My ribs had developed opinions.
They disliked stairs.
They disliked cold mornings.
They disliked coughing, laughing, twisting, bending, running, breathing too deeply, and apparently the existence of Nexus Academy as a concept.
Elisabeth discovered this by pressing two fingers beneath my left side.
I nearly struck the ceiling.
"Interesting," she said.
I glared at her.
"That is a word doctors use when they've hurt someone and don't want to apologize."
"You told me to check."
"I told you to examine me."
"That was the examination."
"You could have warned me."
"You would have tightened the muscles."
"I would have prepared."
"Exactly."
She sat back.
Morning light entered through the Sierra's cabin windows. The quarantine docks below were already awake, chains clanking against platforms while workers shouted over cargo manifests.
Rex lay beside my chair.
His head came up when I winced.
Elisabeth pointed at him.
"See?"
"What?"
"Even he thinks you shouldn't go."
"Rex thinks I shouldn't go anywhere without him."
The manticore stared.
"That is touching and impractical."
His tail struck the floor.
Xavier appeared at the door wearing the Academy's plain examination clothes.
No sword.
No royal colors.
Nothing identifying him as a prince of Arcachon.
He looked disgustingly healthy.
"You ready?"
"No."
He paused.
"You're admitting that?"
"I've always been very comfortable with reality. I simply prefer negotiating better terms."
Elisabeth started wrapping a support band around my ribs.
Not tightly enough to restrict breathing.
Enough to remind me not to be stupid.
A hopeless assignment.
Xavier leaned against the wall.
"You could request an exemption."
"No."
"Medical adjustment."
"No."
"You could at least tell them you're injured."
"They already know enough to discover that I possess organs. Let us not overwhelm the institution."
He frowned.
"This isn't like yesterday. You can't fake being healthy during endurance testing."
"I don't intend to."
"Then what?"
I buttoned my shirt over the wrapping.
"Pass."
"That's it?"
"Yes."
His suspicion deepened.
Yesterday, that reaction would have amused me.
Today it merely hurt my pride.
"You're going to aim for the minimum."
"A little above it."
"You hate the minimum."
"I hate unnecessary expenditure."
"This is an exam, not a market."
"Everything is a market. Sometimes people use points instead of coins."
He shook his head.
"I'm not doing that."
"I know."
"I'm going as hard as I can."
"I know."
"I want the real score."
"I know, Xavier."
"Then why do you sound irritated?"
Because I was.
Not at him.
At the fact that I wasn't.
Three months ago, I would have adjusted his technique, predicted his ranking, calculated which events he should sacrifice, and decided which opponents mattered.
Now he wanted his own answer.
The proper thing was to let him have it.
Horrible habit, respect.
"I'm irritated," I said, "because you have repeated the same point three times before breakfast."
He smiled.
Better.
Elisabeth finished the wrap.
"If the pain becomes sharp when breathing, stop."
"Yes."
"If you become dizzy, stop."
"Yes."
"If you cough blood—"
"I know."
She tightened the final knot.
I looked at her.
"You enjoyed that."
"A little."
Rex stood as I did.
"No."
He followed me.
"No."
Xavier scratched under Mira's chin as the younger manticore wandered inside.
"At least Mira understands."
Mira immediately tried to follow him toward the gangplank.
He sighed.
"Apparently not."
We left both manticores with Elisabeth and went to learn how much humiliation an Academy could fit into one courtyard.
---
North Court was not a courtyard.
That was my first complaint.
It was a small kingdom dedicated entirely to making adolescents miserable.
A stone track circled three training fields. Wooden walls, climbing frames, narrow elevated beams, hanging ropes and pits filled with sand occupied one side. The other held six circular combat rings.
Hundreds of candidates gathered beneath gray banners.
No noble lines today.
No guild lines.
No academic recommendations.
Interesting.
Yesterday, Nexus had sorted us by the adults behind our names.
Today it stripped us into identical gray shirts.
A noble heir and a fisherman's daughter sweated the same color.
Almost democratic.
Almost.
Instructors moved between groups carrying slates.
A broad woman with cropped red hair stepped onto a raised platform.
"Physical assessment has four sections."
The crowd quieted.
"Endurance. Coordination. Load adaptation. Controlled combat."
No cheering.
Good students.
"You are not being evaluated solely on speed or strength. We are assessing recovery, decision-making under fatigue, movement efficiency and response to unexpected conditions."
