“Can anyone tell me why the Union separates populations into tiers, rather than letting all levels live together?”

  The instructor’s voice was smooth, bored — like a man who’d been repeating the same lines for years. He barely looked at the tablet in his hands.

  A hand rose.

  “Thames,” the instructor said.

  “Logistics,” Thames answered, standing like he expected to be right. “Higher levels need stronger food, better gear. It’s just practical to separate them. Keeps supply chains efficient.”

  Of course it was “efficient.” The Union loved that word.

  The instructor smiled — the same thin curve he always gave when someone repeated the manual.

  Rem exhaled through his nose. Efficient. Sure.

  “You disagree, Rembrandt?” The tone had changed, sharper now.

  “I didn’t say anything,” Rem muttered.

  “Yes, well, I’m sure the class would love to benefit from your experience. Go on. Tell us where Thames is mistaken.”

  Rem rubbed the back of his head, the short hair bristling under his fingers. He could feel the room watching. “He’s not wrong,” he said finally. “Just incomplete.”

  A pause. Blank faces. The air felt still, waiting.

  “It is not just logistics,” Rem said stretching. “It is containment. The power gap is not linear — it is exponential. The lowest Tier Two could crush a Tier One without meaning to. A casual bump could kill you. Even essence absorption is a problem — the strong drain the weak just by being near them. Splitting tiers is not for efficiency, but to keep people alive.”

  The silence afterward wasn’t clean; it scratched. He heard the faint scrape of a chair, someone shifting farther away. Good — at least they understood the math of fear.

  “Honestly,” he added, quieter, “I am surprised they do not divide them more often than every ten levels.”

  “Thames, you just been Remmed,” a voice whispered from his left.

  “Well done!” The instructor’s clap of delight broke the tension. “Safety is precisely the point. The Union separates not to divide, but to preserve harmony. Each citizen, nurtured in the environment best suited to their potential. That’s compassion made practical. Efficiency. Order. Peace.”

  The tap of the tablet sounded like a gavel.

  “Excellent elaboration, Rembrandt. Remember, class: structure is compassion. Without tiers, there would be chaos.”

  Rem stared at the floor. He almost smiled. The Union could dress anything in mercy if it used the right words.

  Thames turned in his seat, glare sharp. Rem met his eyes for a heartbeat, then looked away. Not worth it.

  From behind came a low whisper. “Talking about levels, I’m so ready to be done with three,” Noah muttered, stretching until his joints cracked. “Mara leveled yesterday — I was this close. Just need one or two more runs.”

  Rem turned slightly. New bruises marked Noah’s neck and jaw, half-hidden under his collar. “Mara leveled? Who is her replacement?” he asked under his breath.

  “Jessa,” Noah whispered, nodding toward the front where she sat beside Thames.

  Rembrandt frowned. “You sure Noah? I find her demeanor to indicate psychosis."

  Noah’s grin was small but real. “You’re not wrong. But she puts up numbers. I’m just ready to be done. Can’t remember what a day without the stink of dire wolf smells like.”

  Rembrandt studied him for a moment. “Maybe you should drop your team and level with me. The odds of you being injured would be dramatically lower with how I plan runs.”

  “Ah, thanks, Rem.” Noah’s smile softened. “But I’ll be fine. Let’s plan on running four when you get there.”

  He dug through his satchel, found two small vials, and pressed them into Noah’s hand. “Take these.”

  Noah hesitated, then slipped them into his pocket. “You worry too much.”

  Rem leaned back in his chair. The instructor’s voice was still droning at the front of the room, smooth as glass.

  The courtyard buzzed with voices — laughter, clanking gear, the static charge of nerves before a trial. While the rest of the class milled about, Rem slipped toward the east gate, hood low. He almost made it.

  Mara stepped into the path.

  “You know, Rem,” she said, eyes narrowing as she studied him, “I expected you to fail and admit you were wrong. Nobody challenges three solo. Nobody until you.”

  She stood a head taller, muscle drawn taut under her uniform — the kind of strength you earn from wanting something too much.

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  “Yeah, well,” Rem said, “all my friends outleveled me or joined other teams. Not like I had any good options.”

  “Eva says you’re exempt from trials,” Mara pressed. “That you’re an alchemist.” She tilted her head, curious now, almost suspicious. “It just seems strange — you always find a way to win, even when it looks like you’re losing.”

  Rem shrugged. Let her wonder.

  “I’m watching you,” she said. “So are others.”

  He looked past her toward the courtyard gate. “I had no idea I had a fan club. I’m blushing.”

  He stepped around her and didn’t look back.

  Her words followed him across the bridge, looping in his mind. Who? He turned it over, searching for a hidden warning, but found none.

  By the time he crossed the canal and reached the edge of Oldetown, his thoughts had already shifted back to the day ahead.

  A little here, a little there — patient, precise. That was the plan. Slay the system with a thousand harmless cuts.

  The sweet smells of the past drifted on the breeze as he rounded the canal toward the west entrance. Oldetown was spreading fast, and afraid of the sprawl, Zwolle’s planners had thrown up temporary walls and gates to contain it — plain, unadorned panels of plexi and paperboard, placeholders until skilled hands could lay proper stone.

  Rem passed through the gates under the eyes of the Union guards — their presence a quiet weight, something everyone had long since learned to ignore.

