The physical exhaustion was a thick, suffocating blanket, but the mental exhaustion was a jagged blade. As I jogged the final laps, my mind was a flickering slideshow of those anatomical plates. I saw every guard in the yard not as a person, but as a map of "gates."

  I watched the way their armor was cinched—the gaps at the armpits for the axillary lines, the back of the neck where the helmet met the plate. Most people with sense would have those spots armored, but I knew the subtext of the Manager's lesson: if a high-Tier criminal resisted, if they broke through a suppression collar or ignored their shackles, I would have to be the one to find the millimeter of exposed flesh and "close the gate." I had to use my smaller, lower-Tier frame as an advantage, slipping into the spaces where their bulk couldn't reach.

  The Manager caught me as I was limping toward the entrance of the living quarters. The sunset cast his long shadow across the dirt, stretching it until it touched my boots.

  “Your [Summon Mana Monster], Sir Wren,” he began, his voice cutting through the ringing in my ears. “Simply thread a bit of your mana and let it settle. Let it fall through the physical layers until it reaches your inner spirit. I do not believe you would want an ability so intrinsic to a crime anchored in your core; that would be… unwise for your psyche. Let the inner spirit filter the intent while you keep the utility.”

  I focused, feeling the mana I’d built up during the run—a thin, vibrating current—and pushed it toward that cold, empty slot. The shard in my hand was clear, with some ideas of battle, or legions, it gave the impression of being able to command copies of those slain. The [Imprint] flared for a moment, then went quiet, nesting like a parasite in my spirit.

  “[Summon Mana Monster] is a reactive Skill,” the Manager continued. “It requires you to have personally slain the monster in question to 'catalogue' its essence. Because of this, I have purchased a once-a-month delve slot on your behalf. A local guild, [Julian’s Jesters], has a training rift anchored to Tier One. It is a controlled environment, but anything more than once a month was deemed too expensive for a fresh asset.”

  I blinked, wiping sweat and grit from my eyes. The reality of the contract was hitting me again—I was a high-value investment, but the Empire was still counting its credits. “So… when is my first delve? When do I actually fight something that isn't a diagram?”

  “A week from tomorrow,” he replied. “Luckily, it is a warren of Kobolds. At Tier One, they are not particularly bright, strong, or fast. They are pack hunters, but they are cowardly. You will be a solo delver, so you must remain vigilant. They are small and quick, but you are just as fast and have the reach advantage with your longknife.”

  He paused, and I swear I felt a cold, thin smile forming behind that porcelain mask. It wasn't a smile of kindness; it was the satisfied look of a craftsman about to put a new tool to the grindstone.

  “Besides,” he added, his voice dropping an octave. “This means we will be training you extensively until then. We have seven days to turn your 'scalpel' into a reflex. You will learn to move through the dark as if you were born of it.”

  I didn't like that smile. I didn't like the way the word extensively sounded coming from him. It sounded like more blood, more sweat, and more gates to close.

  “Get your rest, Sir Wren,” he said, stepping aside to let me pass. “Tomorrow, we begin with the 'Siren-Neurolink' representative. If we are to send you into a rift alone, you will need a voice in your head that knows more than you do.”

  ***

  “Yes, Your Excellency. He is stable for now,” I said, my voice echoing slightly in the vast, hollow silence of the Duke's projection chamber. “But from what I can gauge, he is simply a child lost in a world far too large for him. I am worried. This line of work… it does not treat the unanchored kindly.”

  “I am aware of the risks, Manager,” the projection of Duke Ironwood replied, his voice like the grinding of tectonic plates. “You took on that moniker because you manage the assets that are… shall we say, not welcome in my formal domain. You deal in the shadows so my light remains untainted.”

  “I did, Duke Ironwood. And this asset is a child. While I agree he has the potential to become the next… well, the next me… I believe that with his specific Talent, he could reach much further. I have already flagged him as a potential Blink in the making—provided he does not collapse from mental turmoil before he reaches his first jump. That is why I proposed the intervention.”

  The Duke’s massive, translucent form shifted. “Yes, you did. I still do not see the immediate benefit of coddling a blade. A blade is tempered in fire, not silk.”

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  I tightened my grip on my staff, the runes beneath my gloves humming with a low, frustrated heat. “Duke Ironwood, are you aware that the boy carries physical maps of his trauma? Scars layered upon scars along his arms and back, all courtesy of his mother?”

  The projection went still. “No… I was not informed of the specifics of his domestic history.”

  “Are you aware,” I pressed, my voice dropping an octave, “that he is constantly performative? He mimics the speech of adults, obsessively studies the 'rules' of adulthood, all because he was denied even the briefest glimpse of a childhood. He thinks maturity is a mask he can wear to hide the fact that he is starving for a foundation.”

