The bus doors folded open with a low, pneumatic hiss that signalled the end of the journey and the start of something far more gruelling.

  Cold air spilled into the cabin immediately, damp, sharp, and carrying the heavy scent of wet earth and crushed eucalyptus. Rory stepped down onto the gravel with the rest of the recruits, his boots crunching softly as his weight settled on the uneven ground. On his exhale, his breath fogged in a thin, ragged plume. He wasn't entirely sure if it was the biting weather or his own body betraying its thermal regulation again, but he pulled his jacket tighter on instinct. A sudden and jagged shiver racked him and the girl standing beside him noticed instantly. She clicked her tongue in a sharp display of irritation, muttering under her breath as she grabbed her friend’s arm and hauled her a several feet away. The rejection wasn't subtle.

  Embarrassment burned at the edges of Rory’s frustration, but he swallowed it down and stepped toward the far side of the clearing. He was already hovering on the fringes of the group, there was no point in pretending he belonged in the centre of it.

  Ahead of them, the forest waited in silence.

  The drop zone was sparse by design, devoid of any fixed infrastructure or shelter. It was merely a wide clearing carved into the thick Australian bush, marked by perimeter flags and stacked gear crates arranged with clinical precision. Long, bundled frames lay near the tree line, collapsed tent supports, rolls of heavy canvas, modular flooring, and sealed supply packs. Everything they would need to survive the week was present, but nothing was built yet.

  Rory scanned the site quietly, his instincts already cataloging the workload ahead. People wove around him with sharp, habitual precision. Packs were unceremoniously unloaded and gear was redistributed while names were checked against glowing tablets. Rory drifted further toward the perimeter, positioning himself where he wouldn’t be in anyone’s way but could still observe the mechanics of the camp.

  Across the clearing, Owen’s gaze snagged on him and didn’t let go. He looked away too late, like he hadn’t meant to stare at all.

  A voice suddenly cut through the low chatter of the clearing. “Alright. Eyes up.”

  The speaker stood at the front of the staging area. He possessed the kind of relaxed posture and steady voice that commanded attention without needing to shout. Rory didn't recognise him, a man in his mid-thirties with clean lines and a leadership presence that felt effortless.

  “This is a self-sustained field build,” the man continued. “Everything you need is either on your back or in those crates. Nothing gets left behind, and nothing gets assembled until we reach the site.”

  A woman stepped forward beside him, her sharp, assessing eyes scanning the line of recruits. “I’m Mads,” she said. “I’ll be running logistics and site layout. You’ll hear my voice when things need to move faster.”

  The man nodded once. “Caleb. Training lead.”

  Rory filed the names away.

  “We’ve got a ten kilometre hike to the primary camp zone,” Caleb announced. “Mixed terrain. Elevation gain in the second half. You’ll move in teams, packs on, no leapfrogging.”

  Mads lifted her tablet, her gaze lingering on the group. “Hydration checks every forty minutes. If anyone drops out, your team adjusts to compensate. No exceptions.”

  Caleb clapped his hands once, the sound cracking through the cold air like a gunshot. “Move.”

  The group broke formation with practiced smoothness, falling into designated clusters. Rory waited until most of the high-energy packs had cleared out before stepping forward to find his gear. He moved with a heightened consciousness of his proximity to others, wary of the way the cold bled outward from his skin when he wasn't paying attention.

  Across the clearing, Ethan caught the shift without even having to look for it. He saw Rory standing apart, his shoulders drawn in and his hands buried deep within his sleeves. Though Rory had layered up more than anyone else, his hood up, jacket zipped to his chin, the air surrounding him still felt thin and wrong. It was colder than the mountain weather could account for.

  Ethan frowned faintly. “I’ll catch up,” he said to Will, already changing his course.

  Will glanced back, followed Ethan’s line of sight to the boy on the edge of the woods, and nodded without a word.

  Ethan crossed the gravel at an easy, predatory pace. As he passed the gear crates, he spotted Rory’s pack immediately, older, mismatched, and clearly not part of the standard-issue Karmal kit. He snagged it by the strap without breaking stride. He stopped just short of Rory and tapped him on the shoulder.

  Rory startled violently, spinning on instinct with a flash of raw tension across his face. The "fight" drained out of him the moment he recognised Ethan. He took the offered pack, his eyes dropping to the ground.

  “Thanks.”

  Ethan barely registered the muttered gratitude. His attention was fixed on the quiet frost clinging too closely to Rory’s skin. “Bit cold?” he asked.

  Rory’s face immediately flushed. “No…I’m fine.”

  “You’re trying to fix it with layers,” Ethan observed mildly.

  Rory’s jaw tightened. “It’s working.”

  Ethan huffed a soft breath, a sound that bordered on fond. “It’s slowing it down.”

  Rory hugged his jacket closer, stubborn even in the smallest of motions. “That counts.”

  “Only for a bit,” Ethan countered. “Your core is still losing ground.”

  Rory didn't answer. He slung the heavy pack over his shoulder and stepped forward, putting distance between them before the conversation could dig any deeper. “I’ve got it,” he said, his voice clipped. “I’m good.”

  Ethan watched him go, noting the way his shoulders remained hunched and his steps were just a touch too deliberate, as if he were walking on glass.

  “Rear position,” Ethan called out to Will as the column began to move. “I’ll hang back.”

  Will gave a short thumbs-up and turned away. Rory glanced over his shoulder once, a flash of defensive irritation in his eyes. He knew exactly why Ethan was staying behind him.

  Ethan didn't offer a comment or an excuse. He simply fell into step a few paces back, close enough to watch, yet far enough not to crowd, letting Rory keep his pride, and his balance, intact.

  The trail narrowed quickly, the forest closing around them in a dense tapestry of layered greens and wet browns. Their boots sank slightly into the rain-softened earth, the sound of the hike becoming a repetitive cadence of shifting packs and settling weight as everyone found their rhythm.

  Rory kept his head down and his pace measured. He focused entirely on the placement of his feet, roots, jagged rocks, the steady incline, anything that didn’t involve acknowledging the biting chill. The jacket helped, but only in the shallowest sense.

  Ethan walked a few steps behind him, his long stride unhurried and his eyes scanning the group with a casualness that disguised how closely he was actually monitoring Rory. He waited until the chatter ahead thinned, until the ambient sounds of the bush were reduced to nothing but laboured breathing and heavy footfalls.

  “You don’t have to clench like that,” Ethan said, his tone conversational. “You’ll burn through your energy reserves faster.”

  Rory shot a sharp look over his shoulder. “I’m not clenching.”

  Ethan hummed, unimpressed. “Your shoulders disagree.”

  Rory exhaled a jagged breath and forced them down, deeply annoyed that Ethan was right. They walked in silence for a minute, the only sound the rustle of their gear. Rory tugged his sleeves lower, his fingers so numb it took more effort to move the fabric than it should have. The cold had worked its way inward now, sitting beneath his sternum like a physical weight. His breathing was becoming shallow, the air catching in his throat.

  Ethan matched his pace without comment, letting the silence breathe. “Tell me when it started,” he said eventually.

  Rory frowned. “What?”

  “The cold,” Ethan clarified. “When did you notice it first?”

  Rory hesitated, then offered a reluctant shrug. “Getting off the bus.”

  “That early?” Ethan asked lightly. “Before the hike even began?”

  Rory nodded once, the movement stiff. “Yeah.”

  Ethan absorbed the information, his expression unreadable. “Alright.”

  They stepped over a fallen branch in unison. Rory stumbled slightly, his balance momentarily failing, and he let out a hiss of frustration at the misstep.

  “You’re doing the jacket thing again,” Ethan noted, his tone mild.

  Rory bristled instantly. “It’s cold, Ethan.”

  “I know it is,” Ethan replied. “I’m not telling you not to wear it. I’m saying don’t rely on it to do the work your core should be doing.”

  Rory didn’t respond, his jaw setting in a stubborn line. A few more minutes passed as the trail curved upward, the incline biting harder into Rory’s legs. His breath fogged thicker now, the chill sharpening into a needle-like sensation in his chest.

  Ethan let the tension sit before asking casually, “What are you thinking about?”

  Rory scoffed under his breath. “You always ask that.”

  “Because it matters,” Ethan said. “And because you don’t notice the moment your focus shifts.”

