Being cleared feels quieter than I expected. There is no announcement, no moment where the room shifts and everyone looks at me differently, just a short conversation in the infirmary where the healer checks my pulse one last time, watches me walk a straight line, presses fingers lightly along my ribs, and then nods as if confirming something she already knew.
“You’re cleared,” she says. “Training. Controlled. You stop when we say stop.”
“I know,” I reply, because I do.
Adam stands near the door, arms folded, posture deliberately casual in a way that fools no one, least of all me, and the bond hums steady and watchful between us, not celebratory and not tense either, just alert in the way it has learned to be. When the healer leaves, the silence that follows stretches, heavy with things
