have done this with your Talent, however, yours is unique in that regard; it refuses to be augmented by standard means.

  We’ve also arranged for a few [AI] companies to start bidding on a new imperial contract for a select number of imperial agents in specialized fields. As you probably guessed, that would be for you. You’ll hear more about this in a few days, after the skill shard settles into your inner spirit—or your core, depending on your development. But your inner will be the goal for now.

  Please forgive myself, the Earls, the Duke, and the Empire itself, Wren, for forcing this task on you. You are young. You were, and probably are, desperate for an escape from that gutter of a life you had. You were scared of returning to it. You wanted power. Whatever your reason for accepting this position, I—on behalf of all citizens of the Empire, countless though they be—thank you.

  — The Manager

  I sat on the edge of the bed, the silk of the robe rustling. The note felt heavier than the paper should allow. Forgive us. It was a strange sentiment from a shadow in a porcelain mask. They knew they were breaking me to build something else. They knew they were harvesting my childhood to protect the "countless" citizens who would never know my name.

  I looked at the uniform. It was black, accented with the deep crimson of the Earls' house, the fabric reinforced with micro-weave plates. It didn't look like a prisoner’s garb, and it didn't look like a soldier’s. It looked like a shroud.

  I laid back, staring at the ceiling. My "inner spirit" felt different tonight. There was a cold, buzzing sensation in the center of my chest, right where I’d felt the [Imprint] take hold. The man's stolen essence—the power he had ripped from forty children—wasn't there, but the shape of his Talent was. It was a jagged, hungry thing sitting in one of my "Two Slots."

  I closed my eyes, trying to remember the songbird, but all I could hear was the steady, rhythmic thrum of the prison’s power core deep beneath the floor. I wasn't the mockingjay anymore. I was a investment. I was a scalpel. And apparently, the Empire was already bidding on which mind-machine would help guide my hand.