The morning after the sixty percent threshold felt like waking up inside the cooling chamber of a blast furnace. The West Dorm was still radiating a low, dry heat that made the very air in the quad shimmer, but the frantic, screaming vibration of the previous day had settled into a deep, contented thrum. I stayed in my bunk for as long as I could, staring at the stone ceiling, listening to the school breathe. Through the leash, I could feel the Centurion's pulse. It was slow and heavy, like a predator that had finally gorged itself after a long winter. The silver-inlaid ribs within the granite walls had cooled into a new, tempered state, more resilient than they had ever been.
My hands were a ruin of stiff bandages and yellowing bruises. When I finally sat up, my ribs gave a sharp, reminder-like crack, but I ignored the pain. I pulled on my soot-stained coat and made my way toward the South Forge. I needed to see the slag heap.
