Temple of the Promised - Westhaven, Morning
Sister Helena found them during morning meal—simple fare of bread and fruit that the temple provided to guests under sanctuary. She approached with deliberate purpose, her movements carrying the kind of intentionality that suggested she'd been planning this conversation since last night's statue incident.
"May I join you?" she asked, though her tone suggested the question was formality rather than genuine request for permission.
John's perception mapped her position as she settled onto the bench across from where he and Kiran were eating. Her presence carried tension that his enhanced awareness detected through breathing patterns and subtle postural adjustments. She wanted something, or needed to communicate something she believed was important.
"The statue we destroyed," John said, preempting whatever elaborate introduction she'd prepared. "You want to discuss its significance."
"Perceptive." Helena's voice carried approval. "Yes. I believe you deserve to understand what you broke, and why your... arrival here feels significant to our congregation."
"I don't care about your religious beliefs," John said flatly. His focus remained on his meal, on consuming the calories his malnourished body required. "We're leaving today. Whatever symbolism you're attaching to coincidental events is irrelevant to my objectives."
"Perhaps," Helena conceded. "But humor an old woman's need to share knowledge with someone who might benefit from it. Kiran, at least, seems interested." She'd apparently noticed the boy's attention sharpening at the mention of explanation.
Kiran nodded enthusiastically. "I want to know. About the statue, about who you worship, about all of it. We've been traveling for days and I've barely learned anything about the world beyond what John's told me, and he's not exactly educational."
John made noncommittal sound but didn't object. If Helena's explanation kept Kiran occupied and quiet, that served functional purpose.
"Come then," Helena said, standing. "There's something I want to show you. A mural in our meditation chamber that illustrates the prophecy we maintain."
She led them through the temple's side corridors, navigating toward the structure's eastern wing where John's perception detected larger open space. The meditation chamber was exactly that—approximately fifteen meters square, acoustically designed to minimize echo, with smooth stone walls that his enhanced touch could feel were covered in some kind of carved or painted surface treatments.
Helena positioned them before the southern wall. "This mural has been maintained by our order for three centuries, passed down through generations of believers who kept the prophecy alive despite Order suppression."
John's perception couldn't process visual art. His ki awareness detected the wall's surface, could map the textured areas where paint or carving created variations in the stone's smoothness, but he couldn't interpret the images those variations represented.
Kiran, however, gasped audibly. "It's beautiful. And detailed. There's so much happening—battles, figures, symbols I don't recognize. But..." His voice trailed off. "Half of it is missing. The right side just... stops. Like someone destroyed that section or it was never completed."
"The right half depicts the prophecy's fulfillment," Helena explained. "But it was deliberately left unfinished by the original artists. They believed the final portion couldn't be rendered until the prophesied one actually arrived, that attempting to depict events that hadn't occurred would be presumptuous and potentially misleading."
"Convenient," John observed. "Leaves interpretation open to whatever confirmation bias best suits your congregation."
"Perhaps," Helena acknowledged without defensiveness. "Or perhaps wisdom—recognizing that prophecy describes possibility rather than certainty, that the future remains unwritten until those who shape it make their choices."
She moved closer to the mural, her hand apparently tracing elements John couldn't perceive. "The prophecy speaks of Anaya—in the old tongue, it means 'resurrection of what was lost.' The texts describe one who will return when the world approaches critical threshold, when the systems maintaining current order begin consuming more than existence can sustain."
John's attention sharpened despite his stated disinterest. That description aligned uncomfortably well with his own observations about mana depletion and the world's deterioration.
Helena continued: "The prophecy states: *'When earth's blood runs thin and sky forgets its color, when power feeds on power until nothing remains but hunger, Anaya will walk among the people. Marked by great flaw that becomes great weapon, bearing blindness that reveals truth others cannot see, walking paths that should remain closed yet opening them through will alone. Neither god nor mortal but something between, carrying memory of what was and vision of what must be. By their hand, the old world ends. By their choice, the new world begins—restored to balance or consumed by final transformation.'"