  Rory opened his mouth to snap back, but he stopped himself. He took a second to actually pay attention to his surroundings. The forest felt heavy, darker than it should have been for midafternoon, damp, and claustrophobic.

  “…The trees,” Rory admitted quietly. “This place. It’s…cold…it’s a lot.”

  The cold spiked in response to the admission, sharp enough to make his teeth click together once before he could catch the reaction.

  Ethan nodded. “Makes sense.”

  Rory glanced back at him, his irritation returning. “You’re not even going to tell me to think warm thoughts?”

  Ethan’s mouth twitched at the corners. “You’d ignore me if I did.”

  Rory let out a small laugh despite himself, the sound surprisingly genuine. They walked on, the incline increasing as the mountain began to assert itself. Rory’s breathing turned shallow again, coming too quick for the pace they were keeping.

  Ethan let it linger for a moment, then added casually, “When I get like this, I think about soup.”

  Rory glanced back, completely thrown by the change in subject. “What?”

  “Leek and potato,” Ethan said. “There was this café near one of the old sites. Tiny place. Windows were always fogged up. You’d walk in half-frozen and have to peel your layers off five minutes later because the heat was so intense.” He shrugged. “Didn’t matter how bad the day had been. That bowl fixed it.”

  Rory stared at him for a second, suspicious of the sentimentality. “That’s…dumb.”

  Ethan smiled. “It worked.”

  They continued their climb. The cold didn't disappear, but it loosened its grip just enough for Rory to notice the shift. His breath evened out, and his shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. Ethan noticed the change immediately but had the grace not to comment on it.

  “So,” Ethan said lightly. “What’d you land on?”

  Rory frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “You stopped spiralling,” Ethan said. “Something changed.”

  Rory opened his mouth, then closed it again, his grip tightening on his backpack straps. “…Just something,” he muttered.

  Ethan waited, his silence an open invitation.

  Rory sighed, frustrated by the persistence. “It’s not a thing.”

  “Never said it was.”

  Rory kicked at a loose rock as he walked, his gaze fixed on the dirt. “Just… something…my mum used to make. It’s nothing.”

  Ethan didn’t stop walking, and he didn't look at Rory, either. He just adjusted his grip on the strap of his pack and let the silence hold for a few steps longer than was strictly comfortable. “Yeah,” he said eventually. “Makes sense.”

  Rory frowned, confused by the lack of follow-up. “That’s it?”

  Ethan glanced back then, his expression easy and unpressured. “You don’t want a reaction. You want it left alone.”

  Rory looked away again, his jaw tight. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  They stepped over another tangle of roots as the line ahead slowed, the trail narrowing to a single-file squeeze. Someone laughed further up the column. The sound felt distant, muffled by the trees. Rory realised his fingers were warmer now, not warm, exactly, but responsive enough to move. He flexed them inside his sleeves, annoyed that Ethan’s distraction had actually been effective.

  They fell back into the rhythm of the hike, moving steadily deeper into the bush, unaware of the small recalibration that had just taken place. Rory kept walking.

  Halfway up the line, the other Karmal kids had settled into a loose cluster, their packs bouncing lightly against their spines as the path widened enough for conversation to break through the steady rhythm of boots and breath.

  Up ahead, Jess walked shoulder to shoulder with Nelson, her arms folded tight against her chest, boots biting into the mud with sharp, irritated steps.

  “So he is here,” Jess said, not bothering to lower her voice.

  “Who?” Sammi asked looking around.

  “That Rory kid.” Jess replied sounding irritated. Ahead of them, Cam slowed his stride just enough to listen without turning around. Leigh walked beside him, her expression carefully blank, eyes scanning the trees rather than the conversation.

  “I still think it’s bullshit,” Jess said, the bitterness cutting through. “Beau should be here.”

  Nelson snorted. “Obviously. He gets sidelined and suddenly the problem kid gets a free pass?”

  “Exactly,” Jess said. “They’ve known Beau for years. One screw-up and that’s it?”

  Nelson shook his head. “Meanwhile they roll out the red carpet for Rory like he’s some kind of project.”

  A few people nearby glanced over, catching the drift of the conversation but choosing to stay silent.

  “It’s a retreat,” Sammi offered eventually, her voice neutral and pragmatic. “If leadership thinks he’s joining Karmal, it makes sense for him to be here.”

  “No, it doesn't. He doesn't belong here,” Jess shot back, her tone final.

  Further up the line, Royel adjusted his shoulder straps and shrugged. “I don’t know. Leadership makes weird calls all the time. It is what it is.”

  “Yeah,” Ai added. “Half of this stuff is way above our pay grade anyway.”

  “That doesn’t make it fair,” Jess insisted.

  “It doesn’t make it unfair, either,” Sammi replied. The conversation stalled there, as the physical toll of the climb began to outweigh their conviction.

  Farther back in the column, Leigh walked with Murphy, her attention drifting toward the canopy. She had clocked Rory the moment they’d stepped off the bus, it was hard to miss someone walking with Ethan essentially acting as a shadow.

  “He’s actually here,” Leigh said quietly.

  Murph nodded. “Yeah.” A pause stretched between them. “I didn’t think he’d actually show up,” Murphy admitted.

  Leigh hummed in agreement, a small frown creasing her brow. “Still. I’m curious.”

  Murph smiled faintly, a knowing glint in her eye. “You always are.”

  Leigh shrugged, her gaze fixed on the trail. “He’s interesting, that's all.” Murphy shot her a look, her smile widening, but she didn't push it.

  A few steps ahead of them, Owen walked alone. He kept his gaze fixed forward and his pace steady, his mouth set in a hard line that discouraged anyone from approaching. He’d heard it all, Beau’s name, Rory’s name, the whispered comparisons, and the half-formed opinions of people who weren't there. No one asked him for his take. They knew better.

  When Nelson tried to bridge the gap anyway, falling into step beside him, Owen didn’t slow down.

  “So,” Nelson said, trying for a casual tone. “Guess your boy made the cut after all.”

  Owen’s jaw tightened visibly. “He’s not my-” He stopped himself, taking a breath. “Leadership made the call,” he said instead, his voice flat.

  Nelson smirked. “Funny how it all worked out.”

  Owen didn’t respond. He focused on the rhythmic sound of boots hitting the mud and the weight of his pack, anything to ignore the knot of guilt sitting heavy in his gut. He’d been there. He’d seen what Beau had done, and he knew he hadn’t stopped it and he’d helped stop it far too late, and far too quietly. He didn’t feel he had the right to comment now.

  Jess let out a sharp, frustrated breath. “He doesn’t even want to be here. You can tell. Every time I see him, he looks like he’s searching for the nearest exit.”

  “That’s not a crime,” Leigh said evenly.

  Jess spun around. “You’re kidding, right? Karmal isn’t a therapy camp. If he can’t handle the pressure-”

  “-Then what?” Leigh cut in. “We pretend half of you don’t have total meltdowns on a weekly basis?”

  That earned a few muffled snorts from the surrounding group. Nelson scowled. “At least we don’t punch civilians.”

  “He shouldn’t be here,” Jess muttered, turning back to the trail. “This is meant to be team stuff.”

  Cam finally glanced over his shoulder. Rory was further back than the rest, half-shrouded by the leaning trees, walking silently beside Ethan. His shoulders were hunched, his jacket pulled tight to his chin, and his head was angled down as if he were listening intently to a conversation no one else could hear.

  Cam looked away, his pulse ticking up. “He is part of this,” Cam said quietly. “Whether you like it or not.”

  Jess laughed under her breath. “You barely know him.”

  “That doesn’t mean he doesn't belong.”

  The trail curved sharply, the group stretching out as the incline steepened. Conversation thinned, replaced by the heavy sound of synchronised breathing and physical effort. Behind them, Rory’s breath fogged in a short burst as the trail steepened again. He adjusted his sleeves, movements small and controlled.

  Ethan noticed, didn’t say anything yet.

  Up ahead, Caleb’s voice carried back. “Switchbacks in two minutes. Hydrate now, not later.”

  They cut into the switchbacks with clean, staggered spacing. The trail tightened as it climbed, turning the group into a long, undulating line of packs and strained lungs. Boots struggled for purchase in the slick, muddy dirt. Every few metres, a recruit would shift a strap or unclip a chest buckle, rolling a shoulder to relieve the mounting pressure.