  Beyond, the streets pressed tight with new stalls and shopfronts staking out fresh ground. Lanes wound between them, narrow and shifting, leading deeper toward the heart of the district — toward the great stone Arch that now anchored every life in Zwolle.

  He stopped by the , selling off a few potions for credits — instantly deposited to his account. From there he cut across to Alchemy Row for another batch of ingredients, then the grocer for more oranges. He even went out of his way to find the merchant who sold the coffee; it took him a while, the stalls looked so different in daylight.

  Coffee in hand, he headed for the Arch.

  He yawned as he stepped through the portal into his workshop. he thought idly. Then he got to work.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Rem stood in the kitchen doorway, watching the cook move in a blur — stirring pots, crossing the stone floor, hauling kettles from the coals with blackened tools. The motions were practiced, frantic, automatic.

  SURGE ONE: Repelled.

  Exit now to receive your rewards (Common, 30 XP).

  He turned toward the gate as cheers erupted outside — the same roar as yesterday, the same men celebrating. The loop repeated. But today he was here for names.

  He looked back at the cook.

  Margaret Voss

  Level 3

  She was crying as she worked, tears cutting clean lines through the soot on her face. Her lips moved soundlessly, whispering to no one.

  “Oh, don’t leave the door open — in or out,” she said suddenly, wiping her face with the corner of her apron.

  “Sorry, ma’am.” Rem stepped inside. “Is everything okay?”

  Her eyes found him — red, wet, fierce. “Is everything okay?” she repeated, voice trembling. “Is everything okay?”

  She seized a black pot from the fire with heavy mitts and dropped it on the table. The iron rang. “No,” she shouted, voice breaking, “no it bloody well isn’t!”

  She tore the lid away and stared into the pot. Steam poured up, thick and white. Her hands shook. “This is my rhubarb pie,” she said. “My Henny’s favorite.”

  She froze, eyes wide. “I bake it every morning. Every day. For as long as I can remember.” Her words tumbled, uneven. “And I — and I…” Her breath hitched. “I don’t remember him ever eating it.”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I just keep baking it. Every morning. I never give it to him. Why would I do that? What’s wrong with me?”

  The lid slipped; it clanged to the stone. She gasped once, then folded her arms tight to herself, rocking.

  SURGE TWO: Repelled.

  Exit now to receive your rewards (Uncommon, 100 XP).

  Another wave of cheering rolled through the square, but Rem barely heard it. The sound felt obscene beside the woman’s sobbing.

  For a minute he stood there, shocked. Time was ticking — surges, roars, the schedule of things he’d learned to obey — and yet the simplest thing felt enormous.

  “I could take him a piece,” he said, voice steadier than he felt. “If you like.”

  For a long beat she didn’t move. Her hands hovered, damp and flour-specked. Something eased in her face; permission trembled through a slow nod.

  She wiped her hands on her apron, found a knife, and worked with mechanical care. She cut a wedge from the steam-slick pie; the smell of rhubarb and sugar hit him — sharp and oddly intimate. She wrapped the slice in a scrap of cloth and held it out.

  Rem’s fingers closed around the parcel. He held it like something fragile and holy, as if warmth could graft memory back into a place that had gone empty.

  “Henny,” she breathed, the name small and raw.

  SURGE THREE: Repelled.

  Exit now to receive your rewards (Uncommon ×2, 200 XP).

  Margaret’s shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly. She did not smile. She did not remember. Then, with a small, trembling motion, she pressed the wrapped slice into Rem’s hands — an awkward, urgent relay. For a moment that was proof that someone — anyone — had noticed her.

  Rem wrapped the cloth tighter, pocketed the parcel, and turned away before she could ask anything else. Small kindnesses didn’t fix systems. They bought a minute. He tucked the heat of the pie and the whisper of that name away, then headed for the glyph stone.

  Rem stood in his workshop. The pie sat on the bench, steam ghosting off the crust. He stared at it as if he’d never seen pie before — then stared at it in horror.

  When the steam thinned he took a knife, sliced a piece, and ate it. Rhubarb: sharp and tart, sugar rounding the edge, the crust flaky and warm. Smoke threaded through. It melted on his tongue and, for a heartbeat, something opened — a sudden, bright memory of his mother in a cramped kitchen, flour knuckles, the way food tasted better because someone had made it for you.

  That’s what the pie tasted like. Crafted with love.

  He rolled his eyes at himself. Ridiculous. Simulations. Very realistic simulations. Nothing more.

  But the damage was done — the certainty he’d worn like armor now had a hairline crack. He could no longer convince himself of what should be true.

  And what if they were people? Real people, or echoes trapped in a single, looping moment. Would that make his challenge different? Would he treat them differently?

  Rem cut the pie into quarters and ate in silence, each bite a pause between thoughts.

  It wasn’t until he’d refilled his potions and drained the last of his essence through alchemical merges that he finally closed his notebook. The idea still gnawed at him — that someone in the Union had found a way to freeze a moment in time, hold it, replay it — a living instant trapped like a fly in amber.

  He stepped out into Oldetown, the night damp and metallic. Notifications bloomed before his eyes — not system alerts, but messages from friends. One after another, their tone sharpened.

  By the time he left the square, his pulse had quickened. He dialed Finn.

  The moment his friend came into view — haggard, exhausted — Rem’s stride faltered.

  “Rem,” Finn said, voice low, eyes dark with exhaustion. “It’s Noah. It’s bad.”