The words hung in the meditation chamber's acoustic space. John processed them, recognizing the prophetic language's deliberate vagueness—statements broad enough to apply to multiple situations, specific enough to seem meaningful when matched to actual circumstances.
"And you think this prophecy describes me," John said. Not a question—he'd heard Sister Helena's whispered observation last night, understood her reaction to his appearance.
"The signs align," Helena said carefully. "You are blind—the 'great flaw that becomes great weapon.' You navigate through methods that shouldn't be possible for someone with your disability, suggesting you've developed capabilities others cannot access. You arrived at our temple pursued by hunters who claim you're escaped property, yet you carry yourself with authority inappropriate for slave child. And your face..." She paused. "Your face resembles descriptions from the oldest texts, from records that predate Order censorship."
"Coincidence," John said. "Humans have limited variation in facial structure. Thousands of people probably share similar features."
"Perhaps," Helena repeated, her tone suggesting she found that explanation insufficient. "But consider: you're traveling with no destination, no clear purpose beyond survival. You're weak now, but I sense potential in you—hunger for power that transcends normal ambition. You hate fate, hate being defined by circumstances beyond your control. Am I wrong?"
John's jaw tightened. The assessment was too accurate, cut too close to thoughts he'd been processing privately. "How do you know that?"
"My Uncos," Helena said simply. "Desire Recognition—I perceive what people truly want, not what they claim to want or what they believe they should want, but their core driving needs. Most people's desires are mundane: safety, comfort, approval, simple pleasures. Yours..." She paused, and when she continued her voice carried mixture of awe and concern. "Yours is absolute. You desire power sufficient to reshape reality itself. You desire to overcome limitations that others accept as permanent. You desire to prove that fate is illusion, that will and determination can override any constraint. And underneath all of that, buried deep: you desire to restore something that was lost, something precious that was taken from you."
Every word was accurate. John's thoughts during his six centuries of near-death consciousness, his motivations since awakening in this body, his long-term objectives once he achieved sufficient strength—all of it exposed by this woman's Uncos with precision that made deception pointless.
"You can help me," John said. Not question, not request—statement of what Helena had already implied.
"I can," Helena confirmed. "Our order maintains knowledge that The Order has suppressed. Training methods predating the Supreme Eight's system. Understanding of ki cultivation that most modern practitioners have forgotten. Access to resources—limited resources, admittedly, but more than you'll find elsewhere—that could accelerate your development."
"In exchange for what?" John asked. "You want me to pretend to be your prophesied Anaya? Play messiah for your congregation?"
"No," Helena said firmly. "I want you to stay with us. Learn our ways. See what we believe and why we believe it. If you are Anaya, that will become clear through your actions rather than requiring claim or performance. If you're not, you'll still benefit from our training and we'll benefit from housing someone whose potential might eventually serve causes aligned with our goals."
John considered the proposal. He needed training resources, needed access to knowledge about power development that the Divine Prohibitions had made scarce. This temple—these monks or whatever they were—apparently possessed exactly what he required. The fact that they wanted to attach religious significance to their assistance was annoying but manageable.
"I have one condition," John said. "I'm not interested in fate, prophecy, or divine purpose. I make my own choices. If your training requires accepting that I'm fulfilling some predetermined role, we have incompatible objectives."
"Our training requires only that you commit to learning," Helena said. "What you believe about prophecy is yours to determine."
"Then I'll stay," John said. "Temporarily. Until I've gained what I need."
"That's all I ask." Helena's relief was palpable in how her posture relaxed. "Though I should mention: our primary temple isn't here in the city. This is merely sanctuary space for those who require it. Our true facilities are elsewhere—remote location where training can occur without Order interference."