  Caleb’s voice carried back from the front, measured and authoritative. “Keep your distance. Keep your eyes on the person ahead of you. If you’re slipping, say it.”

  Mads walked the line, her eyes scanning the recruits like she could see right through their bravado. “No hero pacing,” she called out. “If you want to sprint, save it for the obstacle course.”

  The hike resumed its gruelling rhythm. Rory kept to the rear, less by design and more by habit. It felt safer there, fewer bodies to crowd him, less risk of accidentally brushing someone with a spike of cold or heat, and less chance of someone commenting on the ragged way his breath was hitting the air.

  The warmth Ethan had coaxed into his fingers held, thin, but present. Rory kept checking it anyway, flexing his hands inside his sleeves as if constant movement could force his system to cooperate.

  When the hollow absence hit Rory, it landed like something had been quietly unplugged. It didn’t feel like exertion. It felt like subtraction. It was a sudden, hollow absence of push. It felt as though someone had scooped the space out from behind his ribs, leaving only a cold, empty cavity.

  Rory blinked hard and forced himself to keep walking.

  His steps stayed even, but his breathing didn't. The air in his lungs felt shallow, never quite reaching the bottom. The pack straps began to cut into his shoulders with an intensity that didn't make sense, and as the ground continued to rise, his legs stopped feeling enhanced. They started feeling…normal. Heavy. Slower to respond.

  Shame crept in before logic could catch up. He figured he had simply overestimated himself, or perhaps he’d pushed too hard during the first stretch This was likely what happened when you tried to play at a level you hadn't earned.

  Ethan drifted closer, though he didn't close the gap entirely. He was just there, a quiet shadow at the edge of the line. “You’ve gone quiet,” he said, his tone conversational.

  Rory kept his eyes glued to the mud. “I’m hiking.”

  Ethan hummed. “You’re hiking like you’re counting every single step.”

  Rory’s jaw tightened. He adjusted his grip on his straps, his fingers feeling stiff and unresponsive. “I’m fine.”

  Ethan didn’t argue, but he watched. He saw the way Rory’s gait had lost its spring and the way he kept swallowing against a dry throat. He looked up the line, his eyes landing on Jess and Nelson. They weren’t looking back openly, but Jess’s head was tilted just enough to track Rory’s position. Nelson leaned in and whispered something, Jess’s mouth twitched, not into a smile, but a grim acknowledgement.

  Ethan understood the dynamic instantly.

  Rory’s breath snagged on the next steep incline. He corrected it quickly, a flash of hot, useless annoyance flaring in his chest before it was swallowed by that hollow, drained feeling again. He stumbled over a root he would have cleared easily an hour ago. He caught himself, but the effort cost him.

  Ethan slowed by half a step. He didn’t touch Rory, wanting to avoid a scene. “Take the next bend wider,” he advised. “It’s less slick on the outer edge.”

  Rory shot him a look. “I know how to walk.”

  “I know you do,” Ethan said, his voice devoid of bite. “I’m telling you anyway.”

  Rory huffed and obeyed. His boot held. For a few minutes, it felt as though the wave was passing, his system recalibrating. But then it hit harder. A wave of nausea rolled from his stomach to his throat, turning his legs into lead. His vision narrowed for a second, the edges of the world turning grey and pulsing.

  Rory stopped before he could fall. He stepped off the trail onto a flatter patch of ground and braced a hand against a large boulder, pretending to adjust a strap. His fingers slipped on the wet stone. His arm trembled under the weight of holding himself upright.

  Too slow. Too weak. Ethan stopped a few paces back, scanning the line ahead. Will was further up with the other leaders, his attention split between the clusters. Ethan shifted into Rory’s periphery. “Water.”

  Rory didn’t look up. “I’m not-”

  “Water,” Ethan repeated, his tone making it non-negotiable.

  Rory’s hand fumbled with the bottle clipped to his pack. It took two tries to wrench it free, and the failure made his face burn with heat. He drank anyway. The water was cold and tasted of metal, and it did nothing to fill the hole in his chest.

  Ethan crouched down to "tighten" a strap on his own pack, making himself smaller and less threatening in Rory’s eyeline. “You’re drained,” Ethan said quietly.

  Rory swallowed. “I’m not I just need a minute.”

  Ethan’s gaze flicked toward the line ahead. Jess hadn't slowed down, but she didn't need to. “Ten K,” Ethan said mildly. “You’ve done much worse than this.”

  Rory hated that he was right. He pushed the bottle back into its holder with stiff, clumsy fingers. The line ahead kept moving; no one stopped for one straggler with no team.

  “Keep it moving,” Mads’s voice drifted down from above. “Single file through the next section.”

  Rory forced his knees to straighten. The world tilted. He took a step, then another. His foot slid on a patch of slick mud, and his balance vanished. For a heartbeat, he almost caught it, but his pack shifted. The weight swung wide, and Rory’s centre of gravity went with it.

  He went down hard on his side. His cheek clipped the sharp edge of the boulder he’d been leaning on. It wasn't hard enough to break bone, but it was hard enough to sting and split the skin with a wet, sickening sound.

  Rory froze, his face pressed against the cold, wet rock, stunned more by the sudden humiliation than the pain. Heads turned up the line. Someone let out a quick, quiet snort before hiding it.

  Rory pushed himself up on shaking arms, his jaw locked in a silent scream of frustration. Blood, warm and startling, began to trickle down his cheek. Ethan was beside him before Rory could even find the words to wave him off.

  “You hit your face,” Ethan said, as if noting a line item on a report.

  Rory wiped at the blood with his sleeve, the red smear making his stomach flip. “It’s nothing,” he snapped.

  Ethan didn't react to the tone. He crouched, angling his body to block Rory from the view of the rest of the line. “Hold still.”

  “I said-”

  “I heard you. Hold still anyway.”

  Rory stilled, furious at himself. Ethan checked the cut with a clinical eye. “Superficial. You’ll live.”

  “You didn’t fall because you’re weak,” Ethan said, his voice so low it was for Rory alone. “You fell because someone decided to make this harder for you.”

  Rory stiffened. “What?”

  Ethan didn’t elaborate. Not yet. Up the line, Jess slowed just enough to glance back. Her expression flickered with a mix of irritation and calculation when she saw Ethan looking directly at her.

  Ethan lifted his mic to his lips. “Mads.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Move Jess and Nelson forward three positions. Put them under Caleb’s direct sightline.”

  A beat. Then, “Copy that.”

  No accusation was made, no scene created. Just logistics. Jess’s jaw tightened as the order came down. She moved because she had to. Nelson followed, scowling in confusion. Jess didn't look back again, but her mouth curved into a shadow of a smirk, worth it.

  Ethan watched them disappear around the next rise before keying his mic again. “Will. Rear. Now.”

  Will peeled away from the cluster ahead and dropped back. He took in the scene in a single glance, Rory crouched, blood on his face, and Ethan standing guard. Will stopped beside them and crouched too. “Hey, kid.”

  Rory swallowed hard. “I’m good.”

  Will smiled faintly. “I know you are. Take a moment anyway.”

  Rory hesitated, then let himself lean back against the boulder. His legs were still buzzing with that hollow, leaden weakness, and he hated how much it felt like failure.

  Ethan rose smoothly to his feet. “Stay with him,” he told Will.

  Will nodded. “Got it.”

  Ethan didn’t look back at Rory as he stepped away. That was deliberate. He knew that right now, the boy didn't need a witness, he needed a moment to breathe.

  ***

  Ethan caught up to Jess just as the trail began to level out before the next steep switchback. Caleb was stationed further ahead, his attention fixed on the spacing and pace of the lead group, leaving a narrow window of privacy.

  Ethan fell into step beside Jess as if it were a routine part of the hike. He didn’t look at her, and he didn't slow his pace to match hers, he simply occupied the space next to her.

  “Knock it off,” he said, his voice low and devoid of inflection.

  Jess scoffed, the reaction coming a second too fast to be genuine. “What are you talking about?”

  “You,” Ethan replied calmly. “And whatever you thought this was.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Nelson, walking just ahead, snorted as he tried to maintain a casual air. “She didn’t do anything.”

  Ethan stopped walking.