That was more interesting.
"Active spellcasting is prohibited unless an instructor specifically authorizes it."
There it was.
"Body reinforcement beyond your declared baseline is prohibited. Familiars, artifacts, tonics and external enchantments are prohibited."
I looked toward Xavier.
He was already looking at me.
Gravity stayed buried.
Alchemia Morphica stayed buried.
Today the Academy got the damaged version.
Lucky institution.
"Any candidate concealing a serious medical condition assumes responsibility for the consequences."
Xavier slowly turned his head.
I ignored him.
"Begin."
---
The first event was running.
Of course.
Human civilization had invented flying ships, spatial manipulation, mana communication and creatures that violated respectable anatomy.
Yet when adults wanted to evaluate children, they still said:
Run in circles.
Marduk would have approved.
The track was wider than it had looked from the entrance. Twenty candidates entered each heat.
Xavier stood in the group ahead of mine.
He didn't stretch theatrically.
Didn't bounce.
Didn't look for me.
When the whistle sounded, he went.
Not first.
Smart.
Two noble boys exploded forward as though somebody had promised inheritance at the finish.
Xavier let them.
First lap.
He remained fifth.
Second.
Fourth.
Third.
The first boy slowed.
Xavier didn't.
He had always possessed an irritating relationship with endurance. Even on the island, when technique failed, pride could drag him another mile.
Fourth lap.
Third.
By the final turn, he passed the second boy.
He crossed behind one lean girl with braided hair.
Second place.
Hands on knees.
Breathing hard.
Smiling.
He looked toward me.
I gave him nothing.
His smile widened anyway.
Bastard.
My group entered.
The whistle blew.
I immediately learned two things.
First: yesterday's four-hour examination had irritated my side more than I had admitted.
Second: lying to yourself about recovery is far less effective when the ground moves underneath you.
My first twenty strides felt acceptable.
By the first turn, something under my ribs pulled.
Not sharp.
Warning.
I shortened the stride.
Candidate twelve passed me.
Then fourteen.
Fine.
The objective was not victory.
Second lap.
Breathing deepened.
My left side refused.
I switched rhythm.
Three shallow breaths.
One longer.
The old injury in the shoulder joined the discussion.
I hated committees.
A boy beside me surged past.
His gait was terrible.
Too much vertical movement.
Wasting energy.
I could have adjusted gravity by a fraction.
Not enough for anyone to see.
Take a little load off the knees.
Reduce impact.
Easy.
No.
That was the purpose.
What could this body do?
Not what I could force it to pretend.
I reached the final lap somewhere in the middle.
A candidate behind me tried to sprint past.
I let him.
Then another.
Let him too.
The finish arrived.
I crossed.
Twelfth.
My lungs burned.
My ribs felt wrapped in heated wire.
I walked.
Do not bend.
Do not sit.
Recover upright.
The red-haired instructor watched me for two seconds.
Wrote something.
Wonderful.
Xavier appeared beside me with water.
"You look terrible."
"Your bedside manner needs refinement."
"You finished twelfth."
"I can count."
"You could do better."
"There are many things I could do better. Tax evasion. Gardening. Marriage."
He stared.
"Marriage?"
"Long story."
"Was it yours?"
"No."
"Raymond."
"Drink your water."
He laughed.
My side hurt.
I regretted making him funny.
---
Coordination came next.
Much better.
Pain disliked repetition.
Strategy liked structures.
The course began with a narrow beam, descended into swinging ropes, continued through a field of waist-high posts and ended with three walls of different heights.
Most candidates approached it as a race.
Wrong.
The beam punished speed.
The ropes punished hesitation.
The posts punished long strides.
The walls punished anyone who arrived exhausted.
I watched four candidates before my turn.
Chessmaster hovered at the edge.
Distance.
Swing cycle.
Board vibration.
Candidate errors.
Useful.
Permitted?
The test banned external skills for copying other candidates.
It did not ban having eyes.
I kept Chessmaster low.
Observation only.
My turn.
Beam.
Short steps.
No rush.
The wood flexed under my foot.
I moved when it rose, not when it fell.
Rope.
Wait half a beat.
Catch.
Swing.
Release.
My shoulder protested.
Pain climbed toward my neck.
I landed wrong.
One knee hit the platform.
Point deduction.
Fine.
Posts.
The obvious path zigzagged through eleven.
