The wagon stopped after what Pyra's exhausted brain estimated was six hours of travel. Maybe five. Time got weird when you were sitting in darkness contemplating your imminent transformation into a magical science experiment.

Pyra tried to mark the route like Malik had instructed—counting turns, noting when the road surface changed from cobblestone to packed dirt, listening for ambient sounds that might indicate landmarks. But mostly she just sat in darkness with three other prisoners who were trusting her not to get them all killed.

No pressure.

When the wagon rolled to a stop, Pyra braced herself.

The rear door opened, flooding the enclosed space with lamplight that made all four prisoners squint. Guards hauled them out one by one, rough hands gripping bound arms, boots hitting packed earth that crunched like gravel.

Pyra's first impression of the facility was that someone had taken "ominous research compound" as a design challenge and really committed to the aesthetic.

The building squatted in a clearing surrounded by dense forest—stone construction, minimal windows, the kind of architecture that said "we have things to hide and we're not subtle about it." Torches lined a perimeter wall that looked more decorative than functional, but guards patrolled it anyway, crossbows visible even in the dim light.

Magic flickered along the top—wards, probably. Nothing she could identify precisely at this distance, but she could feel the static-charge prickle of arcane energy against her skin.

"Inside," a guard commanded, gesturing with his crossbow toward a heavy wooden door. "Single file. No talking."

They filed through the entrance into a corridor lit by magical lights that cast everything in pale blue. The floor and walls were the same featureless stone as the exterior, worn smooth by countless feet.

There was an odd smell in the air—stale sweat mixed with chemicals. And something else. Something sour and decaying that Pyra didn't want to identify.

Other prisoners occupied cells along the corridor. Not cages like the arena, but proper cells with solid doors and small barred windows. Most occupants sat in corners, staring at nothing. A few looked up as Pyra's group passed, their expressions empty of everything except resignation.

"New acquisitions," the lead guard called to someone deeper in the facility. "Four from Dugales. The buyer wants them processed by morning."

Processed. That was a fun word that definitely meant nothing terrible.

They were separated into individual cells. Pyra's was maybe eight feet square, containing a stone bench, a bucket that she didn't want to examine closely, and absolutely nothing else.

She waited until footsteps faded, then moved to the small barred window in her door. The corridor beyond was empty except for guards stationed at intervals, looking bored but alert.

Time to observe. Gather intelligence. Figure out what the Silent Hand was actually doing here.

"You still alive over there, flame-hair?"

"Unfortunately," Pyra whispered back. "You?"

"Same. You sure your bard is following this wagon? This place gives me bad feelings."

"He will." Pyra hoped that was true. "Just need to stay calm, observe, wait for the signal."

"Right. Calm. In a facility run by people who buy prisoners for experiments." Ranth's laugh was bitter. "Easy."

Pyra spent the next hour testing her cell's limitations while trying to look like she was just anxiously pacing.

The door was solid—reinforced wood with metal bands, locked from the outside with what sounded like multiple mechanisms. The walls were stone, thick enough that she couldn't hear much beyond muffled sounds from adjacent cells. The small window in the door offered limited visibility but was her best source of information.

Her flames responded when she called them, but sluggishly, like trying to run through waist-deep water. The pendant Malik had given her helped, but even with the boost, her fire barely reached torch-brightness. Something in this place was suppressing her power beyond just her scattered-self weakness.

The wards, probably. She could feel them pressing against her skin like an invisible weight, making her head ache and her thoughts muddy. If this was what magic-suppressing felt like, she empathized with Theron and the other mages during the war against the dragons.

She tested the door's lock with a weak flame, hoping to melt it. The metal glowed slightly, then cooled immediately. Enchanted against exactly this sort of escape attempt.

Great.

Through her window, Pyra watched guards escort a prisoner down the corridor—a man who moved like someone sleepwalking, responding to commands without any visible awareness behind his eyes.

His skin had a strange pallor, and faint markings traced along his exposed arms. Not tattoos. Something that pulsed with dim light, like veins filled with liquid glow.

