The alert didn’t repeat.

  That was the first thing Karael noticed.

  The band on his wrist had pulsed once during the run, a tight, unfamiliar vibration that hadn’t matched any training signal he knew. By the time he slowed enough to glance down, the light had already dimmed back to its resting state.

  No follow-up.

  No instruction.

  No explanation.

  That bothered him more than if it had gone off again.

  They finished the circuit under heavier observation than usual. Not more instructors, just closer ones. Jorrek walked the perimeter instead of the center. Selka stood elevated on the scaffolding, slate angled just enough that Karael couldn’t tell what she was writing. Two administrative officers lingered near the pylons, speaking quietly, eyes tracking movement rather than form.

  Group C felt it.

  No one said anything at first, but spacing tightened. Cadets corrected faster. Breathing got quieter. Even the sloppy ones were trying not to look sloppy.

  Harl leaned in briefly as they slowed to a walk. “You get that too?” he murmured.

  Karael shook his head once.

  Harl grimaced. “Figures.”

  They lined up for rotational drills. Pairing assignments flashed on the wall panel, names cycling faster than usual before locking.

  Karael noted the pattern immediately.

  He was being moved.

  Not isolated.

  Repositioned.

  Every rotation put him with a different partner. Different pressure profiles. Different habits. As if someone were testing how much the system bent around him instead of the other way around.

  Malrec caught it too.

  “Annoying,” he muttered after the third switch, rolling his shoulders. “Like they’re poking something to see if it bites.”

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  Karael kept his eyes forward. “Does it feel deliberate.”

  Malrec snorted. “Everything here is deliberate.”

  Their next pairing put Karael opposite Tomas.

  That alone shifted the air.

  Tomas didn’t rush. He never did. He adjusted his stance with exaggerated care, eyes flicking briefly to Selka’s platform before settling on Karael.

  “Seems you’re popular lately,” Tomas said. His tone was casual. Too casual. “Special treatment already.”

  Karael raised his guard. “Rotation isn’t my call.”

  “No,” Tomas agreed. “But attention is earned.”

  The signal chimed.

  Tomas came in fast, pressure sharp but controlled, testing range rather than committing. Karael met him cleanly, redirecting rather than countering, footwork tight enough that the boundary lines barely reacted.

  They circled.

  “You ever wonder,” Tomas said quietly, “how many mistakes someone can make before they stop calling them anomalies.”

  Karael stepped inside the next strike and clipped Tomas’s wrist, just enough to break rhythm.

  “I don’t wonder,” Karael replied. “I adapt.”

  Tomas smiled thinly and disengaged before the field could punish them for proximity.

  The bout ended without escalation, but the message lingered.

  Across the room, Ilan watched without intervening. His expression wasn’t hostile. It was thoughtful in a way that suggested he was placing Karael into a framework rather than reacting to him.

  Seris caught Karael’s eye briefly when the drill reset. She gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head.

  Don’t take the bait.

  They moved into group coordination exercises next. Four-person formations. Shared load. Rotational pressure balancing.

  This was where Group C usually fractured.

  Today, it didn’t.

  They weren’t smooth. They weren’t clean. But they adjusted for each other without being told. When Harl lagged, Ilan compensated. When Seris overextended, Malrec covered. When Karael shifted pressure to stabilize the formation, no one fought it.

  Someone laughed when they nearly collided.

  “Hell of a way to bond,” a cadet muttered, breathless.

  The sound broke something.

  Not tension. Distance.

  By the time the drill ended, they were breathing hard and standing closer than necessary, shoulders nearly touching. It felt unspoken but solid, like a decision no one had formally made.

  Selka’s slate clicked.

  Jorrek called the halt and dismissed them without commentary.

  As they filed out, Karael felt the band on his wrist warm again. Not a pulse this time. A steady heat, faint but undeniable, like something active just beneath the skin.

  He didn’t look down.

  He already knew it wasn’t meant for him.

  Behind them, Tomas lingered, eyes narrowed. Ahead, Malrec stretched his neck and muttered about bruises. Seris slowed just enough to fall in beside Karael.

  “Careful,” she said under her breath. “They’re not watching to help you.”

  “I know,” Karael replied.

  “What worries me,” she continued, “is that they’re starting to watch all of us.”

  Karael felt the heat at his wrist deepen, then fade.

  That night, the notice went out.

  Group C would no longer be evaluated as individuals.

  Starting tomorrow, performance would be measured by cohesion.

  Karael lay awake longer than usual, staring at the dark ceiling, feeling the weight of that decision settle.

  Whatever had been sent to his band had done its job.

  The system had noticed him.

  And now it was widening the scope.