  Because of the narrowness of the trail, they were forced to stop too. The rest of the line continued to flow around them, a steady stream of rhythmic boots and heavy breathing. No one paid them any close attention, focused instead on their own exhaustion.

  Ethan turned fully toward Jess, his gaze pinning her in place.

  “Give it back,” he said.

  Her jaw tightened, her eyes flashing with a mix of defiance and nerves. “Give what back?”

  “You know exactly what,” Ethan replied, his voice dropping an octave. “Everything you took from him.”

  Jess folded her arms over her chest, her chin lifting in a stubborn display of pride. “It was barely anything. He should be able to handle-”

  Ethan’s gaze sharpened. He wasn’t loud, and he wasn’t visibly angry, but there was a controlled, dangerous edge to his silence that cut her off mid-sentence.

  “Now,” he said. “Or you’re done for the rest of the retreat.”

  The silence between them stretched thin, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the forest.

  “I mean it. I’ll move you off field work for the rest of the retreat. You’ll be put on cleanup duty. Kitchen, toilets. And no, I won’t debate it.”

  Nelson muttered under his breath, “That’s bullshit.”

  Ethan’s focus shifted to him, cold and unwavering. “You want to join her?”

  Nelson shut his mouth instantly, his gaze dropping to his boots.

  Jess stood there for a long beat, her shoulders stiff. Finally, she turned her focus inward. Her breath hitched once, a visible sign of the effort it took to let go of the energy she had siphoned.

  “Good,” he said, the tension in his own frame easing just a fraction. “Move.”

  They obeyed. Jess swallowed hard, her eyes flicking away as she struggled to regain her composure. “Fine.”

  Ethan stepped back, allowing them to pass him and reintegrate into the line. “Keep moving.”

  They did, their pace faster now, driven by a new kind of heat that had nothing to do with the sun.

  ***

  Rory didn’t see any of the confrontation.

  He was back on his feet and moving again, his legs functioning on a reserve of stubborn muscle memory while that hollow, dragging sensation still sat heavy in his chest. Will trailed a few paces behind him, close enough to intervene if Rory tipped over again but far enough to afford him a shred of privacy.

  “You don’t have to stay back with me,” Rory said, his breath coming in rough, uneven bursts. The irritation in his voice was a thin veil over a deep well of embarrassment.

  Will shrugged, casually plucking a leaf from a low branch as he passed it. “I don’t mind. It’s quieter back here.”

  Rory swallowed hard, tightening his grip on his backpack straps until his knuckles turned white. His face burned with a heat that was far more painful than the shallow cut on his cheek. “I should be able to keep up.”

  Will didn’t answer immediately. His gaze drifted past Rory’s shoulder, tracking Ethan as he moved deliberately up the column, calm and focused, closing the distance between himself and the duo of Jess and Nelson.

  Understanding clicked into place behind Will's eyes. “Huh,” he muttered.

  Rory glanced back, his brow furrowed. “What?”

  “You didn’t fall because you can’t keep up,” Will said, his tone shifting. “And you didn’t screw anything up, either.”

  Rory scoffed under his breath, eyes fixed on the mud. “I literally ate dirt.”

  “Everyone eats dirt out here,” Will replied easily. “Usually at least twice. You just decided to get your first serving out of the way earlier than planned.”

  That earned the barest flicker of a reaction, the crease between Rory’s eyebrows easing a fraction.

  Will shifted his weight, lowering his voice as they climbed. “You felt it, didn’t you? Like your battery just…dumped.”

  Rory hesitated, the memory of that sudden, inexplicable exhaustion fresh in his mind. He nodded once, a quick, reluctant motion. “I couldn’t…I don’t know. I just couldn't find the pace.”

  Will tipped his head toward the front of the line. “Yeah. That wasn’t your fault.”

  Rory frowned, looking back at him. “What do you mean?”

  Will glanced up the trail toward Jess and Nelson, exhaling a slow breath through his nose. “Some people get petty when they’re mad,” he said. “And some of them have very annoying ways of expressing it.”

  Rory’s shoulders stiffened, his pace slowing. “…You’re saying someone did something to me?”

  “I’m saying,” Will replied carefully, “that Ethan doesn’t walk away from a situation like this unless there’s something he intends to stop.”

  Rory stared down at the trail, watching the thick mud cling to his boots. The shame that had been suffocating him for the last ten minutes began to curdle into anger, sharp, sudden, and clarifying.

  “I thought I was just…weak,” he said quietly, the admission sounding small against the vastness of the trees.

  Will stopped walking. It wasn't an abrupt halt, but it was enough that Rory felt the shift in momentum and slowed to a stop as well. Will turned to face him, his expression soft but his eyes unyielding.

  “Kid. If you were weak, you wouldn’t be here. And you definitely wouldn't still be upright after a drain like that.”

  Rory swallowed hard, looking at Will as if searching for a lie. Then…something shifted. It felt like a physical pressure easing from his lungs, like a heavy gear sliding back into its proper groove behind his sternum. Rory sucked in a sharp, startled breath and nearly stumbled again, this time from the sheer shock of the sensation.

  “What-” He stopped, his eyes wide with confusion.

  His legs suddenly felt steady. The phantom weight lifted from his chest, and his breathing dropped into a deep, natural rhythm without him having to force the air.

  Will clocked the change instantly. “There it is,” he murmured.

  Rory stared at his hands, flexing his fingers inside his sleeves. They responded. Clean. Immediate. Powerful. “What just happened?” he asked, his voice breathless.

  Will didn’t sugarcoat the reality of the facility. “Jess siphons.”

  Rory blinked, the word not quite landing. “What?”

  “Energy,” Will explained. “Stamina. Focus. Usually in short, subtle bursts that most people don't notice unless they're looking for the signs.”

  Rory’s stomach twisted with a new kind of nausea. “She took that from me?”

  “Yeah,” Will said. “And Ethan just made her give it back.”

  Rory dragged a hand through his hair, disbelief crashing into a rising heat in his chest. “Why?”

  Will watched him closely, measuring his reaction. “Because she’s friends with Beau. And because, in her mind, it was easy.”

  Rory let out a sharp, humourless breath. “So I wasn’t just failing.”

  “No,” Will said firmly. “You were being messed with.”

  Rory’s jaw clenched. Anger surged hot and ugly, effectively chasing away the last remnants of his shame. “Why the fuck does everyone hate me here?” he snapped, the words tearing out of him before he could think to check them.

  Will didn’t flinch at the outburst. “They don’t,” he said. “A few loud idiots don’t get to be everyone.”

  Rory scoffed, turning back to the trail. “Feels like it.”

  Will nodded once, a somber acknowledgement. “Yeah. It does.” He waited a beat, then added in a quieter tone, “But you didn’t imagine it. And you didn’t deserve it.”

  Rory’s breathing finally steadied. The line ahead continued its steady march upward.

  “No one’s judging you,” Will added. “Most of them didn’t even notice. And the ones who did? They’ve all had worse days than this, trust me.”

  Rory let out a flat, cynical huff. “Great.”

  Will smiled faintly. “Hey, your pride is intact. You’re allowed to be pissed off, though.”

  Rory looked at him, his eyes sharp and burning. “I am pissed.”

  “Good,” Will said. “Means you’re still you.”

  Ethan returned down the line without any visible hurry. He didn’t look ruffled or angry, his expression had settled back into that familiar, composed neutrality that suggested a problem had been handled, filed, and put away. He didn't look at Rory immediately. Instead, he adjusted his own pack straps, his eyes flicking up the trail and then down to the state of Rory’s boots.

  “Still upright,” he noted mildly.

  Rory gave a tight nod.

  Ethan’s mouth twitched. “We all start somewhere.”

  Will stepped back half a pace, letting the group’s spacing settle into a natural triangle, as if this were the configuration they had always intended to keep. Ethan glanced at Rory then, a quick and assessing look, not searching for damage, but checking his balance and reading his posture. He saw the lower shoulders, the cleaner gait, and the deeper breath.

  “Better?” Ethan asked.

  Rory hesitated, then gave a firm nod. “Yeah. I think so.”

  “Good,” Ethan said, and left it at that.

  They walked for a few steps in a companionable silence. “You didn’t slow the line,” Ethan added casually as they manoeuvred around a bend. “Switchbacks always shake people out. You recovered fast.”

