The next few days ran together. Tests, waiting rooms, cold stares, the lights always buzzing overhead. Caelum couldn't have said what happened when; sometimes he was holding out his arm, sometimes facing strangers, hoping he looked like he knew what he was doing with whatever had changed inside him.

  The examiners watched from behind glass, blank-faced, scribbling notes. No one gave him a hint of what they thought. When it was finally over, his scores were enough to let him through. Not great, not bad—just enough, and he was glad to be done with it.

  Quarantine cleared him after a few days. No strange symptoms, no red flags, just a nurse with a clipboard giving him a nod. They herded him down hallways so spotless they looked fake. The shine on the floors and walls made him feel like he was about to slip, and the chemical tang in the air stuck in his nose. Nothing about it felt welcoming—every inch of the place seemed to insist he shouldn’t get comfortable.

  Inside the certification hall, a few other cadets slouched in their seats. They looked as wiped out as he felt. Caelum scanned their faces, just hoping to see someone else who got it—some silent look that said yeah, this was all as weird and rough for them too. Maybe he just wanted to know he wasn’t the only one feeling chewed up and spat out.

  The room itself was all function, no ceremony—just another box to be processed in.

  Ten chairs, bolted down so nobody could move them. White walls, the type that made you feel like you were in a holding cell. No windows, nothing to look at except a tiny RMA insignia scratched into the wall near the ceiling—just in case anyone forgot who was in charge.

  Caelum dropped into a seat between a girl with bandaged knuckles—she kept flexing her fingers as if she was testing if they still worked—and a boy who couldn’t seem to stop clenching and unclenching his left hand.

  The door squeaked open without warning.

  An officer walked in, skipping introductions or anything polite.

  He looked about mid-forties, hair cut short and going gray. His uniform was spotless, not a badge or ribbon in sight. He didn’t need to show off to seem in charge.

  He waited for the subdued murmur to subside.

  “You all passed quarantine,” he said.

  His tone offered no congratulations.

  “Your baseline resonance stabilised within tolerable limits. Neural load remained below fracture threshold. Contamination markers are negative.”

  A pause.

  “That qualifies you as compatible and as assets.”

  The wall behind him projected a clean schematic of the ARC interface.

  “This is not an induction. You were briefed prior to first exposure. Consider this a systems refresh.”

  He moved slowly across the front of the room.

  “You are Awakened candidates. You are not civilians. You are not hunters. You are not yet certified Marked.”

  The word hung in the air.

  “The ARC interface you are wearing remains in restricted mode. It records your resonance output, monitors synchronisation drift, and enforces baseline governors.”

  The schematic expanded to reveal its layered architecture.

  “Each unit interface operates on a localised artificial intelligence core. It functions independently within a rift. When network access is unavailable, your interface continues to regulate output and monitor neural load.”

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  A progress bar appeared on the display.

  “Synchronisation percentage reflects alignment efficiency between your internal resonance and Rift energy density. Increased synchronisation improves energy transfer efficiency. It also increases scarring probability.”

  He let the silence stretch, as if daring anyone to ask what that really meant.

  The projection shifted to an RMA node tower.

  “When outside a rift — or within range of an active node — your interface connects to the RMA network. Data uploads. Clearance is verified. Certification records are updated.”

  He turned towards them.

  “The ARC system is global. It is governed exclusively by the Rift Management Authority. There are no national variants. No private editions.”

  He paused, letting the words settle.

  The projection blinked off, leaving the room in a silence that felt almost suffocating.

  “ARC does not grant power. It helps regulate and categorise it. Your baseline is not your potential. It is your safe operational floor.”

  A new projection appeared, displaying fluctuating growth models.

  “From this point forward, your interfaces will begin phased recalibration. Additional analytical modules will unlock. You will receive detailed reports on synchronisation variance, stress load, and calibration.”

  He came to a halt, fixing the group with a look that made Caelum sit up a little straighter.

  “You have demonstrated compatibility. You have not demonstrated control.”

  The air turned cold, or maybe that was just in Caelum’s head. Either way, nobody dared to move.

  “Unregulated growth destabilises environments. It interferes with node stability. It attracts anomaly convergence.”

  His voice never changed.

  “The purpose of ARC is to prevent destabilisation events.”

  Nobody moved. Even breathing felt risky.

  “You are not being prepared to become exceptional individuals. You are being prepared to function within parameters.”

  “If your growth pattern deviates beyond statistical projection, it will be flagged. If your synchronisation patterns display irregular behaviour, it will be investigated.”

  He folded his hands behind his back.

  “The transition from candidate to Marked depends on a single primary trait.”

  He paused.

  “Control.” He let the word echo, as if it was supposed to mean more than it did.

  “Control under pressure. Control under opportunity. Control within a team.” A few cadets glanced up, maybe hoping for some hint of reassurance.

  “Marked do not operate alone. Standard deployment protocol requires team integration. Individual escalation without coordination increases casualty probability by forty-three per cent.”

  The number just sat there, daring anyone to argue.

  “Your recalibration cycle begins tonight. Expect mild neural fatigue. Minor headaches are normal. Severe pain is not.”

  He stepped back to the wall.

  “One final clarification. The local AI within your interface is procedural. It issues alerts and threshold warnings. It is not conversational.”

  A few nervous laughs broke out, the kind that died quickly when nobody else joined in.

  “If you begin hearing responses outside operational context, report to medical immediately.”

  “Your certification trial will take place in fourteen days,” he began.

  The noting of a delay seemed to let some of the tension leak out of the room.

  “The interim period is for controlled training, team integration, and monitored escalation.”

  The projection was divided into coloured sections, each marked accordingly.

  “You will be assigned to operational teams. This reflects standard Marked deployment doctrine. Solo operation is neither efficient nor tactically sound.”

  He fixed the group with a stare that made Caelum want to look away.

  “The trial evaluates your ability to function within a unit.”

  A list appeared inside the projection:

  — Synchronisation stability under stress

  — Compliance with thresholds

  — Tactical communication

  — Coordinated engagement

  — Disciplined withdrawal

  “You will be inserted into a rift. The environment is real. The threats are real. Casualties are expected.”

  The projection zoomed in to display a confined anomaly corridor.

  “Each team will be presented with objectives requiring coordination. Resource management, threat containment, extraction timing.”

  He locked his hands behind him, posture stiff.

  “Raw output will not improve your rating.”

  His jaw tightened for a second.

  “If you compromise team stability through uncontrolled escalation, your certification will be denied.”

  The projection highlighted a central node beacon.

  “Extraction orders must be followed immediately. Delayed withdrawal counts as failure.”

  He let the silence drag out, making certain everyone felt it.

  “To become Marked is not to prove strength. It is to prove reliability.”

  Nobody shifted in their seat. The room felt frozen.

  “RMA authorises Marked status only for individuals who can operate without becoming liabilities to their unit.”

  The projection faded, leaving only the harsh overhead lights.

  “Successful candidates receive Provisional Certification and enter supervised deployment rotations.”

  He paused one last time, as if daring anyone to speak.

  “Control. Coordination. Restraint.”

  He turned off the display.

  “Training assignments will be distributed this afternoon.”

  The door opened.

  “Two weeks.”

  And that was the end of it.