The Aetherium Conditioning Chambers, a utilitarian annex to the grand Aether-Forge Arena, present themselves as a monument to brutal efficiency. Its walls of reinforced ferro-steel hum faintly with the contained energy of countless actuators, the air thick with the metallic tang of sweat and ozone. A Forge-Hand named Kael, whose eyes seem to track every flex and strain, issues Silas a standard Academy uniform: shorts, a T-shirt, and sturdy training boots, all in the Collective’s ubiquitous brass and verdant livery. He is then directed to the locker rooms, ostensibly for a cleansing ritual before initiating the day’s suffering. Apparently, the policy dictates a shower both before and after engaging with the mechanized torture devices. One might assume this is to prevent the transmission of various microbial horrors, given the student body’s general disinterest in personal hygiene. Or perhaps, as in Silas’s current state—still faintly steaming from his impromptu skirmish—the expectation is that one arrives pre-sullied, ready for another layer of grime. Preparing oneself for physical attrition does not, thankfully, require excessive deliberation. Yet, upon his return, Instructor Valerius is already present, a vision of pre-emptive readiness. Her attire has shifted from the formal Aether-Engineer’s coat to a sleek black tank top, a fresh pair of dark verdant cargo pants, and boots that gleam with an almost offensive cleanliness. One wonders if the Academy fears she might be mistaken for a mere student if she were to wear the mandated brass and verdant. Or perhaps it’s simply a military affectation; some things remain stubbornly consistent across all stratified societies, including the sartorial choices of those in command. Silas recalls the hushed whispers of the Lower Sprawl Reclamation Zones, tales of the Aether-Engineers – not officially military, but a distinct, government-sanctioned branch. They were a myth down in the pits, an abstract concept, never tangible until the Aether-Resonance Infusion day itself. Now, they are entirely too tangible. The class Valerius terms “Kinetic Weavers”—or “agility type warriors,” in the more common parlance—proves to be an almost exclusively female cohort. Silas, with a dry, internal sigh, registers the potential implications. It certainly raises uncomfortable questions regarding the Aether-Resonance Infusion’s gender-based aptitudes, or, more personally, the current state of his own physique. While he hardly aspires to be a prime specimen of brute force, to be subtly informed that one’s current build aligns with that of a fourteen-year-old girl does tend to bruise the ego, however subtly. Then, through a polished chrom-steel pane, he observes the “Adamant Forgers”—the strength type warriors—from the senior classes. They are a veritable forest of muscle-bound automatons, their arms thicker than Silas’s torso, their grunts a symphony of strained effort. Perhaps, he concedes, a different path has been chosen for him for excellent reasons. Yes, perhaps he is precisely where he needs to be. “Alright, Vance, first up, upper body strength,” Valerius announces, her voice devoid of any pretense of sympathy. “That unique resonant link of yours, it puts a significant strain on your biological infrastructure. You’ll need to develop the raw power to command it, to push through the aetheric resistance, but without accumulating so much bulk that you become a stationary target. Precision, not mass, will be your advantage.” What follows is an experience best described as two hours in a personalized, steam-heated purgatory. By the time Silas eventually extricates himself from the Aetherium Conditioning Chambers, his limbs feel more like over-torqued clockwork than functional appendages. He navigates the short distance to the communal showers with a pronounced limp, his uniform clinging to him like a damp shroud, every fiber of his being screaming for cessation. The idea of simply collapsing onto the chrom-steel floor and allowing sleep to claim him, right there amidst the communal steam, holds a distinct and terrible appeal. Just as his resolve begins to fray, a cold, roasted chicken thigh—a rather generous portion, considering—is deftly pushed through the locker slot. Spark, his bio-engineered chimera, clearly has a more immediate grasp of emergency energy procurement. It is, Silas reflects, a deeply missed survival ration, even though the iridescent avian still possesses a quarter of the entire bird and a disconcerting quantity of raw, unidentifiable meat. Spark's survival protocols are, if nothing else, consistently ambitious. Once relatively clean and encased in his standard Academy