  Rory felt something loosen at that, not necessarily pride, but a form of permission to stop punishing himself. Will glanced over at him with a wink. “Told you. Early dirt.”

  Rory huffed a breath, looking at the dense forest. “I hate this place.”

  “That’s fair,” Ethan said. “Most people do the first time they're out here.”

  Rory shot him a skeptical look. “You hated it too?”

  Ethan shrugged. “I liked the part where it ended.”

  That drew a genuine sound out of Rory, short, surprised, and almost a laugh. Ethan heard it but had the wisdom not to comment.

  Ahead, the line compressed as the trail tightened once more. Ethan adjusted his pace, keeping Rory in the protective pocket between himself and Will without making the gesture feel like hovering.

  “No rush,” Ethan said. “Find your rhythm. I’ll keep the rear.”

  Rory nodded, a new steadiness in his stride. The forest closed in around them again, damp and watchful, but this time, Rory didn’t feel like the trees were pressing him flat. His legs showed up when he asked them to, and his breath stayed exactly where it belonged.

  Ethan stayed close without crowding. Will stayed quiet without disappearing. And Rory felt the constant, gnawing sensation of being alone begin to fade.

  ***

  The trail opened without warning.

  One moment they were threading between ancient trees, boots finding purchase on slick roots and mossy rock while the forest breathed heavily around them; the next, the canopy thinned, and the ground levelled into a vast, cleared basin carved neatly into the heart of the bush.

  The camp zone.

  Rory felt the shift before anyone uttered a word. This space had a definitive shape, it wasn't random or merely scenic, but entirely deliberate. The ground sloped at a subtle grade for drainage, and the perimeter trees had been trimmed back in clean arcs, their branches cut high to maintain open sightlines. Flag markers ringed the area in muted colours, barely visible to the untrained eye. Nothing was built yet, but everything already felt like it belonged.

  Caleb stepped off the trail first and came to a halt. He didn't raise his voice or turn around to address the group.

  “Alright. This is the site,” he said. “You know the drill.”

  That was the extent of the briefing. There was no further explanation or breakdown of duties. Mads lifted her tablet, her eyes tracking the invisible skeleton of the camp. “Same layout as last year,” she noted. “Adjust for wind.”

  A few senior recruits nodded, and that was the only acknowledgment needed. Then the group moved like a complex machine clicking into gear. Packs hit the ground in controlled arcs as people peeled away from the line, heading to specific coordinates without instruction. One group sprinted for the tree line with bundles of poles, another began pacing out distances, scuffing precise measurements into the dirt. Someone was already snapping modular flooring panels together with the efficiency of muscle memory.

  Rory stood where the trail had spat him out and simply watched. The silence of the work made his skin prickle. It wasn't quiet, there was the constant snap of fabric, the clink of metal, and low voices exchanging single words, but there was no confusion. No wasted motion. Everyone knew where to go and what mattered. They didn’t ask for permission, they just existed within the system.

  Rory’s stomach tightened. He shifted his weight, his pack still heavy on his shoulders, suddenly aware of how much space he occupied by standing still. He searched for a cue or a sign, but everyone else had already slotted themselves into place. The competence was impressive, yet deeply unsettling. Rory took a half-step forward, then stopped. If he moved without knowing where he was supposed to go, he’d be in the way. If he stayed still, he already was.

  He hovered, feeling useless, his hands tightening on his straps. Then a shadow fell across his periphery.

  “Hey,” Will said, reaching for Rory’s pack as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You’re with me.”

  Rory blinked. “I…what?”

  Will slid the pack off Rory’s shoulders with ease and offered an easy grin. “Congratulations. You’re on support build.”

  Rory hesitated. “I haven’t…I haven't done this before.”

  “Perfect,” Will said. “Means you might actually listen.”

  The comment pulled a reluctant huff of a laugh out of Rory’s chest. Will clapped a hand lightly between Rory’s shoulder blades and steered him forward. “Come on. I’ll show you the bones of the place.”

  They crossed the clearing, weaving through the organised chaos. Will navigated it like a map he’d memorised years ago, calling out quick acknowledgments to the others as they passed.

  “Kitchen frame’s coming through-”

  “Copy.”

  “Medical’s going upwind, yeah?”

  “Already paced.”

  Rory absorbed it all, his mind racing to keep up with the terminology. Will stopped near the centre of the site and gestured to the clearing. “Alright,” he said. “Big picture.”

  He pointed first to the elevated ground near the tree line. “Sleeping tents go there. Large capacity. Twenty per. Elevated for drainage, with tree cover to break the wind.” Then he motioned downhill. “Communal space goes centre. Mess, briefings, downtime. You want clear lines so no one trips at night.” He shifted again, pointing further out. “Sanitation’s downwind. Always. Nobody wants to learn that lesson twice.”

  Rory followed the logic, the invisible map finally becoming clear. “And medical?” he asked.

  Will’s grin widened. “Look at you.” He pointed to a shaded pocket near the perimeter. “Accessible, but out of the main flow. Close enough to reach fast, far enough to stay calm.”

  It all made sense. The structure was finally visible. “I don’t know where I’m meant to start,” Rory admitted quietly.

  Will didn't tease him. He simply handed Rory a bundle of heavy tent fabric and a coil of rope. “You start by carrying things,” he said. “Then you learn the rest.” He paused, his voice softening. “No one expects you to know this yet, Rory. You’re not behind. You’re just new.”

  Rory nodded, the tension in his chest easing by a fraction. Across the clearing, Ethan caught the movement and saw Rory engaged, anchored beside Will instead of frozen at the edge. He didn't intervene, he just went back to his own task.

  ***

  Deep amber light flooded the clearing by the time the work was done. Tents were pitched tight, guy lines traced precise patterns in the dirt, and the kitchen was already alive with the low buzz of a meal in progress.

  “This is…crazy,” Rory muttered, shaking his head. “You guys just built a whole town in an hour.”

  Will grinned, dropping an armful of rolled-up sleeping mats. “We practice this constantly. Our jobs mean we travel, and we don’t always get a roof. Setting up camp fast is just part of the deal.”

  Rory grabbed a mat and began unrolling it over a cot frame. “So, what exactly do you do? You go places, set up camps…then what?”

  Will smirked. “This and that.”

  Rory narrowed his eyes. “Seriously?”

  Will just shrugged and led Rory toward one of the larger sleeping tents on the eastern side, its canvas sides rolled up to let the mountain air circulate. “Alright,” Will said, ducking inside the cavernous space. “Last job for you. Move the packs in. One per cot.”

  “Any order?” Rory asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Does it matter where?”

  “Nope.”

  Rory frowned. “How do you know whose is whose?”

  “We don’t. Packs are already stacked outside the specific tent they belong in. That part’s handled. As for the cots? They're assigned by fate and whoever gets there first.” Will straightened and grinned. “You are the assigner.”

  Rory stared at him. “Me?”

  “Yep. Great power. Mild responsibility.”

  A reluctant smile finally broke through Rory’s guard. “So I can pick?”

  “Absolutely. Choose wisely.”

  Rory didn’t even pretend to consider the centre rows. He walked straight to the back corner, tucked furthest from the entrance where the canvas sloped and the shadows were deepest. That one.

  He moved methodically after that, carrying a pack in and setting it at the foot of a cot. The rhythm was physical and contained, allowing him to work without overthinking. By the time the last pack was placed, his arms ached pleasantly and his breathing had levelled out.

  Will reappeared at the entrance. “Not bad, kid. You did good.” He scanned the camp, seeing the final setups winding down. “Take a break, you’ve earned it.” He playfully pushed Rory’s head as he walked off into the dusk.

  Rory stood alone in the quiet tent. Outside, the camp was loud with voices and the clatter of supplies, but it still felt like a foreign world. Not wanting to linger awkwardly, he sat on his chosen cot and leaned back, the thin mattress creaking under his weight. A slow sense of satisfaction settled in, the simple kind that came from doing a job well.

  He dug into his pack and pulled out his iPod, wincing as the movement tugged at his side. He patiently untangled his earbuds and let the music fill his head, staring up at the canvas ceiling.

  Then, a dull ache flared along his ribs. He shifted, and the pressure sharpened into an annoying throb. He’d been told he would heal faster now, but he wondered if the orange band dampened that, too. Seeing the tent was still empty, he carefully lifted his shirt.

