Drew woke to pressure.

  Sudden and absolute, crushing his throat as he was wrenched upright.

  He tried to inhale.

  Nothing.

  His lungs burned. He gagged, mouth opening wide, but no air came. Panic hit. He clawed at his neck and found wire, thin braided metal biting into his skin.

  His fingers raked at it, skin tearing. Warm wetness spilled down his chest. His legs kicked wildly, heels thudding against the bedframe as he tried to lever himself backward.

  He slammed his weight against the mattress and heaved.

  They smashed into the wall together, bone and plaster cracking in the same instant.

  Something shattered.

  Light vanished as the aether lamp toppled from the bedside table and struck the floor. Glass broke with a sharp crack. The room plunged into darkness, broken only by the roaring in his ears.

  The wire cinched tighter.

  His vision tunneled. Strength fled his arms. His hands felt clumsy and distant, like they belonged to someone else. His knees buckled. The world pulsed in and out.

  System failure, his mind supplied dimly.

  Then his aether sight flickered.

  The darkness filled with ghostly outlines as his perception slipped sideways. Escaping gas bloomed into view, curling through the air in luminous strands, spilling from the shattered lamp in a widening cloud.

  The room was not dark.

  It was full of fuel.

  Drew sagged, the floor rushing up to meet him.

  He had nothing left.

  Except to execute.

  He forced the discharge.

  Light erased the room.

  Heat and pressure struck at once, a fist of flame slamming through flesh and bone. Cloth ignited. The smell of scorched fabric and skin filled the air. The wire snapped away. The air itself turned solid and hit him.

  Thunder split the world open.

  For a fraction of a second he was back on Mount Antero, lightning filling the sky, the storm devouring everything.

  Then the shockwave took him.

  Drew awoke with a groan that he immediately regretted as his throat seized. He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the pain.

  Pain meant he was alive.

  He opened his eyes to glowing aquamarine text.

  [SYSTEM COMBAT RESOLUTION]

  Target Neutralized: Assassin (Human)

  Method: Environmental Ignition (Aether Gas + Electrical Discharge)

  Engagement State: Ambush (Disadvantage)

  Combat Result: Kill Confirmed

  XP Awarded: +220 XP (Lethal Resolution)

  Bonus: +40 XP (Survival Under Ambush)

  Penalty: –20 XP (Self-Inflicted Damage)

  Net Gain: +240 XP

  Status Flags Updated:

  ? Wounded (Severe Burns)

  ? Shock (Acute)

  ? Oxygen Deprivation (Resolved)

  ? Combat Adaptation (Tier I)

  He dismissed the notification with a thought.

  Fray Hernando came into focus, seated beside the bed, a green rosary wound around his fingers.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  “I pray for your recovery,” the priest said softly. “And for what comes next.”

  He rose without another word and stepped into the corridor. The door closed with a muted click.

  Silence pressed in.

  Drew’s pulse spiked.

  Alone. Unable to move properly. Throat raw. Skin burned. Vulnerable.

  He tried to swallow and winced.

  The door opened again.

  Two healers entered first, hands already glowing faintly, and Fray Hernando followed. The tightness in Drew’s chest eased.

  Golden light pooled across his shoulders and neck, sinking into blistered flesh. The air filled with the faint scent of ozone.

  Fray Hernando rested one hand lightly on the bedframe.

  “Lord, You do not waste suffering,” he murmured.

  “If this trial marks him among the chosen, let him not falter.

  Forge him to the work You intend.”

  The golden light deepened. The ache in Drew’s throat receded to a low, steady throb. Seared skin along his neck tightened beneath the glow, knitting closed where the wire had cut.

  The pain did not disappear. It settled.

  He drew a careful breath.

  Air filled his lungs without obstruction, but his body refused to believe it. Each inhale carried the memory of constriction. For a moment he felt phantom pressure, as if the wire were still there.

  He glanced at the ceiling. At the shadows near the doorframe.

  He swallowed.

  It hurt.

  Good.

  He needed it to hurt.

  Someone had walked into his room while he slept.

  Not in battle. Not in a duel. Not shouting.

  Sleeping.