uniform, Silas makes the weary trek back to the dormitories, his internal compass already pointing, with unwavering certainty, toward the cafeteria. Aetherium-brewed coffee, fortified with an unholy amount of saccharine, is not merely desired; it is a vital, non-negotiable component of his immediate future. If this brutal regimen is to be the new daily normal, he realizes, his caloric intake will need to be dramatically recalibrated. He foresees a future of constant, dedicated consumption, a small price to pay for sustained function. Somehow, despite feeling as though his very atoms are contemplating secession, Silas manages to project an aura of relative vitality. He notes, with a detached clinical interest, the arrival of subsequent training groups. They move in a shambling, mutually supportive procession, often propping each other upright, their uniforms bearing a panoply of training-induced indignities: fresh bruises blooming like dark flowers, precise cuts, scorch marks, and, in some particularly unfortunate cases, a faint but pervasive sheen of mystery liquid. The Aetherium Collective Academy, it seems, is an equal-opportunity distributor of suffering. “What, precisely, has occurred to you?” Silas inquires, directing his query to an Aether-Weaver slumped at an adjacent table. The individual, a gaunt young man with ink-stained fingers and perpetually startled eyes, nearly topples from his seat. “Skills training,” the Aether-Weaver, whom Silas vaguely recognizes as Corvus, groans, his voice a ragged whisper. “All day. The aether-weaving classes, they cram us full of theory and practical application. I have one spell. Just one: Static Surge. And they had me ingest catalytic supplements, over and over, to cast it thirty times today. Thirty. Until it stopped arcing back and electrocuting both myself and anyone within a five-meter radius.” Corvus looks utterly spent, a portrait of profound agony on the verge of unconsciousness. “And you?” another Aether-Weaver, a girl with tell-tale scorch marks along the hem of her uniform, asks. Her name, Silas recalls, is Lyra. Her gaze is sharp, despite the obvious fatigue. “I had a combat class with Instructor Valerius,” Silas replies, a profound sigh escaping him. “Followed by two hours of… physical conditioning with the Kinetic Weavers. I believe my legs have, at some point in the last hour, achieved the consistency of over-boiled pudding.” Lyra’s eyebrows rise, an impressive feat given her evident exhaustion. “A two-hour fitness routine? What in the name of the Grand Architect did you do to Valerius to earn that? Even the fresh-faced Adamant Forgers only endure a thirty-minute intensive weight training session and a thirty-minute cardio burst, in addition to their weapons drills.” The injustice, to her, is palpable. “No idea,” Silas admits, though a flicker of Valerius’s words surfaces. “I suspect she harbors rather high expectations for me, however. She’s already speaking of ‘forging me into an Awakened body’ before the end of this month.” The two Aether-Weavers wince in unison, a synchronized grimace of shared misery. “We need to elevate our aether-levels to Awakened thresholds before the semester exams, which, believe me, is far more arduous than it sounds,” Corvus explains, rubbing his temples. “It necessitates constant meditation during our off-hours. But one cannot meditate when one cannot focus, and we, collectively, are far too sore to conjure even a coherent thought today.” “Well, almost all of us,” Lyra interjects, her tone tinged with a grudging respect. Corvus gestures with a defeated sigh toward a woman at a nearby table, whose uniform is visibly coated in a translucent, glistening film. “That woman, however, I suspect she might be just fine. She’s a demon.” “Aether-Slime girl?” Silas asks, leaning forward slightly. “Don’t let the aesthetic fool you,” Corvus cautions, a flicker of genuine irritation in his eyes. “She’s a Hydro-Chymist, and her foundational spell is Viscous Aether-Resonance. It’s designed to facilitate stamina and aether-flow recovery. So, she simply wears it, like that, all day. A constant, self-applied restorative.” Silas processes this information, a dry chuckle bubbling in his chest. That, he thinks, borders on a structural exploit, a veritable cheat code within the Academy’s carefully balanced system. If, as Corvus and Lyra imply, Aether-Weavers refine their aptitude through the consistent manifestation and control of their chosen spells, then Seraphina’s ability to constantly replenish her reserves while actively engaged in her practice grants her a considerable, almost unfair, advantage. Her progression, he muses, will likely be meteoric. Such, he