She led them back through the temple's corridors, but instead of returning to the main hall, she directed them toward what John's perception had identified as storage area. His enhanced spatial awareness detected something unusual about this space: the acoustic signature suggested the floor wasn't solid, that hollow space existed beneath the stone surface.
Helena activated some kind of mechanism—John heard stone grinding against stone, felt the floor section shift and descend, revealing stairs that led downward into darkness his blindness couldn't distinguish from normal environment.
They descended. The stairway was steep, carved through natural rock, extending approximately fifty meters down based on how long it took to reach the bottom. The temperature dropped as they descended, and the air quality changed—less stale than John expected for underground passage, suggesting ventilation from somewhere.
The tunnel at the stairway's base extended northeast, John's perception tracking it for maybe thirty meters before his awareness radius ended. Helena led them through it, the passage eventually sloping upward, the quality of stone changing from worked construction to natural cave formation.
They emerged on a mountainside. John felt it immediately through multiple sensory channels: thinner air indicating significant elevation, temperature drop consistent with altitude, wind patterns that suggested exposed position on mountain face, and most significantly—the mana.
Natural mana permeated the environment here with density John hadn't experienced since awakening in this body. Not concentrated in specific objects like the degraded Vitalis leaves, but diffused through the entire ecosystem: the soil, the plants John couldn't see but could smell, the very air they breathed. This was how the world had felt five hundred years ago, before the Supreme Eight's system had drained it nearly dry.
"This is where we maintain Anaya's true temple," Helena said. Her voice carried pride. "Remote enough that Order authorities don't patrol here. High enough that natural mana remains relatively undepleted. Protected enough that we can train without fear of immediate discovery."
John's perception mapped the structure ahead: significantly larger than the city sanctuary, maybe forty meters in length, constructed from stone that his enhanced touch identified as ancient—centuries old, possibly predating The Order itself. The acoustic signature suggested the building had been carved from the mountain itself rather than built upon it.
Kiran was apparently speechless, his breathing pattern indicating awe that he couldn't articulate. Even John, whose perception couldn't appreciate visual aesthetics, recognized the tactical value: defendable position, resource-rich environment, isolation from surveillance. Perfect location for someone trying to develop power outside official systems.
"This is acceptable," John said, his tone carefully neutral to avoid revealing how perfect he actually found it. "I can work with this."
Helena smiled—John couldn't see it but could hear it in her voice. "Then welcome, John, to your temporary home. Let me show you where training begins."
Eastern Territories - Slave Labor Camp, Same Day
The compound's perimeter had been breached seven minutes ago, and the alarm bells were still echoing across the facility's thirty-acre footprint when Amari encountered the senior guard.
The man was maybe thirty-five, carrying himself with the confidence that came from actual combat experience rather than just training exercises. His armor was leather reinforced with metal plates at vital points—professional equipment maintained properly rather than the cheaper materials most guards wore. The sword in his right hand showed wear patterns indicating extensive use, the blade's edge nicked in places but still sharp enough to be lethal.
"Liberators," the guard said, his tone carrying contempt mixed with something approaching amusement. "I've heard about you. Freedom fighters, they call you. Terrorists, we call you. But either way—" his eyes tracked across Amari's frame, noting the twelve-year-old's size and age, "—I didn't expect you'd be recruiting children. Getting desperate, are we?"
Amari's twin daggers were already drawn, held in reverse grip, his stance balanced and ready. His breathing was controlled despite the sprint through the compound that had brought him to this position. Around them, the liberation operation continued: other Liberators engaging guards, freed slaves being directed toward extraction points, buildings burning where fire had been used to create chaos and cover.
But this guard—the senior security officer based on the insignia his armor displayed—was Amari's designated target. Neutralize command authority, disrupt coordination, reduce the opposition's ability to organize effective defense.
"I'm not a child," Amari said. His voice was steady, carrying none of the uncertainty it had held during his first mission two months ago. "I'm a Liberator. And you're an obstacle to our objective."