There was a legal diagonal through eight.
I took eight.
At the first wall, candidates had been jumping for the top edge.
I used the side brace.
Less shoulder.
More legs.
Second wall.
Same.
Third—
Too high.
I stopped.
Three options.
Jump.
Bad.
Use gravity.
Worse.
Climb the recessed gaps intended as difficult footholds.
Slow.
Acceptable.
I climbed.
My ribs hated me.
We had mutual feelings.
I crossed the finish seventh.
Better than the run.
Not suspiciously better.
At least that was what I told myself.
The instructor wrote again.
I would have paid a vulgar amount to read that slate.
---
During the next heat, I saw the girl from yesterday.
The one with repaired shoes.
The one who had threatened to report me for cheating before I had technically begun cheating.
She was good.
Very good.
Not strongest.
Not fastest.
Efficient.
Her feet landed where they needed to.
No wasted corrections.
She crossed the beam faster than I had.
Used the same eight-post diagonal.
Interesting.
Reached the walls.
First.
Second.
Then stopped.
I frowned.
Nothing had happened.
No fall.
No bad landing.
She simply stood there.
One hand against the wall.
An instructor shouted.
She tried again.
Her leg buckled.
Not dramatically.
Her knee folded and she caught herself.
She stared at it.
That expression mattered.
Surprise.
Not pain.
She pushed upright.
Tried to climb.
Her fingers slipped.
Once.
Twice.
Yesterday those same hands had been stained with ink.
Today they shook.
An instructor approached.
"Candidate, withdraw."
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
"I can finish."
Her voice was angry now.
Embarrassed.
"I said withdraw."
She took one step.
Stopped.
Closed her eyes.
The instructor caught her elbow before she fell.
Conversation around the court continued.
Most candidates barely noticed.
Why would they?
Someone had exhausted herself.
Ordinary.
Possible.
Likely.
I felt Chessmaster reaching.
Yesterday: cognitively sharp.
Today: strong start.
Sudden coordination loss.
Old files: strong preliminaries, later unexplained collapse.
Connection.
No.
I killed it.
Coincidence was not evidence merely because it was narratively attractive.
Xavier came beside me.
"You know her?"
"No."
"You're staring."
"She performed well yesterday."
"You watched her exam?"
"She spoke to me afterward."
"What happened?"
"I don't know."
He looked at her as two medical attendants led her toward the shade.
"She pushed too hard?"
"Maybe."
"You don't believe that."
"I don't believe anything."
"You've said that before."
"An excellent habit."
The instructor called our next group.
I looked away.
That cost more effort than it should have.
---
Load adaptation involved weighted frames.
Not barbells.
Frames.
Candidates had to carry an awkward wooden structure through a changing route while instructors moved barriers halfway through.
Now I understood the name.
Strength mattered.
But mostly the Academy wanted to see what happened when a plan stopped being useful.
Xavier received a heavy frame.
He lifted.
His face tightened.
Started.
Halfway through, an instructor blocked the straight route.
Most candidates turned toward the wide detour.
Xavier stopped.
Looked left.
Mud trench.
Shallow.
Slower footing.
Shorter distance.
He entered the mud.
Of course he did.
He almost smiled.
The island had taught him terrible habits.
His boots sank.
The frame tipped.
He shifted the weight.
Earth and Water stayed unused—spellcasting prohibited—but his body understood unstable ground now.
Riverbed and flood.
He emerged filthy and several seconds ahead of the detour group.
He crossed fourth.
No magic.
No Raymond.
Just him.
I liked it.
Deeply inconvenient.
My own frame felt manageable until I lifted it above hip level.
Then my side reminded me that bones keep records.
The weight pulled across the rib cage.
I inhaled.
Stopped.
Shallower.
Move.
First barrier.
Turn.
Second barrier appeared ahead.
My original route closed.
The detour required climbing two steps.
Terrible.
Left route narrowed between posts.
The frame was too wide.
Unless rotated.
I stopped.
Candidates passed.
One.
Two.
I lowered one corner.
Turned the structure diagonally.
Walked sideways.
Ugly.
Slow.
Legal.
The post brushed my shoulder.
Pain flashed white along my side.
My hand loosened.
The frame dropped six inches.
I caught it.
Bad idea.
Very bad.
For one second, breath simply disappeared.
No air.
Nothing.
I lowered the frame.