concludes, is the sort of disproportionate good fortune one might reasonably expect from a true protagonist. [Slimes are objectively terrible,] Spark interjects, its internal monologue echoing directly within Silas’s mind. [You cannot consume them. They merely squish, and they provide no discernible nutritional benefit.] Spark, Silas concedes internally, has a valid point. Not only is the chimera an exceptional combat assistant, a living arsenal of bio-mechanical ingenuity, it is also, quite literally, edible. A multi-purpose companion, indeed. As the hour wanes, students slowly disperse, gravitating toward their respective quarters. Silas, for his part, allows Spark to indulge in a well-deserved, if somewhat gluttonous, slumber. He lies stretched on his cot, every muscle protesting, too wired by exhaustion to truly sleep, yet too profoundly sore to engage in any other activity. He isn’t entirely certain when the threshold into blissful unconsciousness is crossed, but he is acutely aware of the shrill, insistent chirping of his alarm, signaling precisely fifteen minutes before Valerius's inevitable arrival. A quick, bracing shower and a change into a fresh Academy uniform are completed with a practiced, if still sluggish, efficiency. Precisely as the final button is fastened, Valerius's impatient knock resonates through the thin chrom-steel door. In her other hand, she holds a breakfast tray, a pragmatic solution to a recurring problem. “You are, as anticipated, running behind schedule, Vance,” she states, her tone implying this is less an observation and more a deeply ingrained cosmic truth. “Therefore, I have taken the liberty of acquiring sustenance for you. We will proceed to the observation gazebo. You can consume your meal while you engage in your studies.” They settle at a small, circular table within the gazebo, the morning’s nascent light filtering through the reinforced glass panes, illuminating the intricate aether-mechanical gears that serve as decorative accents. Valerius, with an air of understated purpose, extracts a small, rough-hewn stone from a pouch at her hip and places it centrally on the table. “Your assessment of this, Vance?” she prompts, her gaze unreadable. Silas eyes the object critically. It’s distinctly not an egg, nor any discernible form of biological construct. Merely a rock, of some unremarkable geological origin. He pokes it, first with the handle of his spoon, then, with a greater degree of caution, with a bare finger. There is no perceptible response, no tremor of aether, no hum of latent energy. Nothing. “It is, without a doubt, a rock,” he replies, a touch of weary certainty in his voice. “Interesting,” Valerius notes, her expression unchanged. “So, this particular Resonance Crystal elicits no response from your unique aptitudes, yet you maintain direct, telepathic communication with your chimera.” Her observation is delivered with the dispassionate objectivity of a scientific inquiry. Silas, sensing an unspoken directive, places his hand back on the inert stone, attempting to coax some hidden energy from its dull surface. Still, it remains stubbornly, utterly, unequivocally a rock. Valerius then produces another, then yet another, placing them in a small array. Each yields the same result: nothing. Then, she places a small, golden coin—an ancient Aetherium Sovereign, one of the first monetary instruments from the foundational days of the Aetherium Collective—onto the table. The moment it makes contact, Silas feels it. An immediate, undeniable affinity. When his fingers brush the intricate sigil of the stylized gear-dragon embossed on its surface, a surge of raw, untamed power—not his own, yet accessible—floods his senses, a profound, almost electric hum reverberating through his core. “So, that is the answer,” Valerius states, a faint, almost imperceptible satisfaction in her voice. “That Sovereign was consecrated at the Great Cog Shrine during the last Grand Gear Festival, imbued with residual Primal Aetheric Current. It appears your resonant abilities, Vance, find their most profound affinity with such ancient, potent energies. Given this unexpected development, I believe we should attempt one more test.” She produces a small vial. Within, a shimmering, viscous red liquid swirls, catching the light like liquid rubies. [Oh, I desire that,] Spark interjects, its mental voice a sudden, urgent clamor. [Plead with the malicious woman to grant it to me. It has a compelling aroma.] [You should consider yourself fortunate, Spark,] Silas thinks, a dry, weary humor touching his lips, [that she lacks the capacity to hear your internal monologues.]

Of Sweat and Sovereigns