The south bastion of Meridian had once been a hotel. Now it was a barracks, its walls stripped of paint and lined with rune-etched plates that hummed a low, ceaseless vibration. Soren walked the main corridor, the soles of his boots sticking slightly to the resin-polished floors, every fourth step punctuated by the sound of the security wards recalibrating for his presence.

The squad had been posted up in what used to be a ballroom, minus chandeliers or any sign that people had once danced there. Instead, swords, practice blades, and a scattering of broken armor pieces littered the room. Kale, as always, was running the new batch of recruits through a set of drills that looked like a parody of military discipline: more shouting, less actual form.

"Attention!" Kale bellowed, catching sight of Soren. The group snapped to in a way that implied real pain if they didn't.

Soren walked the line, noting the faces: two new from the upper city, one from the outlands, the rest a mix of old squad and the kind of raw intake that suggested someone in command was trying to populate the Division with the expendable. The twins, Lira and Liane, had upgraded their hair to a blue so neon it made their skin look translucent; they saluted Soren in unison, then immediately went back to carving runes into the handles of their blades with a soldering iron. Jannek was gone, but nobody looked at the gap where he would've stood.

He felt, more than heard, Kale fall in behind him. "They say you're the new warden," Kale whispered, voice pitched for maximum skepticism.

Soren said, "If I was, you'd all be locked up already."

Kale grinned, but kept eyes front. Soren scanned the wall behind the squad, noting every rune sigil. All of them faced inward, not out. 'Who exactly are we meant to be keeping contained?' he wondered. He didn't like the answer that formed.

He called roll, then dismissed the new recruits. The old squad lingered, a knot of familiarity in the shifting landscape.

Lira said, "You see the new intake list?"

He shook his head.

She handed over a packet, edges still warm from the printer. The first name was Cassian Velrane. The rest were blanks, initials only, the implication being that someone wanted Soren to remember that none of these people were meant to last.

He read down the list, then looked at the squad. "Anyone know what happened in the north wards last night?"

Liane shrugged, all bones and blue hair. "Rumor says someone tried to breach the containment zone. Didn't get past the first plate."

Kale muttered, "They're running drills on the wall now, prepping for the next breach."

Soren nodded. "Full gear, full kit, be ready to rotate on zero notice."

Kale: "So, nothing changes?"

Soren: "Only the names."

He left the ballroom, walked the perimeter of the bastion twice, then ducked into the maintenance corridor where the old staff used to run service carts between floors. At the end of the hall, a patch of wall was open, exposing the cable bundle and a junction box that blinked a ferocious yellow.

He pulled the panel, rewired two leads, and waited for the hum of the runes to shift. For a second, the entire south bastion flickered, every light, every wall plate, even the floor's resonance. Then it stabilized, a half-tone lower than before.

He set the panel back. 'If they want me to be a warden,' he thought, 'then I might as well get the keys.'

At midnight, Cassian arrived at the south bastion. Soren watched him from the upper balcony, noting the precise steps, the lack of any visible injury from their last engagement. Cassian's hair was pulled back now, the cut at his jaw already healed; his uniform looked like it had just been issued, which meant Magister Cirel had staged this return as a performance for the Division.

"Reporting as ordered," Cassian said, voice stripped of anything that could be read as apology or pride.

Soren motioned him up. The balcony was empty, but the city listened through every surface; it was always a question of who would use the recording later.

"You're my first officer," Soren said, watching for the flinch. "Which means you run the drills, handle intake, and keep the recruits alive. If they die, you write the report. If they live, you write the report. You understand?"

Cassian's eyes narrowed, then returned to neutral. "And you?"

"I decide who gets to stay. Or who gets sent to the east annex."

Cassian looked down, as if calculating the odds. Soren let him.

After a moment, Cassian said, "They're going to test you, Vale. You know that, right? This is all a setup."

Soren smiled, teeth even in the half-light. "It's always a setup. Better to be the one writing the rules."

Cassian nodded, then surprised Soren by offering a hand. Soren shook it, feeling the tension—neither of them trusting the other fully, both pretending otherwise. They stood there, for a moment, watching the city blink and fade in the predawn.

Cassian left, boots echoing down the spiral stairs.

Soren stayed, the cold settling into his skin, and thought about the next breach, the next order, the next way someone would try to turn him into a variable.

He waited for the sun. It came slow, and less warm than he remembered.

Day three brought the first challenge to division authority. Two of the new intake, a pair of upper warders with the look of men who were used to killing from a distance, refused to run the wall rotation. Soren let them argue, let them escalate.

When they finally laid hands on Kale, Soren let the fight play out long enough for the rest of the squad to witness the moment when the new order would be tested.

He took the first one down with a single cut across the back of the hand, a surgical strike, memorized from the old days at Edge Hollow. The second tried to choke Soren out, but found his wrist caught and twisted until the bone made a sound like a breaking popsicle. Soren didn't speak, didn't show anger. He just held the man's hand until the eyes went wide with the realization that pain was only going to get worse.

When it was over, he called for the medics, watched as the twins dragged the two to the infirmary with the kind of practiced brutality that implied neither would try it again.

Kale, already getting stitched up, grinned at Soren across the hall. "You do the paperwork, or you want me to?"

Soren shrugged. "You write it. I'll sign."

He walked outside, past the perimeter, and looked up at the city. The sky was the color of bruised fruit, clouds hanging low over the spires. He thought of Jannek, and the hole that was still there in the squad's formation.

He thought of Rehn, and the words "you're just the last rat on the ship." He wondered how many more rats it would take before someone noticed the ship was never meant to make port.

He listened to the hum of the wards, the whine of the rune plates, the sound of the academy trying, always, to make things orderly. He waited for the next breach.

He wondered what the city would look like if anyone ever escaped.

It struck him, then, with a kind of cold certainty: the walls weren't to keep people out. They were to keep what was inside from getting loose.

He thought about telling someone. He didn't.

Instead, he ran the perimeter again. Each time, he moved faster.

He had a Division to command, and a city to study.

And, if the day ever came, a choice to make.

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