The instructor nearest me started forward.
"Candidate?"
I raised one hand.
Wait.
My chest eventually remembered its occupation.
Air entered.
Small.
Again.
The intelligent decision was to withdraw.
I disliked it immediately.
The second intelligent decision was to use a touch of gravity.
Reduce the frame's load.
Finish.
Nobody would know.
Probably.
My mana could do it.
My pride wanted it.
Then I remembered Elisabeth tightening the bandage.
Xavier asking whether I would interfere with his result.
The entire reason I was here.
A false physical result was still false data.
And I had quite enough false data in my life already.
I lifted the frame normally.
Pain.
Move.
Slow.
At the finish, I was seventeenth.
Seventeenth.
I had once survived creatures that could bite through armor.
Nexus had defeated me with carpentry.
I set the frame down.
Xavier was waiting.
He wisely did not smile.
"Say it."
"Nothing."
"Your face is saying it."
"What?"
"That was terrible."
He failed.
He laughed.
I considered murder.
---
Controlled combat came last.
By then the court smelled of sweat, dust and bruised ambition.
Candidates were given padded staffs.
No active magic.
No head strikes.
Three-minute bouts.
Points for clean contact, control, disarm or ring-out.
My opponent was the noble boy from yesterday.
Of course.
He recognized me.
"Oh."
I took the staff.
"Disappointed?"
"You're the accountant story."
"I've had worse titles."
He rolled his shoulders.
He was taller.
Healthy.
Fresh enough.
I was none of those things.
"Ready?" asked the examiner.
The boy raised his staff.
I did too.
Whistle.
He attacked properly.
That was unfortunate.
No reckless charge.
Straight thrust.
I turned.
The movement pulled at my side.
Slower than I expected.
His staff clipped my shoulder.
Point.
He smiled.
Not mockery.
Satisfaction.
Fair.
Second exchange.
He feinted high.
Went low.
Better than I had judged.
I blocked.
The impact ran through my arms into the damaged shoulder.
My grip weakened.
Another point nearly followed.
Chessmaster opened.
Not full.
Balance.
Dominant foot.
Recovery time.
His right heel lifted fractionally after committed thrusts.
Useful.
I could win.
Step outside.
Draw thrust.
Catch shaft.
Turn his momentum.
Ring-out.
But winning quickly after running twelfth and carrying seventeenth would create exactly the kind of inconsistency that made examiners curious.
Then another thought:
Perhaps that was cowardice disguised as strategy.
Marduk had loved that trick.
Name fear prudence and suddenly it could attend dinner.
Whistle of staff.
I ducked.
Too slow.
The padded shaft touched my ribs.
Not hard.
It did not need to be.
Pain tore the breath from me.
I stepped backward.
My heel reached the ring line.
The boy froze.
He could have pressed.
He didn't.
"You okay?"
There it was again.
A person rather than a piece.
Annoying.
"Yes."
"You sure?"
"No."
He almost laughed.
The examiner waited.
I reset.
This time I stopped calculating my desired ranking.
Just one exchange.
Honest.
He thrust.
I shifted half a step.
Caught the staff against mine.
Turned.
Not force.
Angle.
His shoulder followed the weapon.
His right heel lifted.
I hooked behind his wrist, rotated the staff free and let it fall outside the ring.
Silence.
Then the examiner raised one hand.
"Disarm."
The boy stared at his empty hands.
I handed his staff back.
"That was—"
"Leverage."
"You were losing."
"Yes."
"You could've done that earlier?"
"Maybe."
His eyes narrowed.
He was not stupid.
Dangerous trait.
The final whistle sounded before he could ask more.
I won by one point.
Barely.
Exactly the sort of result I wanted.
Which meant something had probably gone wrong.
---
Xavier's bout was after mine.
I watched.
He did not fight like me.
Thank God.
His opponent was broader and faster.
Xavier took two early hits.
Then adapted.
Not by waiting for the perfect flaw.
By changing rhythm.
Advance.
Retreat.
Hard contact.
Sudden stillness.
His opponent began anticipating aggression.
Xavier gave him absence instead.
The boy overextended.
Xavier drove his staff across the centerline and forced him backward.
One step.
Two.
Ring.
Win.
No elegant disarm.
No trick.
Pressure.
His.
When he left the ring, his lip was split slightly and his grin was ridiculous.
"How did I do?"
"You leaned too far during the second exchange."
