Kael didn't talk the first day. He observed—everything. The cell layout, the rhythm of the guards, the flicker in Lira's eyes when the collar buzzed.
He'd been sent to fight, but he didn't know how to survive in silence. That made him dangerous—dangerously naive.
They put him through his first simulation the next morning. Lira watched from behind thick glass as the boy with too much fire stumbled in a virtual warzone. No instructions. No mercy. When he screamed, her collar buzzed a warning.
"Resonance instability detected," a voice crackled from overhead.
She clenched her fists. Not at Kael's pain. At her helplessness.
Seren studied the readouts like art. "The boy needs a tether. Something to keep him from burning out."
Lira became his tether.
They paired them in trials. Kael spoke. She didn't. But her silence was louder than his words. He learned to read her gestures, her gaze, even the tilt of her head. She learned to trust his timing.
Together, they passed the tests. One by one. Blood-soaked simulations. Mind traps. Emotional echoes. Together, they survived.
Until the memory chamber.
Kael's memory.
And in it—her voice.