The debrief room smelled of coffee and ozone; the projector hummed with footage from the convoy. Officers leaned over tablets, fingers tapping timestamps. Captain Rhea sat with her back straight, expression closed to everything but the facts. Arjun stood near the wall, palms empty, the Astraeon Veil a quiet constellation at his throat. He had expected questions about technique. He had not expected the accusation.
Director Sethi did not raise his voice. He did not need to. He set a single frame on the projector: a grainy clip from a contractor's rig, the corridor's seam glowing as a cutter grazed it. The camera angle shifted and, for a heartbeat, a hand—gloved, quick—reached toward the seam and then away. The caption read: UNAUTHORIZED INTERFERENCE.
"We have reports," Sethi said, voice even, "that a contractor's anchor was used in a manner inconsistent with the permit. There are claims the corridor was extended beyond the sanctioned route." He looked at Arjun with the cool appraisal of a man who cataloged risk. "We need clarity. We need accountability."
The room tightened. Ishaan, who had been present at the convoy, folded his arms and watched like a fox watching a henhouse. The liaison from the gallery sat with a dossier open, expression neutral. Captain Rhea's jaw moved once; she did not speak until Sethi finished. Then she did what she always did—she spoke to the facts.
"The corridor held under interference," she said. "The seam shows a minor corruption trace where the cutter grazed. We negotiated with local scavengers and avoided bloodshed. Any extension beyond the sanctioned route would have been visible on the contractor's anchor logs and the academy's telemetry. We will audit both."
Sethi nodded. "Audit, yes. But we also need a demonstration. Public clarity. A controlled activation under observation. If the corridor can be shown to be contained and properly anchored, it will answer questions about misuse."
Arjun felt the halo at his collarbone tighten. A demonstration under scrutiny was different from the Trials—this would be a public, recorded activation with contractors and officers watching for any sign of overreach. It would be a test of technique and of motive. It would also be an opportunity for those who wanted him to move faster to press their case.
He agreed. The decision was not brave; it was necessary. Captain Rhea assigned the Golem‑bond and the Phoenix‑root medic to the demonstration team. Ishaan volunteered his crew to provide a contractor anchor for the controlled test. The liaison arranged a gallery of observers: field officers, a representative from the outpost council, and a small contingent of contractors. Director Sethi scheduled the demonstration for the following afternoon.
The practice tiles were colder under the gallery lights. Cameras ringed the perimeter, and the contractor's anchor sat like a dark promise at the far edge of the lane. Arjun named the stones with the cadence he had practiced until the words felt like muscle. The Astraeon Veil unrolled a ribbon of starlight, narrow and precise. The Golem‑bond pressed the edges. The Phoenix‑root medic stood ready with a lantern and a kit.
Halfway through the activation a technician in the gallery—someone from contractor telemetry—tapped his console and frowned. "Anchor tension spike," he said. "Unscheduled draw." The contractor's lead, a man with a jaw like a hammer, looked up and swore softly. Ishaan's eyes narrowed. The gallery murmured.
Arjun felt the corridor shiver. The seam thinned. The mind‑screen flashed a warning: External resonance detected. Fatigue trace increasing. He could collapse the stitch and call the demonstration compromised. He could step back and let the Golem‑bond hold while the technicians traced the spike. Or he could do what he had done before: widen the corridor, buy time, and force a human choice into the seam.
He widened it.
The motion cost him. The halo on his mind‑screen flared a bright, painful thread. The ribbon steadied enough for the Phoenix‑root medic to pass a test stretcher through. Cameras recorded the motion; the gallery leaned forward. The contractor's telemetry logged the spike as an attempted override—someone had tried to pull extra power through the anchor to force a wider corridor. The contractor lead's face went white with anger and something like fear.
When the demonstration ended the room filled with questions. Who had attempted the override? Was it a rogue operator, a contractor tactic, or sabotage? Director Sethi ordered an immediate audit of anchor logs and a review of contractor personnel. Ishaan's crew protested their innocence; the liaison promised cooperation. Captain Rhea's report would be precise and unsparing.
Arjun felt the cost of the activation in his bones. The fatigue thread on his mind‑screen had deepened into a bruise. The Phoenix‑root medic placed a hand on his shoulder and said, quietly, "Reflective entries. Three. Then rest." The instruction was routine and tender at once. Arjun nodded and, for the first time in a long while, let himself be guided.
The audit revealed a complication: a contractor subcontractor had indeed attempted an unsanctioned draw on the anchor network. The operator's badge traced back to a house with known ties to frontier contracts and a history of bending rules. The operator had been dismissed, but the incident left a stain on the public record and a question in the minds of those who watched: who benefits when corridors are stretched?
Sethi called a closed session. He did not accuse Arjun; he framed the problem as institutional. "We must tighten oversight," he said. "We must ensure that cadet activations cannot be co‑opted by private interests." His words were policy, not personal, but the implication was clear: the academy would move to regulate contractor anchors more tightly, and cadets who attracted contractor attention would be watched.
Ishaan came to Arjun after the session. He did not offer a contract. He offered instead a warning and a favor. "You did what you had to," he said. "You held the seam and kept people in it. That makes you useful—and visible. If you ever need a hand that doesn't ask for your signature, call me. But be careful who you trust. Houses have long memories."
Arjun accepted the favor with a nod that felt like a bargain. He did not like bargains that came with shadows, but he understood the world Ishaan described. The contractor's offer was a tool; the favor was a lifeline. Both could be used for good or for profit.
The next week the mentorship circle shifted focus. Captain Rhea introduced a new exercise: coordinated multi‑anchor maintenance. The idea was to teach cadets how to share the load of a stitch across multiple sigils and constructs so that no single bearer bore the full fatigue cost. The drills were technical and intimate: timing, breath, the precise pressure of a Golem‑bond's palm against a corridor edge. Arjun found the work humbling. Each successful shared activation left a thin, steady glow on his mind‑screen; each failure left a red thread that required reflection.
During one late drill a cadet misphrased the naming cadence and the corridor buckled. The seam tore, and a small corruption thread flared. The Phoenix‑root medic moved with practiced calm, treating the seam and guiding the cadet through reflective entries. Captain Rhea used the moment as a lesson in humility. "Power without practice is a wound waiting to happen," she said. "We stitch maps so people can keep their edges. If we forget that, we become the ones who redraw them."
Arjun wrote his reflective entries that evening with a steadier hand. He wrote about the contractor's override, about Ishaan's favor, about the way the corridor had shivered under pressure. He wrote about the cadet who had misphrased the cadence and the way the Phoenix‑root medic had moved. Each entry eased the fatigue thread a little. Each entry made the halo steadier.
Before he slept he found the liaison's card folded into the seam of his jacket—an old card he had thought he'd tucked away. Someone had left it there deliberately. The handwriting on the back was new: a time, a place, and a single line: We can help you learn faster. Meet if you must. The message was not a demand; it was a reminder that the world beyond the academy had not stopped watching.
Arjun folded the card into his palm and felt the Astraeon Veil like a small, patient thing at his throat. He had learned to hold corridors under interference and to share the load with others. He had learned that contractors could be both help and hazard. He had learned that every stitch left a trace—on the city, on the seam, and on the bearer who made it.
Outside, the academy's glass eaves caught the last of the day's light and threw it into thin, circuit‑like lines across the courtyard. The halo at his collarbone pulsed once, steady and precise. He slid the card into a drawer and closed it without ceremony. The climb would be faster now, and the choices would be louder. He slept with the knowledge that the next stitch might ask him to choose not only how to hold a map, but whose map he would help redraw.