Two guards flanked him, speaking casually.

"Another successful vessel," one said. "This one took two sessions before it integrated properly."

"Better than the last batch. Lost half of them from rejection or overload." The second guard shook his head. "The buyer's impatient. Wants more test subjects."

"The arena can't supply fighters this quickly. We're already scraping the bottom."

"How many does that make?"

"Seventeen since the last moon. We're ahead of schedule for the convergence."

They passed out of earshot, taking their disturbing conversation and the altered prisoner with them.

Pyra watched, mind racing. What did that mean? Vessels. Convergence.

Malik had mentioned vessels—that he believed the Silent Hand was somehow creating or using them for their magic. Maybe the experiments were connected to that somehow. The Pattern Weaver's research, maybe?

If only Ash were here. Or integrated. Either would work. Pyra's existential-philosopher sibling-sister-self would have some profound insights to offer, probably with extensive footnotes.

She needed more information. Needed to understand what "preparation" actually meant before it happened to her. Or to Ranth. Or to any of them.

"Pyra." Ranth's whisper cut through her spiraling thoughts. "You see that?"

"Yeah."

"We need to get out of here. Now."

"Working on it."

Pyra ran her hands through her tangled hair.

Think. Observe. Use her training and experiences for once instead of just running on instinct and luck.

She could create fire—weak, but functional. There was her hidden knife. The pendant under her shirt that boosted her magic. Her own super speed, significantly reduced but still present. And whatever the others brought to the table. Which they hadn't had the chance to talk about.

Whoops. Maybe that was a conversation that should've been part of the original plan.

"Ranth. Anyone else. It's time to talk exit strategy," she said, voice pitched low enough to (hopefully) not attract attention from the guards stationed down the hall. "We need to exchange talents, skills, tricks up our sleeves. If we're escaping before we turn into magic zombies, it's going to be a team effort."

Silence for a long moment.

"Don't have any tricks," Serris muttered. "Just chain fighting."

"Same here," Dorvus echoed. "I can take more damage than I should. Heal a little. But not quickly enough to matter against a room full of guards." His voice was strained, quiet. "Pyra... your 'bard friend' isn't coming, is he?"

Stolen novel; please report.

Pyra swallowed. "He'll come. He just needs time to track us. We've got to hold on until then." She kept her tone firm, confident, projecting reassurance she didn't entirely feel. "We're not dying here. You have my word on that."

"What are you offering, flame-hair?" Ranth's voice held a note of challenge. "If this is happening, we need more than speeches."

"Right now, it's fire and a knife." Pyra exhaled. Not the most impressive inventory, considering what they were facing. But it'd have to work. "But we know who's on our side. We've got information they don't have. And we've all won fights. We've all proven we can survive."

"Sure. But there are only four of us against an entire facility," Serris countered. "You really believe your bard can help with those odds?"

"We'll see," is what Pyra said aloud.

She had no idea how or if Malik was coming, but that was a truth she'd keep to herself for now.

Morning came with harsh bells and the sound of boots on stone.

Guards appeared at Pyra's door, unlocking it while she pretended to be halfway between confused and terrified.

"You. Come."

"Where?"

The guard's expression suggested asking questions was adorable but pointless. "Evaluation. Move."

Pyra was escorted through corridors she hadn't seen, deeper into the facility. They passed laboratories with equipment she couldn't identify—crystalline structures that pulsed with light, tables with restraints, walls covered in diagrams that looked like anatomical studies if anatomy included things humans shouldn't possess.

They brought her to a different section. Cleaner. Better maintained. The cells here had actual furniture—cots with blankets, small tables, even books. Relative luxury compared to the holding area.

"High-value acquisitions," the guard explained, apparently deciding she deserved some context. "You're worth keeping comfortable until processing. Cooperation makes everything easier."

Pyra filed this away mentally. Different sections of the facility. Some prisoners treated differently than others. Made sense. "How many other facilities are there? What do they all do?"