The guard laughed—genuine amusement rather than mockery. "Confident. I'll give you that. But confidence without capability just means you die surprised instead of afraid." He shifted his stance, sword positioning changing from casual ready to active engagement. "I've fought in three territorial wars, boy. Killed more people than you've probably met in your entire short life. What makes you think you can even survive this encounter, let alone win it?"
Amari didn't answer verbally. He attacked—right-hand dagger sweeping low toward the guard's left knee while left-hand dagger feinted toward the face, the combination designed to force defensive reaction that would create opening for follow-up strike.
The guard's response was economical and brutally effective. His sword came down, deflected the low strike while his body moved backward, creating distance that made the face-feint miss by half a meter. Then he countered—forward step accompanied by horizontal slash aimed at Amari's midsection, the strike delivered with speed that suggested strength enhancement Uncos or just exceptional natural capability.
Amari dropped to crouch, the sword passing through space his torso had occupied one second earlier. He rolled forward, inside the guard's reach, both daggers driving upward toward the man's exposed abdomen where armor plates left gap for movement flexibility.
The guard's knee came up, caught Amari's right shoulder, sent him sprawling backward. The impact hurt—kinetic force concentrated into joint that was already sore from training—but Amari converted the momentum into backward roll that put him back on his feet three meters away.
"Not bad," the guard acknowledged. "You've got training. Real training, not just enthusiastic flailing. But training only takes you so far when your opponent has actual experience applying it."
He advanced again, this time not waiting for Amari to initiate. His sword work was textbook perfect: controlled strikes that probed Amari's defense, testing reaction speed and decision-making under pressure, looking for patterns that could be exploited in follow-up exchanges.
Amari gave ground, maintaining defensive positioning while his mind processed the guard's technique. The man was right—he was experienced, his movements showing the kind of refinement that came from hundreds of real combat encounters. He didn't overcommit to strikes, didn't leave obvious openings, maintained proper spacing that made it difficult for Amari's shorter reach to find effective angles.
This wasn't like the training exercises at Sanctuary. This wasn't like the depot mission where chaos and numbers had provided advantages. This was single combat against someone significantly more skilled, where Amari's only advantages were speed and the unconventional nature of his twin-dagger fighting style.
The guard's next combination was more aggressive: three-strike sequence—overhead, diagonal, thrust—executed with flow that suggested he'd performed this pattern thousands of times. Amari deflected the first two with his daggers, the impacts jarring his wrists, but the thrust came too fast for proper parry. He twisted, the sword point catching his left side instead of his center mass, tearing through leather armor and drawing blood but missing vital organs.
Pain bloomed, sharp and immediate. Amari's breathing hitched but he forced himself to maintain focus, forced himself to recognize that injury wasn't defeat, that he'd trained specifically for continuing to function while hurt.
"First blood to me," the guard said. "Though I'll give you credit—most people your age would be panicking right now. You're staying tactical. That's good discipline."
Amari's response was attack rather than acknowledgment. He closed distance rapidly, sacrificing defense for aggressive offense, his daggers working in complementary pattern: high-low, left-right, feint-strike combinations that forced the guard to allocate attention across multiple threat vectors simultaneously.
The guard gave ground this time, his sword working defensive patterns that blocked most of Amari's strikes but not all—one dagger caught his left forearm where armor ended, opening shallow cut. Another found gap between chest and shoulder plates, drawing blood without penetrating deeply enough for serious damage.
"Better," the guard said, and now his tone carried less amusement and more professional assessment. "You're adapting. Learning my patterns, finding the gaps. That's what separates decent fighters from good ones."
They circled each other, both bleeding now, both reassessing their opponent's capabilities based on updated information. Amari's side throbbed with each breath, but the wound wasn't deep enough to compromise his movement significantly. The guard's injuries were even more superficial, barely affecting his combat effectiveness.
