The knee doesn't loosen overnight.
I know that before I even try to move it. The stiffness is already there the moment I wake up, settled deep into the joint like it found a comfortable spot and decided to make it home. When I bend it slowly, testing it, the resistance pushes back immediately—firm, consistent, exactly the same as yesterday.
At least it's predictable now.
I sit on the edge of my bed and roll my shoulders once. The tightness there feels lighter than it did yesterday morning. Still there, but not dominating everything else. That imbalance bothers me more than the actual pain does.
Something fundamental is shifting inside me.
I stand up carefully, keeping my weight centered, and test my balance. It holds steady. I get dressed and leave before Jonric wakes up—not because I'm trying to avoid him, but because I don't want to explain something I don't understand myself yet.
The walk to the training hall feels uneven today. Not unstable exactly—just asymmetrical. My stride adjusts itself automatically without asking permission. Shorter steps on the right side. More deliberate with each placement.
There are five people waiting outside when I arrive.
Yesterday there were six of us.
Nobody mentions it. Nobody looks surprised either.
Inside the hall, the instructor doesn't line us up the way he usually does. Instead, he stands near the center of the floor with his arms crossed, just watching us file in and find our places.
"Take your positions," he says simply.
We hesitate for a second. Then we spread out naturally across the floor, each of us choosing our own space without being told exactly where to stand. When we've all settled, he looks at each of us in turn.
"You," he says, pointing at the tallest guy in our group. "Step forward."
The man walks out to the center. The instructor gives him a short sequence to perform—movement, hold, transition. Clean and efficient. When he finishes, the instructor nods once and gestures for him to move to the left side of the hall.
"Next," he calls out.
One by one, he does the same thing with each person.
When my turn comes, I step forward without overthinking it.
"Repeat yesterday's turning movement," he tells me.
I do exactly that.
The delay is still there in my right leg. Subtle enough that most people wouldn't catch it. But it's definitely present. I compensate early, controlling the movement carefully instead of trying to force my body through it.
He doesn't interrupt or correct me.
When I finish the sequence, he doesn't send me to the left with the others.
He gestures toward the opposite side of the room instead.
I pause, confused. "Is that—"
"Stand where I told you to stand," he says flatly.
I walk over and take my position.
By the time he finishes sorting everyone, the hall is clearly divided. Three people on the left side. Two people on the right.
And I'm standing completely alone on the far right.
The instructor walks slowly along the invisible line between the groups.
"Left side," he announces, "you'll follow the standard rotation we've been doing."
He turns to face the other group. "Right side, you get reduced volume. Controlled load only."
Then he looks directly at me, and only me.
"You," he says carefully, "will not be keeping pace with either group."
The words hit harder than I expect them to.
"You're not failing," he continues, his voice neutral. "But you're not recovering the way you should be either."
I keep my voice as steady as I can. "So what does that make me?"
He studies me for a long moment before answering. "Expensive."
The training session that follows is completely different from all the others.
While the left group pushes through full routines and the right side works through shortened cycles, I'm given isolated movements instead. Fewer repetitions. Longer holds in uncomfortable positions. Awkward angles that load pressure onto my joints without letting momentum help at all.
Every single adjustment feels deliberate. Surgical, almost.
My knee protests immediately, but it doesn't get worse. The pressure stays contained in one place, like it's being directed and controlled instead of allowed to spread. My shoulders burn from the holds, but the burn doesn't climb up into my neck and back the way it usually does.
I finish dead last.
Not because I'm moving slowly—but because I'm forced to stop between movements, to let everything settle back down before I'm allowed to continue.
When it's finally over, I'm not shaking like I normally am.
I'm also not relieved.
Outside in the morning light, the other trainees avoid making eye contact with me. Not because they're being mean—they just don't know what to say or how to act around me now.
At the loading docks, the difference shows itself again.
I move slower than I usually do. My output drops slightly compared to normal. But I don't fumble or drop anything. I don't stall out halfway through the day. When fatigue finally hits me, it hits cleanly—localized in specific places instead of overwhelming my entire body.
The foreman notices the change.
"You're still favoring that right leg," he observes.
"Yeah, I am."
"You're working slower than before."
"Yeah."
He watches me finish stacking an entire load of crates without pausing once. "But you're not fading out like you used to."
I don't say anything in response.
That night, Jonric doesn't ask me how training went. He just watches the way I move instead—when I sit down, when I stand up, when I climb onto my bed.
"They changed something about your training," he says eventually.
"Yeah, they did."
"Because of your knee?"
"Because of everything," I tell him honestly.
He lets out a slow breath. "That's not a good thing, Raven."
"No," I agree. "But it's not exactly neutral either."
Later, lying alone in the darkness, I replay the instructor's word over and over in my head.
Expensive.
Not broken. Not strong. Not promising or hopeful.
Just expensive. Costly to maintain.
I flex my knee again, testing it. The resistance pushes back, completely unchanged from this morning.
But the rest of my body feels... quieter somehow. More contained and controlled.
Whatever this is that's happening to me, it's no longer something random or accidental.
Tomorrow, they'll push at it again to see what happens.
And next time, I don't think they're going to be sorting us quietly anymore.