  The bruising was still an ugly, dark map across his skin, yellowing at the edges, but tender to the touch. He prodded it and hissed. “Damn it,” he muttered.

  A sudden prickle of awareness crawled up his spine. Someone was watching him.

  Rory’s head snapped up, his heart dropping as he yanked his shirt down. Owen was standing a few feet away, frozen. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held a look that Rory couldn't quite identify.

  Rory felt his face flood with humiliated heat. Owen shifted uncomfortably, looking just as awkward. He cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he said, his voice quiet and hesitant. “Will told me to grab you for dinner.”

  Rory didn’t answer. The silence between them was heavy, pregnant with everything they hadn't said since the incident. Finally, Owen turned and stepped out of the tent without another word. Rory let out a slow, shaky breath and shoved his iPod away. His ribs ached as he sat up, but the tightness in his chest had nothing to do with the bruises.

  Rory stepped out of the tent, instinctively tugging his jacket tighter as he fell into the loose drift of bodies moving toward the mess area. The scent of chilli and woodsmoke hung low in the clearing, a thick, savoury warmth that contrasted sharply with the biting night air.

  He kept to the perimeter by habit, sliding through the gaps between groups while taking care not to brush against anyone. The camp’s energy had shifted, it was louder now, filled with the sound of laughter echoing around the fire and the thud of boots being kicked off beside logs. An easy, practiced familiarity had settled over the recruits, as if this temporary outpost were their true home.

  At the head of the food line, a pair of hands pressed a warm bowl into his.

  “Next.”

  Rory stepped aside, the steam curling upward to cloud his vision. He stared into the bowl for a second longer than necessary, simply letting the heat touch his face. When he finally looked up, he found the tables already beginning to overflow. Groups formed with effortless gravity, shoulder to shoulder, knees bumping, people leaning into one another mid-story. No one seemed to be calculating where to sit, they simply existed in the spaces they occupied.

  Rory scanned the clearing automatically, his mind mapping the social terrain.

  Will and Ethan were near the fire, locked in a serious conversation with Caleb, Mads and a few others. There was no space there that wouldn't feel like an intrusion. Closer to the light, Jess and Nelson had claimed a bench. Nelson caught sight of him immediately, his mouth twitching with a look that wasn't quite a smirk but wasn't a welcome either. Jess didn’t look over at all, she didn't need to.

  Further back, Rory spotted more of the Karmal recruits. Cam was sitting at a table with a few others, talking in low tones. He glanced up, catching Rory hovering on the edge of the light, and held his gaze a half-second too long.

  The recognition was worse than the rejection.

  Rory was the first to look away. He could feel it creeping in again, that paralysing awareness of his own physical presence. He agonised over where to put his hands, where to direct his gaze, and whether he was supposed to insert himself into a group or remain invisible.

  His fingers tightened around the ceramic rim of the bowl. You’re overthinking this, he told himself. Just sit down.

  He took a hesitant step toward one of the outer tables, then stopped. Every empty seat felt occupied in ways that weren't about physical chairs, they were filled with history and bonds he didn't share. His stomach turned, though it wasn't from hunger.

  Screw it.

  He pivoted before anyone could call his name. Instead of heading toward the firelight, he walked away from it, skirting the darkened edge of the clearing. The shadows thickened quickly, swallowing him up as he wove between silent tents and stacked gear crates.

  He passed the wash station and set the untouched bowl down beside a stack of trays. The steam curled upward into the darkness for a few moments more before fading into the night. Then, he kept walking.

  The sounds of the camp began to thin behind him, the voices dulled, the laughter softened, and the clatter of metal became faint and distant. The bush accepted him without the scrutiny of his peers. He moved through the scent of damp earth and under the reach of low branches, accompanied only by the steady call of insects.

  He didn't go far, stopping just beyond the reach of the fire's glow. A fallen log sat half-buried in a bed of leaves, he dropped onto it and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees while he stared at the dark ground.

  His stomach growled once, sharp and irritated. He ignored it.

  Out here, no one was monitoring where he sat. Out here, he didn't have to decide who he belonged next to, or face the quiet realisation that the answer might be no one. He exhaled slowly, letting the cool, damp air settle deep into his lungs. It was significantly easier to breathe without witnesses.

  He sat there for a long time.

  It was long enough for the adrenaline to drain and for his pulse to settle into a rhythm that matched the quiet of the bush. Long enough for the sharp edge of his anger to soften into something duller and more manageable. But it was also long enough for the urge, the familiar, gnawing itch, to start clawing its way up his spine.

  Without thinking, his thumb found his mouth. He chewed at the nail, biting hard enough that the sharp sting of pain finally broke the spell. He dropped his hand back to his knee, his jaw tightening with a flare of self-annoyance.

  Don’t.

  Not here.

  Not now.

  This was Karmal. This was a formal retreat with oversight tucked into every shadow, even if it wasn’t immediately obvious. He wanted this to work, he needed it to. He pressed his palms together and exhaled a long, steady breath through his nose, trying to simply sit with the craving until it passed.

  It didn't.

  His jaw set. He stared at the ground, focusing on the way the dirt had darkened with the evening’s moisture. He watched a beetle crawl over the spine of a curled leaf, marvelling at how uncomplicated and manageable the world seemed for something so small.

  He reached into his jacket.

  The joint slid into his fingers with a familiar, comforting weight, the paper slightly crinkled from being shoved deep into a pocket. He turned it once, then lifted it to his lips on instinct, his teeth catching it lightly while his other hand began to pat through his pockets.

  Nothing.

  He froze, his hand hovering over his thigh. He pulled the joint from his mouth and stared at it, a sharp, hot flash of annoyance flickering in his chest.

  A huff of dry, disbelieving laughter escaping him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  He checked again, thoroughly this time. Jacket pockets. Jeans. The small coin pocket. Nothing. No lighter, no matches. Rory leaned back, tipping his head toward the dark canopy above and exhaling slowly.

  Fine.

  That was the universe telling him to stop.

  He rolled the paper between his fingers, his eyes losing focus as he stared into the dark. Then his gaze drifted, unbidden, to the orange band locked around his wrist. The orange colour was faint, but in the deep shadows of the bush, it looked almost luminous.

  His brow furrowed.

  Fire.

  The thought landed softly at first, then grew louder, more insistent. He shook his head. “That’s stupid,” he thought “You can’t.”

  But he could. In theory, at least.

  He swallowed hard, staring at his hand.

  No. Absolutely not. That was crossing a line.

  He shut his eyes, shoving the thought away with everything he had, and tried once more to sit with the itch in his chest. But the void left by the siphoning earlier that day seemed to demand to be filled. The craving got worse. His fingers curled around the joint, his knuckles whitening in the dark.

  “…Fuck,” Rory breathed.

  He lifted his hand. Nothing happened.

  Good.

  He exhaled in relief, but then he hesitated. Just to prove to himself that it wouldn’t work. Just to put the thought to bed.

  He focused the way Ethan had taught him during their sessions, not by pushing or forcing, but by finding the place where the heat lived instead of the cold. He looked for the spot where control was quieter.

  Still nothing. His shoulders sagged.

  Of course.

  He laughed under his breath, half-bitter and half-embarrassed at his own desperation.

  One more time, a voice in the back of his brain whispered. Just once.

  Rory inhaled slowly, letting the ambient noise of the forest settle. He let the frustration drain away until he felt a strange, hollow stillness.

  He snapped his fingers.

  A spark flared to life between them, bright, sudden, and impossibly hot.

  Rory yelped and nearly tumbled off the log, his heart slamming against his ribs as he stared at his hand in total disbelief. The spark held, a small, steady flame dancing atop his fingers.

  “What…” He laughed, a sharp, incredulous sound. “What the fuck?”

  Before he could talk himself out of it or analyse the physics of an orange-bander conjuring fire, he lifted the joint and touched the paper to the flame. It caught instantly. He sucked in a deep, instinctive breath, his lungs filling as the ember glowed a brilliant, cherry red.

  Relief hit him like a physical wave, washing away the tension of the day.

  Rory exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift, and then he realised the flame was still there. Still burning on his fingers.