This was stalemate territory. Amari couldn't win through direct engagement—the experience and reach advantages were too significant. But he wasn't losing either, wasn't being overwhelmed the way his opponent had apparently expected.
Then someone else entered the engagement: Zara, moving from the guard's blind side with the speed her enhancement Uncos provided, her short sword aimed at the man's back in strike that would have been lethal if it connected.
The guard sensed her somehow—combat awareness, peripheral vision, or just instinct that said fighting one opponent while ignoring surroundings was how professionals died. He spun, his sword coming around to intercept Zara's strike, the two blades meeting with metallic sound that rang across the compound.
Amari attacked immediately, capitalizing on the guard's divided attention. His right dagger found the gap in the man's armor at his right ribs, penetrating leather and flesh, driving deep enough to cause real damage. The guard grunted, his body language showing pain that he was trying to suppress, and his sword work became less controlled as he tried to manage attacks from two directions simultaneously.
Zara pressed her advantage with brutal efficiency. She wasn't flashy, wasn't demonstrating technique for educational purposes. She was executing professional takedown: three-strike combination that forced the guard's sword out of optimal defensive position, followed by palm strike to his solar plexus that carried enough force to disrupt his breathing and balance.
The guard stumbled backward, his sword lowering as his body prioritized recovering from the solar plexus impact over maintaining defensive posture. Amari and Zara both moved in, coordinated without requiring verbal communication—they'd trained together enough that tactical coordination was automatic.
Amari went low, his daggers targeting the guard's legs with strikes designed to compromise mobility. Zara went high, her sword and free hand working in combination to control the guard's weapon arm while creating openings for finishing strike.
The guard recognized he was losing. His technique shifted from trying to win to trying to survive—pure defensive work focused on creating space for disengagement rather than actually defeating his opponents. He backed toward the compound's eastern wall, his movements showing he was looking for escape route rather than continuing the fight.
"Retreat acknowledged," Zara called out, apparently willing to let him go rather than pursuing lethal conclusion.
But Amari wasn't. His daggers were still active, his body still moving forward, his intention clearly to prevent the guard's escape and finish what they'd started.
"Amari, stand down," Zara commanded. "We're here to free slaves, not execute guards who are withdrawing from engagement."
"He's a threat as long as he's alive," Amari countered, not slowing his pursuit. "He'll regroup, he'll organize counter-attack, he'll kill Liberators in future operations if we let him escape now."
The guard made it to the wall, found doorway that led to exterior courtyard, disappeared through it with speed that suggested his injuries weren't as compromising as they'd appeared. By the time Amari reached the doorway, the man was fifty meters away and moving at full sprint toward the compound's perimeter.
Amari started to follow but Zara's hand caught his shoulder, grip firm enough to prevent forward movement without being painful.
"Let him go," she said. "Mission objective is slave liberation. We've achieved that. Pursuing individual guards for elimination is scope creep that increases operational risk."
Amari turned to face her, his expression showing frustration that bordered on anger. "I hate people like him. Guards who profit from slavery, who enable exploitation, who think they're just doing their jobs while they're actually facilitating systematic oppression. I'll kill every single one of them if given opportunity."
"Your hatred is noted," Zara said, her tone remaining level. "But hatred doesn't determine tactics. Mission objectives do. We leave."
They returned to the extraction point where freed slaves were being organized for movement toward safe locations. The operation had been successful by measurable metrics: forty-three slaves freed, minimal Liberator casualties, compound's infrastructure damaged enough that resuming operations would require weeks of repair.
But as they began the march back toward Sanctuary, Zara moved to walk beside Amari, her posture suggesting she had something to communicate that required privacy from the larger group.
"You're getting too aggressive," she said quietly. "Too focused on killing rather than mission completion. That guard earlier—your pursuit was tactically unsound. You were so committed to eliminating him that you weren't tracking the larger operational picture, weren't noticing that other guards were repositioning to potentially cut off our extraction route."