  He had designed hulls to withstand storm shear. Calculated stress tolerances. Modeled lift differentials in his head while others drank.

  And he had been seconds from dying because he trusted a door and a lock.

  He felt anger.

  Not loud. Not righteous.

  Small. Hot. Focused. Humiliating.

  He had been bait.

  He had been leverage.

  He had been almost easy.

  His fingers curled into the blanket.

  He would not be easy again.

  The system had rewarded him for surviving.

  Drew started as Thren’s clicking came too close to his ear.

  When had he entered?

  “Looks like he is near whole,” Fray Hernando said.

  “Tssk. Does he feel that he is whole?” Thren clicked.

  “No,” Drew said sharply, then paused.

  He could speak. He could breathe. His right side still ached, but not excessively.

  The door opened.

  Leonor entered first, composed as ever. An attendant followed, carrying a reinforced trunk. He set it carefully on the table and withdrew, leaving the four of them alone.

  The trunk lifted an inch above the wood, hovering on its own lift.

  Drew dragged his eyes back to Thren.

  “Who was it?” His voice came out rough, edged with something feral. “Who attacked me?”

  He heard it then. The venom. The instability.

  Thren studied him for a long moment.

  “We are not certain,” he said at last. “You killed one. Two others swallowed poison when discovered.”

  Drew’s hand began to shake.

  Fear. Rage. Humiliation.

  He forced it still, but Leonor noticed.

  Thren’s voice remained calm.

  “We are flying a dangerous branch current. Panic wastes lift. Improvement buys altitude.”

  Something in Drew snapped.

  “Improvement?” His voice rose despite himself. “I was seconds from dying in my own bed."

  Hernando stood. Not quickly. Deliberately.

  "Someone walked through your guards, your walls, your security, and you are talking about altitude?”

  The crack of the slap cut through the quiet room.

  Pain flared across Drew’s left cheek.

  He turned in fury and met Fray Hernando’s gaze.

  Not anger.

  Sorrow.

  The priest’s hand lingered a moment before lowering.

  “Do not let fear choose your voice,” Hernando said quietly.

  Drew held his gaze.

  The rage did not vanish.

  It narrowed. Focused.

  He rubbed his cheek once.

  “Understood,” he said.

  He did not lower his eyes.

  “We are here to set strategy,” Thren continued. “We have problems we must outgrow. Not solve. Outgrow.”

  He angled his head slightly.

  “Forty percent of your time will be spent teaching others. Improving existing hulls. Increasing cargo ratios. Standardizing joints.”

  His gaze sharpened.

  “We cannot afford genius that dies with you.”

  Drew did not look away.

  “And the other sixty?” he asked.

  A faint clicking sound escaped Thren.

  “That will interest you.”

  Leonor guided the hovering trunk over the bed. With deliberate care, she unlatched it.

  The lid opened.

  Inside rested a clay vessel threaded with living vinework. From it sprouted clusters of Vélaria Sanctum buds, each the size of a tomato, suspended in a delicate lattice of root and filament.

  They hummed.

  Not loudly. But steadily.

  Drew sat up despite the protest in his neck.

  “A galleon-grade lift stone requires twenty years,” Thren said. “These reach first lift in nine months. Military-grade lift in eighteen.”

  Drew stared.

  That was not incremental.

  That was disruptive.

  He looked at Fray Hernando.

  This had not been improvised. It had been cultivated. The old fox had planned to give them to the Arawinaya.

  The priest met his gaze calmly. No apology. No pride.

  “In three months,” Thren continued, “the first cluster reaches viable output.”

  His eyes fixed on Drew.

  “You will design the hulls for them.”

  Drew glanced at the corners of the ceiling again.

  A neon aquamarine message flared into his vision.

  [QUEST ACCEPTED: Outgrow the Current]

  Context:

  Deadwake’s survival probability declining.

  Directive:

  ? Design hulls for rapid bud maturation cycles

  ? Increase lift density per structural ton

  ? Enable deterrent fleet formation

  Condition:

  Improvement must outpace opposition.

  Reward:

  ? XP (Scaled to Infrastructure Output)

  ? Adaptive Growth Bonus (Pending)