The morning air in the Academy’s main auditorium usually hummed with the restless energy of a thousand young Awakened, a vibrant thrum of potential. Today, it was a suffocating hush. The stage, typically reserved for faculty announcements or combat demonstrations, now hosted three figures in stark, charcoal-grey coats, their presence sucking the sound from the vast chamber. Janek sat rigid in his seat, his usual cheerful mask feeling like a flimsy film stretched too thin over a chasm. Beside him, Piotr watched the central official, an agent whose reputation preceded him like an icy draft. The interrogator's tunic was pristine, adorned only with a stylized eye emblem—the agency's sigil. His face was a chiseled plane of disdain, his eyes like chips of flint. “Cadets of Svarog,” the magistrate's voice resonated, devoid of warmth, amplified through the hall’s acoustic dampeners. “The Ministry has received reports of anomalous energy signatures emanating from within this esteemed institution. Kestral’s strength, indeed its very survival, hinges upon the unyielding integrity of our granted paths. It is the divine framework, the blueprint for order in a chaotic world.” Janek felt a prickle beneath the sleeve of his shirt, where the faint, metallic filigree of his [Flesh-Forge Integration] pulsed almost imperceptibly. He clasped his hands together, forcing a casual slouch into his posture, a practiced ease that felt utterly alien right now. “Deviations,” the speaker continued, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register, “are not merely irregularities. They are corruptions. Mutations. They threaten to unravel the very fabric of our society, to invite the same formless terror that birthed the Chimeras beyond our walls.” His flinty gaze swept across the assembled cadets, lingering, seeking. It passed over Piotr, then snagged on Janek. Cold certainty settled in Janek's gut. He instinctively tried to shrink into his seat, a futile gesture. The examiner's eyes, devoid of any discernible emotion, seemed to pierce through his forced nonchalance, through the plasteel of the chair, straight into the sparking alloy beneath his skin. “We understand,” the speaker stated, his voice now a silken thread, “that young Awakened, in their zealous pursuit of power, might be tempted by unregistered modifications, by techniques that promise shortcuts outside sanctioned pathways. Let me be clear: such pursuits are not only dangerous; they are an act of treason against Kestral.” Janek’s hands clenched under the desk. Treason? For trying to make himself less useless? His cheerful facade flickered, a momentary tremor that Piotr, beside him, caught. Piotr’s hand brushed Janek’s arm, a subtle, reassuring pressure. “We are here to investigate these anomalies,” the magistrate announced, his gaze returning to Janek. The air in the auditorium thickened under collective scrutiny. “And to identify those who might be… experimenting with unregistered abilities. Tell me, cadet… Kazimir, is it?” Janek froze. He looked around. All eyes were on him. Sweat prickled his collar, each heartbeat a painful throb against his ribs. He managed a shaky nod. “Reports indicate a peculiar energy signature localized around your person, Kazimir,” the inspector pressed, his voice sharp as a honed blade. “A signature inconsistent with the recognized parameters of a [Lesser Blacksmith] class. Care to enlighten us?” Janek’s mind raced, scrambling for an excuse, a deflection. His training for such moments was usually flawless, his airheaded persona a perfect shield. But the cold, hard accusation in the magistrate's eyes stripped it away. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. The inspector's gaze dropped, fixating pointedly on Janek’s left forearm, the precise location where the intricate metallic patterns of his integration lay hidden beneath his sleeve. Nausea tightened Janek's throat. He felt utterly exposed, vulnerable. Before Janek could formulate a response, a clear, resonant voice cut through the silence. “Inspector.” All heads turned. Zosia Rostova stood, tall and composed, three rows in front of Janek. Her posture was impeccable, her jacket pristine. She projected an air of absolute conviction, her cerulean eyes blazing with fierce, unwavering devotion to doctrine. “While I commend the Bureau’s diligence in purging corruption,” Zosia continued, her voice carrying easily through the silent hall, “I believe a direct interrogation in this manner is… premature. Perhaps, as a peer and a fellow student of high standing, I might be better suited to monitor Janek Kazimir’s activities for any… irregularities.” Janek stared at her, stunned. Her words, delivered with such conviction, felt like a public denouncement, a betrayal far deeper than any noble's sneers. It wasn’t just a proposal; it was a declaration that she, Zosia Rostova, acknowledged his potential corruption and intended to root it out. His chest ached, a sharp, bitter pang. The examiner regarded Zosia for a long moment, a flicker of something almost akin to approval in his stern eyes. “A sound proposal, Cadet Rostova. Your dedication to operational order is well-known. A vigilant eye from within is often the most effective.” He reached into the inner pocket of his tunic, retrieving a small, flat object. “Take this.” He stepped down from the stage, his boots echoing in the sudden silence, and walked purposefully towards Zosia. He handed her a silver locket, no bigger than her thumb, polished to a mirror sheen. Its surface was plain, unadorned. “This device,” the man explained, his voice low but clear enough for Janek to hear, “will glow with a faint azure light if it senses unregistered systemic modifications within proximity. Use it. Report any findings directly to my office.” Zosia took the locket, her fingers brushing his glove. “Understood, sir. Kestral’s integrity is paramount.” She glanced back, her gaze meeting Janek’s across the rows of silent peers. Her eyes held no triumph, no malice, only a cold, unyielding resolve. The locket, nestled in her palm, seemed to gleam, already a silent, ever-present threat.

System Purity