  He held his hand out in front of him, his eyes wide. He could feel the heat, it was solid and real, yet it didn't burn his skin. It didn't blister. It just…existed.

  “…Okay,” he muttered, the panic starting to rise. “That’s not normal.”

  He shook his hand. The flame didn't go out. He shook it harder, coughing slightly as the smoke from the joint curled around his face.

  “Nope. Nope. Stop.”

  It didn't stop.

  A soft sound came from the shadows behind him.

  Rory scrambled to his feet, spinning around with his heart in his throat and froze.

  A girl stood a few meters away, her arms folded loosely across her chest, watching him with an expression of open amusement. Even without the midday sun, her deep, honey-toned skin seemed to glow against the dark backdrop of the trees. Her hair was a work of art, intricate, dark braids pulled back tightly from her forehead, showcasing a sharp, confident brow and a face that looked like it had been carved with purpose.

  She was striking in a way that felt effortless. Her warm, amber-brown eyes held a playful glint, narrowed slightly as she took him in. She lacked the heavy gear of the other recruits, wearing a dark jacket and a simple dark top edged with a thin gold collar that caught the faint orange light from his hand. She didn't look like a soldier or a trainee, she looked like someone who knew exactly who she was, and exactly how much trouble Rory was currently in.

  Her gaze flicked from the joint between his lips to the flame still dancing obediently on his fingers, her mouth curving into a half-smirk that made Rory’s stomach do a slow roll.

  Panic seized him. “Shit-”

  Rory yanked the joint from his mouth and pressed the burning tip between two fingers, snuffing it out in one fast, desperate motion. The paper blackened instantly, but he didn't feel a thing. Without thinking, he flung the dead joint into the damp leaves beside him.

  He shoved his flaming hand behind his back as if that somehow solved the problem.

  “Sorry,” he blurted out, his voice cracking. “I wasn’t…I just-”

  Leigh didn’t react the way he expected. She didn’t look shocked or angry, and she certainly didn't look like she was about to run for Caleb. She simply walked forward, her pace calm and steady.

  She walked right past him.

  She crouched where he’d thrown the joint, brushed aside a few leaves, and picked it up. Rory’s face went scarlet.

  “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, closing his eyes in mortification.

  Leigh straightened and walked back to him, holding the crushed joint between her fingers. She examined the flattened tip, then glanced up at him.

  “Can I borrow your hand?” she asked.

  Rory blinked, his brain momentarily short-circuiting. “…What?”

  “Your hand,” she repeated, nodding toward the one he was still hiding behind his back.

  Rory hesitated, then slowly, like he was admitting to a felony, he brought it forward. The flame was still there, flickering steadily in the dark.

  Leigh’s eyebrow lifted. She stepped closer, raised the joint, and held the tip toward his fingers expectantly. Rory stared at her. This had to be a test. It had to be.

  And besides, who the hell was she? Up close, there was something dangerous about her in a quiet, understated way. She was calm, curious, and utterly non-judgmental. She just waited.

  “…You’re not going to report me?” he asked quietly.

  Leigh tilted her head. “For what? Being a teenager?”

  The answer threw him. He lifted his hand automatically, the movement stiff. Leigh leaned in and relit the joint from his still-burning fingertips. The ember caught instantly. She inhaled smoothly, as if she’d done this a thousand times before, and then handed it back to him.

  “…That’s good weed,” she remarked after a beat. “You were really going to waste it?”

  Rory took it back, still looking at her as if she had just shattered his entire understanding of reality. “You smoke?”

  “Sometimes.”

  She studied him for a second, her gaze dropping back to his hand where the flame continued to burn. “You good there?” she asked lightly.

  Rory lifted his hand, turning it slightly in front of his face. He could feel the heat, solid, present, and real, but there were no blisters. No pain. “I…” He frowned, looking deeply, adorably confused. “I don’t know how to turn it off.”

  He tried shaking it again. Nothing. He looked back at her, completely baffled. “I didn’t even mean to make it this big,” he admitted quietly. “It just…happened.”

  Leigh watched the flame for a few seconds longer, her head tilted, her expression more thoughtful than impressed. Then she shrugged.

  “So,” she said. “How’d you do it?”

  Rory blinked. “What?”

  “The fire,” she clarified, nodding at his hand. “How’d you light it in the first place?”

  He stared at his fingers again, then back at her, the heat of embarrassment creeping up his neck. “I…don’t really know. I just wanted a light.”

  Leigh hummed, considering that. She lifted her hand slightly, two fingers extended in a silent request. Rory hesitated, then passed the joint over. She took it easily and inhaled a slow, unhurried drag, the smoke spilling from her lips in a way that made Rory’s thoughts stumble.

  She exhaled and watched his hand again. “Interesting,” she murmured.

  Rory shifted his weight, suddenly very aware of how close she was standing. She didn't seem to notice. Her attention remained fixed on his hand. “What do you normally do when you make a flame?” she asked.

  Rory frowned. “I don’t.”

  That got her attention. Her eyes snapped to his.

  “I mean,” he said quickly, flustered, “I’ve never done it before. Ever.”

  Leigh’s mouth curved into something warmer, almost a smile. She took another drag and then handed the joint back, her fingers brushing his for a second longer than was strictly necessary. “So I just witnessed your first time.”

  Rory stared at her, his face heating up again. “That’s not…I didn't mean it like-”

  Leigh laughed quietly, the sound amused but not unkind. Rory studied her then, trying to figure out her angle. Was this friendliness, or something else? She seemed to read his calculation immediately.

  “Relax,” she said. “I’m not trying to stir shit with you. You’re Rory, right?”

  He nodded, still holding the joint as if he might drop it at any second. “Yeah.”

  “Hm.” She smiled again. “So you’re the one everyone’s talking about.”

  Something tightened behind his ribs, the old, familiar defensiveness. He masked it automatically. “They are?”

  Leigh nodded, unapologetic. “A few people are threatened by you.”

  He scoffed quietly. “By me?”

  “Karmal doesn’t let just anyone in,” she said, her gaze unbothered. “Especially not a kid with an illegal enhancement.”

  Rory stiffened. “It’s not illegal.”

  Leigh’s eyebrow lifted, her interest sharpening. “It’s not?”

  “…I mean,” Rory hesitated, then let out a sigh. “It kind of is. But also it isn’t. It’s…complicated.”

  Her smirk turned genuine. “Yeah,” she said. “Complicated feels right with you.”

  Rory frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She stepped a little closer, her eyes catching the orange glow of his hand. “I think you’re interesting,” she said simply.

  He stared at her. “You literally just met me.”

  Leigh shrugged again. “Doesn’t take long. And I don’t usually meet people who accidentally discover new powers just because they wanted to smoke in peace.”

  Rory glanced down at his hand, then back at her, feeling completely off-balance. “…Okay,” he said slowly. “You might be the weirdest person I’ve met here.”

  Leigh grinned. “High praise.” She watched the flame for another second, her head tilted as if she were listening to a faint sound. “So, you’re trying to get rid of it,” she said.

  Rory blinked. “Yeah?”

  “That’s your problem.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re trying,” she explained.

  He looked at her, then back at the stubborn flame licking at his fingertip.

  “I don’t know how to not try,” he admitted, a note of frustration creeping in. “I can’t just leave it like this.”

  “I get that,” Leigh’s voice stayed calm. “But right now you’re treating it like it’s a mistake.”

  Rory swallowed. His fingers twitched. “And it’s not?”

  Leigh considered that for a moment. “It doesn’t look like one.” She reached out, not touching him, but holding her hand near enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin. “Stop telling it to go away,” she said. “Just…let it finish.”

  Rory frowned. “Finish what?”

  “Whatever it’s doing.”

  It sounded insane, and he almost laughed, but the sound caught in his throat. His instinct was to clamp down, to force the heat out, to shove it away like everything else that went wrong in his body. Instead, he tried to loosen his grip. He let his shoulders drop. He let the tight, buzzing irritation in his chest bleed off into the night air. He focused on a neutral stillness, not cold, not heat, just being.

  The flame wavered. Rory sucked in a sharp breath.

  It flickered once, twice, then folded in on itself, shrinking until there was nothing left but the faint warmth of his own skin. Gone.

  Rory stared at his fingers, stunned. He turned his hand over, half-expecting it to flare back to life, but it remained dark. “…What the fuck,” he whispered.