"The mission was successful," Amari said defensively. "All objectives achieved. Your criticism seems premature when the results speak for themselves."
"Results don't validate flawed decision-making," Zara countered. "You succeeded despite tactical errors, not because your approach was sound. And the pattern is concerning—this isn't first time I've observed you prioritizing violence over mission-optimal choices."
"Maybe violence is mission-optimal," Amari said. His tone carried edge of insubordination that wouldn't have been present two months ago. "Maybe killing guards who would otherwise return to oppressing people is exactly what Liberators should be doing."
"That's not your decision to make unilaterally," Zara said. "And your anger is affecting your judgment. You need to—"
"I need people to stop telling me how to do things when I'm perfectly capable," Amari interrupted. "I complete missions successfully. I perform at or above expectations. The fact that my methods don't match your preferences is your problem, not mine."
Zara was quiet for several seconds, processing Amari's response with expression that suggested she was reconsidering her approach. "I'm trying to help you develop proper tactical discipline before your aggression gets you or your teammates killed."
"If you wanted to help, you wouldn't have stopped me from finishing that guard," Amari said. "He'll be problem in future operations. He'll train other guards in counter-Liberator tactics. He'll coordinate responses that will make our missions harder and more dangerous. Letting him escape was the actual tactical error."
"We're not executioners," Zara said. "We're—"
"We're at war," Amari interrupted again. "Whether official command acknowledges that or not, whether you want to frame it in polite language or not, we're in armed conflict with Order forces. In war, killing enemies who will otherwise kill you isn't murder. It's survival."
They walked in silence for another fifty meters, the tension between them palpable enough that nearby Liberators were giving them space.
Finally Zara spoke: "I'm reporting this conversation to Commander Voss. Not as disciplinary action—as concern about your psychological state and decision-making patterns. You're an exceptional combatant, Amari. But exceptional combatants who can't control their aggression become liabilities."
"Report whatever you want," Amari said. His attention had already shifted away from the conversation, toward processing the operation they'd just completed and planning for how he'd approach the next one.
Zara didn't respond further. They completed the march back to Sanctuary in relative silence, the successful mission creating positive atmosphere among most of the group that couldn't fully penetrate the tension Amari had created through his exchange with his tactical superior.
Sanctuary - Commander's Office, Evening
The leadership council had convened in Commander Voss's private office rather than the formal command hall, suggesting this was consultation rather than official proceeding. Five people occupied the room: Voss at his desk, Bjorn leaning against the western wall with his characteristic casual posture, Zara sitting in one of the two chairs positioned across from Voss's desk, and two other senior Liberators—Thane and Erik—standing near the door.
"Amari's developing concerning patterns," Zara was saying, apparently mid-report when the conversation reached topics relevant to broader leadership concerns. "Excessive aggression, disregard for mission parameters, prioritization of violence over tactical objectives. Today's operation was successful, but his decision-making during engagement was flawed in ways that could have compromised the entire team."
"Specific examples?" Voss asked, his tone neutral but attentive.
Zara detailed the guard encounter, Amari's pursuit despite her stand-down order, the post-mission conversation where Amari had defended his aggression as tactically sound rather than acknowledging legitimate criticism.
Bjorn spoke from his wall position: "He's twelve years old and we've put him in multiple combat situations where killing is normalized as operational necessity. Some psychological impact is inevitable. Question is whether this is temporary adjustment phase or developing into permanent behavioral pattern."
"He's also showing exceptional performance metrics," Voss observed. "His mission completion rate is perfect. His combat effectiveness exceeds veterans twice his age. His tactical awareness during actual engagement is sophisticated beyond what his training duration should produce." He paused, then added: "We're discussing whether to correct course that's currently producing exactly the results we recruited him to generate."
"Results don't matter if the methods create long-term problems," Zara countered. "Amari's aggression isn't just tactical—it's personal. He hates the people we fight. That hatred is driving his decision-making more than mission objectives. And hatred-driven fighters make mistakes that get people killed."