  “Again, no,” the Duke rumbled. “But what is your point, Grahn? Efficiency is what matters.”

  “My point, Your Excellency, is that he is spiritually and mentally brittle. It is not healthy. He needs to experience what it is like to be… free. He needs help, and he needs it desperately. I see how he looks at his hands after an execution—as if he expects the blood to never wash off. I see him flinch, subconsciously drifting into the shadows whenever a guard walks by. He is not a functioning weapon yet, Duke; he is a cracked one.”

  There was a long silence. The ambient mana in the room vibrated with the Duke’s contemplation.

  “I concede your point,” Ironwood finally said. “You are my eyes, my ears, and my hands in the dark. If you say the tool is compromised, I believe you. What else can you tell me about the boy’s Talent? You were vague in the report.”

  I straightened my posture, the porcelain mask of the Manager reflecting the Duke’s cold light. “I have given the boy an [AI]-backed oath regarding the specifics of his Talent, Your Excellency. You will not get those details from me. You are welcome to ask him yourself, but…”

  “Yes,” the Duke interrupted, his voice a bitter, metallic rasp that vibrated through the petrified heartwood of the chamber. “I am currently rooted for another century. My consciousness is tied to the planetary stabilization of this entire sector. A visit to a Tier 1 nursery is… unlikely. Very well. Continue with the boy’s training. You have my permission to hire one of the fifteen specialists you vetted. Ensure the boy utilizes them. If he is as broken as you claim, I want him repaired.”

  The connection severed with a sharp, static pop that echoed in the sudden silence of the hollow. I stood alone in the dim, amber light, the heavy scent of damp earth and ancient, pressurized sap clinging to my robes like a physical shroud.

  “He called me by my actual name. While on duty,” I muttered to the empty air, my voice sounding small against the immense scale of the Duke’s root-hall. I shook my head, a faint, tired smile touching my lips behind the cold porcelain of the Manager’s mask. “If Their Imperial Majesty Harper had heard such a blatant lack of decorum from an agent of the Crown… the reprimand would have been legendary.”

  I could almost see it. The Sovereign was not known for patience with high-tier entitlement. If Harper knew a Duke—even one as vital to the sector's infrastructure as Ironwood—was treating a secret agent with such casual, bored disregard, the consequences would be tectonic. I could practically visualize Harper using their telekinesis to uproot that massive dryad, dragging his petrified form across the sector just to toss him into a courtroom to be reminded of his place in the Imperial hierarchy.

  I wasn’t petty enough to report him to the Throne—not yet, anyway—but the thought of a Duke being scolded like a wayward sapling was a pleasant diversion. However, the Duke’s final word lingered in the air, cold and mechanical. Repaired. He didn't want a child; he wanted a functional blade.

  I had more work to do.

  Using my encrypted authority, I opened a high-priority secure channel. The interface on my gauntlet shimmered, cycling through a dozen layers of obfuscation before finally connecting to a private terminal I hadn’t touched in months. I knew the woman on the other end. She knew the man behind the mask, the bloodied history of the blade I carried, and the true weight of the secrets that kept me awake.

  “What is it now, ‘Manager’?” Dr. Aris’s voice crackled through the comms. It was dry and unimpressed. “Need to tell me how you dismantled another human trafficking ring? Or is this just another session to discuss why you can't seem to stop being the Duke's favorite ghost?”

  “No, Dr. Aris. This is not about me this time,” I replied, my tone shifting into a somber register. “There is a boy. A boy who desperately needs someone to tell him it’s alright to simply be a boy. He is technically an asset under Duke Ironwood’s authority, but more importantly, he is a child who has been denied a foundation. He is building his house on sand, Aris, and the tide is coming in.”

  I paused. My tongue pressed against the roof of my mouth, the phantom weight of the [AI] oath sitting there like a lead weight. I couldn't tell her why his potential was so high. I couldn't tell her about the talent that allowed him to reach into the auras of others, or the AI that processed the world with terrifying precision.

  “I cannot speak on his specific capabilities,” I said, my voice tight. “The boy has me under a binding oath. But I can tell you this: he is a street-rat who watched his mother barter his life for a needle. He was forced to execute a man before he even learned how to play a game. He mimics the speech of adults because he thinks it’s a shield, but his hands still shake when the lights go out. The Duke wants him ‘repaired’ like a piece of faulty machinery, but I need you to do something else.”

  “You want me to save him,” Aris said, her voice softening.

  “I want you to give him a reason to stay human,” I said, my grip tightening on my staff. “Because if we don’t, the Empire will turn him into something that can never be undone. I'm sending over his basic psychological profile now. Help me prevent another tragedy, Aris. Before the bird forgets how to sing.”