  Leigh’s mouth curved in a satisfied line. “There you go.”

  He looked up at her. “How did you do that?”

  “Nope.” She lifted both hands briefly. “That was all you.”

  Rory let out a breath, his heart was still racing, but underneath it was something steady. “That shouldn't have worked,” he muttered.

  “And yet,” Leigh said lightly, “here we are.” She studied him for a moment longer, not his hand this time, but him. Then, almost casually, she added, “You’re trying very hard to disappear. It’s not working.”

  Something in his chest pulled tight. He didn't know how to respond to that, or if he even agreed, but the words lodged in his mind anyway.

  He hesitated, then took one last cautious inhale. The smoke tasted better now, smoother. Leigh watched him, then held out her hand. He passed it over. She took a slow drag, her eyes never leaving his as she exhaled a lazily drifting cloud of gold-tinted smoke.

  “So. You always do things like that?” she asked.

  “Accidentally?” Rory replied. “Apparently.”

  She handed the joint back. “I’m Leigh,” she said, almost as an afterthought. “And before you ask, no, this isn't a test. And I’m not about to report you.”

  Relief hit him harder than he expected. “Okay,” he said. “Good. Because I really don’t think I could explain… any of this.”

  “You won’t have to,” she said. “Not yet.”

  Rory hesitated, the night settling back in around them. “Hey,” he said, then faltered. “Do you…have abilities? Is that a weird thing to ask? I don’t really know the rules here…what’s rude and what isn't.”

  Her smile softened into something quieter. “No,” she said. “I’m not enhanced.”

  Rory blinked. “You’re not?”

  She shook her head. “Nope.”

  He stared at her, trying to reconcile her confidence with the fact that she was here, at Karmal, without power. “But…you’re on the retreat.”

  She hummed. “Sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  Leigh’s mouth curved into that familiar smirk. “It’s complicated.”

  The echo of his own words landed square in his chest. “Oh,” he said, nodding slowly. He didn't want to cross a line, but he couldn't help himself. “But you’re on a team? Like, training?”

  She laughed, a short, breathy sound. “Thank you for thinking I could be. But no. I’m not.”

  “Then why-?”

  “My dad’s out of town,” Leigh said easily. “My mum and my brothers don't live with us, and I didn't really have anywhere else to go.”

  “Oh.” Rory’s shoulders dipped. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don't be. I’ve always wanted to come on one of these.”

  It didn't make him feel better, it just made her harder to place. He was becoming increasingly aware of how pretty she was in the low light, how the shadows softened her face and how annoying it was that his brain kept circling that fact.

  He opened his mouth to ask more, but a voice cut through the trees.

  “Leigh!”

  She glanced over her shoulder, unbothered. “That’s Murph.” She looked back at Rory, her eyes flicking to the joint. “You should probably head back,” she said. “Before someone notices you’re missing and finds you out here doing… unsanctioned extracurriculars.”

  The way she looked at him made Rory’s stomach flip. “Yeah,” he said quickly. “I will, in a bit.”

  Leigh nodded and turned away. “See you around, Rory.”

  He watched the forest swallow her silhouette. He finished the joint slowly, stubbing it out against the log until the ember died. He stayed seated long after, replaying the conversation in his head.

  Eventually, he pushed himself to his feet. The moment he took a step, his skin prickled. That same pressure slid into place behind him, quiet and deliberate. Not a sound, just a sudden, overwhelming awareness of being watched.

  Rory froze. The trees loomed darker now. “Hello?”

  Nothing answered. He straightened his shoulders, refusing to give the sensation the satisfaction of seeing him run. He turned back toward camp and started walking. The feeling followed him for a few steps longer than it should have, thin, patient, and unmistakably aware, before finally easing as the firelight came back into view.

  ***

  Rory jerked awake to the sound of metal striking metal.

  The impact reverberated through the frame of his cot and straight into his spine. His eyes snapped open, his pulse surging before his thoughts could catch up. The tent felt wrong. Each breath he took scraped against his lungs, stinging on the way down. In the dim light, he saw frost webbing faintly along the lower seams of the canvas walls.

  Several shapes were upright in their cots, sleeping bags pulled tight to their chins. Breath hung thick and visible in the air.

  “Seriously?” someone hissed from two cots over. “Are you kidding me?”

  Rory pushed up on one elbow, his heart sinking. The temperature hadn't just dropped, it had plummeted. His body felt distant, as if the cold had packed itself between his muscles and bones. He didn't need to check the air twice.

  His temperature had dropped hard during the night.

  Across from him, an older recruit sat rigid, rubbing his arms. “If you can’t regulate, don’t sleep in a shared tent,” he snapped, his voice edged with genuine irritation.

  The quietness made it worse. There was no yelling, just a cold, sharp frustration held on a short leash. Rory became acutely aware of the frost clinging to the metal supports nearest his cot. His cot. The cold was radiating outward from him in steady, unconscious waves.

  Owen was awake too, sitting upright and staring at Rory. He didn't say anything, but he didn't look surprised.

  Rory swallowed. Heat flared in his face even as the air around him stayed brutally cold. He had been so careful. He had felt steady when he lay down.

  Someone shifted two beds down, their teeth chattering. “Fix it.”

  Rory tried. He closed his eyes and searched for the stillness Ethan had taught him. His control answered sluggishly. The cold eased by a fraction, then crept back in like a tide. The tent did not warm.

  Humiliation crawled up his spine. He didn't look at anyone. He swung his legs over the side of the cot and stood up, the frame creaking. He grabbed his sleeping bag without rolling it and quickly shoved his boots on with trembling hands before he ducked through the tent flap.

  The clearing was quiet, bathed in the amber glow of perimeter lights. Outside, the air was cold in a normal way, but it didn't feel weaponised. He walked to a cluster of supply crates just beyond the sleeping row, close enough to hear movement, but far enough that his cold wouldn't bleed through the canvas.

  He dropped his sleeping bag, and climbed inside. The ground was hard and uneven, but he didn't care. He curled onto his side, his jaw aching from clenching. He had managed the hike and the build, only to fail at sleeping.

  The humiliation burned hotter than any warmth he could summon. He pressed his forehead into the coarse fabric of the bag and closed his eyes, desperate to let the day go. But just as the edges of his consciousness began to fray into sleep, something stopped him.

  It was that same thin, curious pressure, faint, observing, and unmistakably focused on him.

  His eyes snapped open. Before he could talk himself into believing it was just exhaustion, a soft, rhythmic sound reached him: a shift of weight beyond the nearest line of trunks, followed by the deliberate scrape of something against bark.

  Rory held his breath, his pulse climbing until it hammered in his ears.

  A darker shape, something larger than a small animal, slid between two trees and stopped. Rory’s throat tightened, his body coiling into a state of frozen alertness. The pressure intensified then, the same chilling awareness he’d felt in the training rooms with Ethan. It felt like being measured, like a predator weighing the value of its prey.

  Without him realising it, his internal temperature plummeted. Under the stress, cold gathered like a physical weight under his ribs, and the dew on the leaves inches from his face began to crystallise into delicate, jagged frost. But he didn’t notice the ice, his focus was locked entirely on the treeline.

  Rory forced himself to blink, counting his breaths in a desperate attempt to stay calm. He waited for a challenge, a voice, or a step into the amber halo of the camp lights. But nothing stepped forward. Nothing revealed itself.

  After several long, agonising minutes, the heavy pressure began to thin, receding back into the forest. The ordinary sounds of the night returned, the songs of crickets and the distant rustle of wind, as the bush settled back into its natural stillness.

  He sat there for a long time, his skin prickling, until the cold crept deep into his sleeves and doubt began to whisper that his mind was playing tricks on him. Eventually, he lay back down and when he finally slipped under again, the forest was quiet. Too quiet.

  The retreat is doing exactly what it’s designed to do: expose failure points early, in controlled space, before they become disasters in uncontrolled space.

  Rory’s key takeaways: He can be drained. He can recover. He can produce heat output even under restriction. And under stress, his body defaults to cold hard enough to affect the environment.

  Then the final variable returns, something observing from the edge of perception. The same thin wrongness. The same sense of being measured.

  The day ends with a new question that isn’t about training anymore: Is Rory reacting to the forest…or is the forest reacting to Rory?