Erik spoke for the first time: "There's another consideration. Amari's development is matching prophecy descriptions from the old texts. The ones about the Returner."
The room's energy shifted. The Returner was topic that leadership rarely discussed openly—partly because prophecy talk made tactical people uncomfortable, partly because the implications were too large to process while managing day-to-day operations.
"Elaborate," Voss said.
Erik moved to the desk, pulling out a worn leather journal that contained copied texts from sources predating The Order. "The Prophecy of Restoration. Most complete version we have includes this passage: *'When the blood of the powerful feeds on the blood of the powerless, when systems built to protect become systems built to exploit, the Returner will emerge. Born without the mark of divine favor, carrying mortality's greatest strength—the knowledge that death approaches and excellence is earned rather than granted. By their hand, the old powers will tremble. By their blade, the righteous will rise. Flawed in ways that reveal perfection's lie, gifted in ways that demonstrate merit transcends blessing.'"
"Amari has no Uncos," Bjorn observed. "Born without divine favor—that matches. His combat abilities are learned rather than granted—merit transcending blessing. That matches. But the prophecy also suggests the Returner will challenge the Supreme Eight themselves, will literally overthrow divine authority and restore pre-Order governance. Are we suggesting Amari is destined for that?"
"Prophecy describes possibility, not certainty," Voss said. His tone suggested he'd thought about this extensively before this conversation. "And prophecy's value isn't in prediction—it's in providing framework for understanding significant individuals and movements. Whether Amari is literally the prophesied Returner matters less than whether he represents the kind of person the prophecy describes: someone with capabilities that suggest they might eventually challenge structures everyone else accepts as unchangeable."
"The concerning part isn't whether he matches prophecy," Zara said. "It's what prophecy suggests happens if such person exists: war on scale that makes current liberation operations look trivial. Millions dead. Civilization restructuring. Everything we know being destroyed to build something different. Is that what we want to facilitate by training someone who might actually have capacity to make it happen?"
The room was quiet while leadership processed that question.
Thane spoke, his voice carrying the gravity of someone who didn't speak often but whose words carried weight when he did: "We're already at war. The Order's systems kill people through systematic exploitation every day. What we do—the liberation operations, the resistance—we're not creating conflict. We're making existing conflict visible. If Amari eventually becomes someone capable of threatening the Supreme Eight themselves, that's just escalation of conflict that already exists."
"Or it's catastrophic escalation that kills more people than current system does," Zara countered. "We don't know. That's my point. We're training someone whose potential we don't fully understand, whose psychological development we're shaping through combat trauma, whose trajectory might lead places we haven't considered."
Voss was quiet for approximately thirty seconds, processing the competing perspectives. Then: "We continue Amari's training. We monitor his psychological state. We provide guidance about tactical discipline and appropriate aggression management. But we don't limit his development based on speculation about what he might eventually become. He's Liberator. He serves our cause. That's sufficient for current decision-making."
He looked at Zara directly. "You continue working with him. Provide mentorship, help him develop better emotional regulation, ensure he understands why excessive aggression is tactically problematic. But recognize that some of what you're seeing is normal adaptation to combat stress for someone his age. Don't pathologize behavior that might be temporary adjustment rather than permanent pattern."
"Understood," Zara said, though her expression suggested she wasn't entirely convinced.
The meeting continued for another twenty minutes, covering logistics and planning for upcoming operations, but the Returner prophecy discussion had been the significant component—leadership acknowledging possibility that Amari might be something more than just exceptionally talented child soldier, that his trajectory might eventually intersect with forces larger than the liberation movement itself.
Whether that possibility was opportunity or catastrophe remained unknown.
But they would continue shaping it regardless, because the alternative—abandoning someone with Amari's potential—felt like worse risk than whatever unknown consequences his development might eventually produce.