Keegan's release papers were thinner than he expected. No commendations, no rewards, no promises. Just signatures, warnings, and a stamped notice of monitored status. The Guild escort waiting outside the recovery wing didn't speak as they walked, boots echoing down sterile halls. Keegan followed silently, every step measured, body still recovering despite the transfusion. He felt functional, not strong. The difference mattered. Power hadn't returned, and that absence was intentional.
The rehabilitation wing was quieter than the hospital. Fewer machines, fewer people, more rules. A technician fitted a thin band around Keegan's wrist, its surface dull and unassuming. "Blood-output monitor," she said without looking at him. "Tracks volume, pressure changes, and abnormal consumption." Keegan flexed his hand, feeling the band tighten briefly before relaxing. "You overdrew once," she added. "That won't happen again."
His assigned room was small and windowless. A cot, a sink, a locker bolted to the wall. No weapons allowed. No contracts permitted. No Hemarch activation under any circumstance. The rules were posted clearly beside the door, printed in dense, unforgiving text. Keegan read them twice. They weren't suggestions.
Later that day, a Guild medic entered with a tablet and a sealed container. Inside were small, clearly labeled blood packs. "Supplemental only," she said. "Not combat-grade." Keegan stared at them longer than he should have. The implication was clear: blood was now a resource, rationed and controlled. His survival depended on compliance.
He asked the question anyway. "What happens if it activates on its own?" The medic didn't hesitate. "Then we sedate you," she said. "Or terminate the Pact if it escalates." Her tone didn't change. To the Guild, this was logistics, not morality. Keegan nodded and said nothing more.
That night, alone in the room, Keegan sat on the edge of the cot and closed his eyes. He focused inward, carefully, cautiously. The Blink Hemarch was there—distant, restrained, alert. No hunger. No whisper. Just presence. It felt less like a predator now and more like a coiled mechanism waiting for input.
For the first time, Keegan didn't try to reach for it. He let the silence stretch. His body ached in quiet ways—muscle fatigue, healing tissue, exhaustion that sleep didn't fully erase. This was the cost no one talked about. Recovery wasn't dramatic. It was slow, uncomfortable, and unforgiving.
The next morning began with assessment drills. Balance tests. Grip strength. Reaction time without augmentation. Keegan failed two of them. Not catastrophically, but noticeably. The instructor marked the results without comment. Power had compensated for weakness before. Now the weakness was exposed.
During a break, Keegan caught his reflection in the mirrored wall. Pale, scarred, eyes sharper than before. For a split second, he thought he saw amber flicker behind his own gaze. It vanished immediately. The Hemarch was watching again—but not intervening. Learning, perhaps. Or waiting for him to make a mistake.
By the end of the day, his legs trembled with exhaustion. He returned to his room, every step deliberate. He understood now that this phase wasn't about becoming stronger. It was about proving he could exist without relying on the Pact. Control before power. Restraint before growth.
Keegan lay down, staring at the ceiling in the dark. Outside this wing, Hemarchs were being born from fear, blood, and chaos. Inside, he was being measured, limited, and reshaped. The Blink Hemarch remained silent, but not absent. And Keegan understood something crucial as sleep finally took him. The next time he used Blink, it wouldn't be because he was desperate. It would be because he chose to pay the cost.