Chapter 48: A Little Less Force

Chapter 48: A Little Less Force

Silas managed three words before the pen tore the paper.

He lifted the nib and looked at the small wet hole. Steady Hand had kept his fingers beautifully still while he pressed far harder than he realized.

He loosened his fingers one at a time, surprised by how tightly he had closed them around the pen. The lighter grip felt less secure, even though nothing was trying to pull it from his hand.

The copper strip he had folded yesterday remained on the desk. Apparently, the lesson applied to stationery too.

At least that wasn’t a letter I had to send.

His thumb was stiff from the unfamiliar work. He set the sheet aside and ate breakfast before trying again.

Afterward, he practiced with the tongs without activating Steady Hand. Once he could move a strip without marking it, he called on the Talent and attempted a slow turn.

The effect weakened halfway through. He stopped, settled his hand, and finished. Holding a tool still had come easily enough. Keeping it steady while it moved would need more work.

Later, he returned to the pen. He used to spend evenings sketching weapons, losing track of time over small changes to a guard or blade. He missed drawing without needing the result to keep him alive.

He drew his teacup.

The handle was too large. He left it. With a lighter grip, he could follow the curve without digging into the paper, though his hand slowed almost to a stop when the line changed direction.

The curve was clumsy, but he could tell where he had hesitated instead of blaming every wobble on his hand. He added the rim, then turned the real cup to check how its handle joined the side. For once, he wasn’t trying to finish before a deadline.

By the time the tea cooled, he had a recognizable cup and three attempts at its saucer. He tucked the best one inside his novel before anyone could ask why he was designing tableware.

A reminder interrupted his next session. He had scheduled time for the required assessment briefing; the equipment instructions would remain locked until he completed it.

Silas watched from his chair with lunch beside him and a cushion behind his back.

The instructor demonstrated a portable protective screen. It covered one marked approach to a temporary camp, reducing the force of incoming objects while the team handled other directions. Its power supply was finite. Unnecessary use cost points. So did trusting the indicator without carrying out the physical checks.

Silas paused at the diagram.

Boundary Ward would make some of this easier. Explaining how he had acquired it would give him rather more trouble than the equipment.

He resumed the recording. They would establish shelters on enclosed training grounds and take them down before leaving. During the active stage, constructs would throw padded projectiles at controlled speeds. Students would wear protective equipment, and supervisors would watch from marked stations.

His medical clearance still applied, including breaks and limits on sustained exertion. It left plenty of work he could be assigned.

By the end, he had finished lunch and developed a strong preference for passing the first time.

The next afternoon, he went to the library for the field manual. Its shelf smelled faintly of damp leather despite the dry room. He found the assigned edition and took it to a window seat.

The first example asked where to put a shelter on a slope. Silas chose the flattest patch, turned the page, and discovered that his imaginary companions would be sleeping in the path of runoff.

He studied the drawing again. The arrows made considerably more sense now that he knew the answer.

I would have put my bed there.

He corrected his response and stayed for the next example before borrowing the manual. Getting the same question wrong on the assessment would be embarrassing. It might also mean doing this twice.

That evening, he made tea and practiced moving the spring through a wider arc. Holding still was no longer difficult. Turning either stiffened his wrist or weakened the Talent while he concentrated on the movement.

Silas lowered the tongs and tried the same motion with an empty hand.

Without the spring to watch, he noticed where his wrist began resisting. He moved the fitting closer, changed his angle, and picked up the tool again.

The spring settled into its seat.

He repeated the motion, then reversed it. On the third pass, he touched the edge, but the spring stayed between the tips instead of shooting across the desk.

[Steady Hand — Assimilation: 31%]

Silas grinned and checked the time. An hour until bed. He could get a great deal done in an hour.

Then his thumb ached as he set down the tongs.

He turned the lamp away from the cloth and opened his novel. At his bookmark, a man was still hanging from a balcony. The poor bastard had waited long enough.

The third day’s practice was less aggravating. He alternated brief sessions with study and his prescribed physical routine. A narrow tip could follow a curve now without his grip tightening each time he turned.

After a compulsory morning session, Steady Hand reduced the trembling in his fingers. The tiredness in his forearm stayed until he rested it. He put the tool down when it began to ache and returned later to add a line to his drawing. ℴℴ𝘮

For a while afterward, he read with the sketch open beside him.

On the fourth morning after Orrel’s visit, he fitted the spring, slid the cover across, and removed both without pausing to reset his hand.

[Steady Hand — Assimilation: 58%]

He flexed his fingers. No ache. He wanted something smaller to try, perhaps one of the old commission pieces beneath the desk.

The assessment reminder appeared before he could fetch it.

"Of course," Silas muttered.

He put the tools away and dressed. His weapon case went at his hip, the manual and completed briefing record in his bag. He checked his medicine for the day, although he intended to be home before the next dose.

At the door, he let Steady Hand subside. The temporary copy would be useless outside. He would have to leave the practice he wanted to do for an assessment he needed to pass.

The gathering point was crowded. Mira waited with two students he knew only as faces in the halls. The dark-haired girl held the assessment sheet against a rigid board. The boy had polished buckles, an easy-looking smile, and a foot that wouldn’t stop tapping.

"Rooke," the boy said, too loudly. "Good. We’re all here."

He reached for Silas’s bag before introducing himself.

Silas kept his grip on the strap.

"Why are you doing that?"