His grin disappeared.
"You're impossible."
"You asked."
"Overall."
I considered.
"Well."
"That physically hurt you, didn't it?"
"Immensely."
He laughed again.
I had created an intolerable person.
---
The girl was still in the medical shade.
That bothered me.
I told myself it was because she had become data.
A possible connection to Abraham's cases.
That was partly true.
Only partly.
She sat on a low bench while a healer spoke to her.
No glowing Gaia device.
No mystical classification.
Just examination.
Water.
Questions.
Her hands had stopped shaking.
Color had returned to her face.
Good.
The red-haired instructor approached with a slate.
"You're Candidate One-Seventy-Three."
I sighed.
"Unfortunately."
"Written score is under review."
Of course it was.
"Physical assessment: pass."
"How enthusiastically?"
She looked at the slate.
"Endurance: adequate. Coordination: strong. Adaptation: acceptable. Combat: strong tactical efficiency."
"And charm?"
"Unassessed."
"A serious institutional weakness."
Her eyes moved toward my torso.
"Medical observation recommended."
"No."
"That wasn't a question."
"I admire clarity."
"You're carrying a recent thoracic injury."
I smiled.
"You've become very personal."
"You protect your left side when you rotate. Your inhale shortened after the load course. Your right shoulder compensates when you lift."
Not survivor.
Not conspiracy.
Just competent.
Important distinction.
"You should see a healer."
"I have one."
"Licensed?"
"No."
"Of course."
She marked the slate.
"Tomorrow's magical evaluation is mandatory."
"I had hoped my delightful personality might exempt me."
"It has had the opposite effect."
She handed me my candidate slip.
MAGICAL ASSESSMENT — RESONANCE HALL — FIRST BELL.
Below it:
GAIA-AFFILIATED CLASSIFICATION ARRAY.
There.
My humor faded.
Just slightly.
The island Stele.
Xavier's hand touching stone.
Blue light.
Numbers.
Skills.
Then mine.
Nothing.
Dead silence.
The system doesn't see me.
Tomorrow Nexus intended to ask it again.
The instructor walked away.
I looked at the paper.
Xavier approached.
His own assessment slip in hand.
"Pass."
"Obviously."
He looked at mine.
Then saw the second line.
His expression changed.
"Gaia."
"Yes."
"You think it'll happen again?"
"I have no idea."
That was becoming a theme.
Behind him, an attendant helped the scholarship girl stand.
She took three steps.
Slow.
Stable.
She argued when they told her she was finished for the day.
Good.
Anger meant she still had energy.
I watched one examiner write beside her candidate number.
Couldn't read it.
Didn't try.
Blacklist came to mind.
Not the book.
The method.
CONFIRMED:
Strong coordination performance initially.
Sudden weakness without visible injury.
Removed from test.
PROBABLE:
Nothing.
SPECULATION:
Possible relation to historical admissions anomaly.
Possible ordinary exhaustion.
Possible illness.
Possible dozens of things I had not imagined.
Leave it.
That was the hard part.
Not finding patterns.
Refusing the seductive ones.
Xavier nudged my shoulder.
"Come on."
"Where?"
"Back to the Sierra."
"I want to—"
"No."
I looked at him.
He pointed at my ribs.
"Yesterday you told me my exam was mine."
"Yes."
"This injury is yours."
"That sentence makes no sense."
"Good. Then you can argue with Elisabeth about it."
He started walking.
I remained still.
He turned.
"Raymond."
There were many ways to exercise authority.
Orders.
Threats.
Money.
Fear.
Sometimes a boy simply expected you to follow.
I hated how effective it was.
I followed.
Behind us, North Court continued swallowing candidates.
Ahead, Resonance Hall rose between two white towers.
Tomorrow they would measure mana.
Affinity.
Potential.
Whatever portion of a soul institutions believed could be converted into columns.
I looked again at the Gaia seal printed on my paper.
Today Nexus had discovered exactly what my body remembered.
Every cracked rib.
Every unfinished recovery.
Every compromise.
Tomorrow it would ask the world itself what I was.
The last time someone asked Gaia that question, Gaia had answered with silence.
I folded the paper.
"Xavier."
"What?"
"If the machine explodes tomorrow—"
"No."
"You don't even know what I was going to say."
"I know enough."
I smiled.
My ribs immediately punished me for it.
Fair.
The body remembered everything.