The guard scowled. "None of your concern. Move."

She was brought to a chamber dominated by an empty chair, an altar-like table, and several robed figures standing to one side. All had featureless metallic masks that made them look more machine than person.

One of the masked ones addressed her without preamble.

"Acquired from the Dugales arena. Sixth fight. Overall win record." They flipped through a sheaf of papers that presumably held more details. "Innate pyromancy with apparent heightened reflexes. Uncertain if both are manifestations of the same arcane expression or separate abilities."

Another spoke, voice distorted by the same masking effect. "Potential vessel candidate pending evaluation. Stand for examination."

They came forward, hands glowing with magic, and approached her like someone preparing to dissect an especially interesting bug.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on perspective), the tests and experimentations she and her sister-selves were subjected to by the Magisterium a while ago had desensitized her to most "being poked and prodded by wizards" related experiences.

So when a magical glow began crawling across her skin and then burrowed into her chest like frigid needles, there was no outward reaction beyond a slight shiver.

"Strong inherent potential. Unfocused but high in intensity. It might be suitable as a host," one of the masked figures noted, sounding intrigued. "It could provide a useful insight into the transformative process involved in the transference and integration."

Pyra did her best to ignore this and focused on observing. Gathering intelligence. Making preparations for the breakout that definitely, totally, was coming soon. Any second now. Or later. Or possibly not.

But still!

She was escorted back to her cell. Along the way, she noted the layout—counting doors, estimating corridor lengths, memorizing turns and the locations of laboratories.

The wards were active everywhere, their magical signatures thrumming against Pyra's skin as an ever-present itch. Something about the frequency was different here than elsewhere. Less restrictive on magic overall. Focusing on dampening specific types of energies.

Interesting.

Back in her cell, she leaned against the door, peering through the barred window. Guards were stationed at either end of the corridor, bored and probably underpaid, judging by their body language. Weapons were prominently visible—swords, daggers, and a couple of crossbows.

No spears, though, which was a choice she found interesting.

"So?" Ranth's voice filtered through the wall. "What was it like?"

"Weird," she said, keeping her voice low. "Tests. Measurements. Lots of magic. Not sure what they're looking for."

"Same here," Serris confirmed from his cell. "I swear, I'm getting more talking to them than from anyone on our side." He sounded annoyed, exasperated, and more than a little terrified.

Pyra couldn't blame him. The waiting was getting to her too. And the not knowing. And the certainty that if she didn't break out soon, she'd wake up with a third eye or tentacles instead of legs.

She retreated from her window, brain spinning. Malik's extraction was supposed to happen within a day or two. She had to figure out some way to stall until then. Without raising too much suspicion. Or getting herself killed. Or revealing there was an ongoing rescue operation.

Think. What would Cinder do? Plan. Calculate odds. Find the optimal approach.

What would Ember do? Protect everyone. Prioritize keeping people safe over personal glory.

What would Kindle do? Stay optimistic. Trust that help was coming and prepare to act when it arrives.

What would Ash do? Question everything. Look for hidden implications. Uncover layers of truth beneath surface appearances—

Okay, that one wasn't helping.

But the others' perspectives didn't spark a brilliant plan. They just reminded her that she wasn't alone, even if her sister-selves weren't here.

What would she actually do?

Observe. Adapt. Be ready to fight when the moment came.

That was it. That was the whole strategy. Watch everything, remember everything, and when Malik's extraction arrived, move fast.

Not exactly a master plan, but it was honest work.

The first opportunity for observation came hours later during another evaluation. Same masked figures. Same clinical chamber. This time they tested her with controlled flame exposure, recording her reactions with magical instruments.

Pyra cooperated, responding to each test while cataloging details. Four researchers present. Two guards at the door. Instruments along the east wall looked delicate—probably expensive, definitely breakable. The door mechanism was complex but not magically sealed. Wards woven into the ceiling corners.

"Your tolerance for heat is remarkable," one researcher noted. "Even accounting for pyromantic affinity, this level of resistance suggests deeper integration with elemental forces."

Pyra just nodded, keeping her expression neutral. Let them think whatever they wanted. She wasn't volunteering information, but she wasn't going to play elaborate mind games either. That required being smarter than she felt right now.

"What is the upper limit of your pyromantic expression?"

"Depends," Pyra said honestly. "Sometimes it's stronger, sometimes weaker. I don't really understand why."

"Fascinating." They made another note, apparently content with her answer. "Are there factors you associate with this variance? Environmental stimuli, emotional states, physical condition?"

"It just... varies." That was technically true. Emotions influenced her powers, and her current state of scatteredness definitely counted as an "emotional condition" if she was generous with the definition.

They asked more questions. She answered simply, keeping responses vague but cooperative. They didn't push. Didn't seem suspicious.

She was learning their language—how they talked about vessels and transformations. Not everything made sense yet, but pieces were falling into place. Something to do with patterns, energies, and fusing things together in new configurations.

A random comment from one of her observers mentioned not needing to prioritize her for whatever horrible process turned prisoners into those empty-eyed husks she'd seen in the corridors.

She'd take that win. Better a whole, free person than a magic zombie.

Back in her cell, Ranth waited for an update.

"Observations?" he asked quietly.

"Four researchers, two guards, the east wall has breakable equipment. The door mechanism is mundane, not magical." Pyra rattled off details. "Wards suppress certain kinds of magic, not all of it."

Serris and Dorvus listened through the walls, offering occasional "mmm" or "got it" to confirm they were paying attention. Ranth seemed the most engaged, which Pyra appreciated.

"Also, they think I'm fascinating, which probably isn't great." Pyra leaned against the cold stone wall between her cell and Ranth's. "How was yours?"

"Similar. Tests. Questions. They seemed interested in my pain tolerance and healing rate." Ranth's voice carried resignation. "We're being evaluated for something specific. I just wish I knew what."

Pyra thought about the altered prisoners, the references to vessels and convergence. "Whatever it is, we're not sticking around to find out. Malik's coming. We just need to stay alive until then."

"And if he doesn't come in time?"

"Then we improvise." Pyra flexed her fingers, watching weak flames sputter. "I've gotten pretty good at improvising lately."

The next day brought more evaluations, more observations. Pyra continued gathering intelligence—guard shift changes happened every six hours, and patrol patterns were predictable. She marked mental notes about corridor layouts, exit routes, which doors looked reinforced versus which looked standard.

She didn't have a complex plan. Just information, stored away for when it became useful.

During one evaluation, she caught a glimpse through an open door into another laboratory. Inside, a prisoner was strapped to a table surrounded by crystalline equipment that pulsed with eerie light. Researchers worked around him, conducting some kind of ritual or procedure.

The prisoner's screams were brief. Then silence. Then, when guards wheeled him past Pyra's cell hours later, his eyes had that same glassy emptiness she'd seen in others.

Another successful vessel, she heard a guard comment.

Pyra's stomach twisted. That was the fate waiting for them if Malik didn't arrive soon.

That evening, watching through her cell window as guards changed shifts, Pyra allowed herself a moment of doubt. What if the extraction didn't come? What if Malik's contacts had lost the wagon, or couldn't penetrate the facility's defenses, or decided the risk was too high?

What if she'd gotten these people's hopes up for nothing?

"Still with us, flame-hair?" Ranth's voice cut through her spiraling thoughts.

"Yeah. Just thinking."

"Dangerous hobby."

"Tell me about it." Pyra pressed her forehead against the cool metal of her cell door. "Ranth? If this goes wrong—"

"It won't."

"But if it does—"

"Then we fight anyway. Because that's what we do." His voice was firm. "You survived six arena matches through luck and stubbornness. I survived four months by being too mean to die. Between the four of us, we've got enough spite to make it through whatever happens next."

Despite everything, Pyra smiled. "That's a terrible strategy."

"Best one we've got."

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