The licensed Resonance circuit operated out of a registration office on Tier Five.
Kael had never been to Tier Five. Most people from Three didn't go above Four unless they had a specific reason, and specific reasons were the kind of thing that required documentation, sponsor letters, or a face that looked like it belonged. He had spent two days after the rooftop decision assembling the version of himself that could walk into a Tier Five registration office without the ambient static of someone who wasn't supposed to be there.
He wore his better coat. He carried documentation — the real kind, his shelter residency record and the identity chip that the Tier Three authority had issued him at sixteen, which was the minimum required to move between Tiers without being flagged at the transit scanners. He had his fighter registration from the Pit, which was unlicensed but was still documentation of activity. He had a credit account with a positive balance for the first time in his life, which he had confirmed three times because he didn't entirely trust the terminal.
The transit lift to Tier Five was different from the between-Three-and-Four connectors he used daily. Cleaner. The lighting was full-spectrum rather than amber. The other passengers were — different. Not dramatically, not obviously, but the particular quality of a space where most people's documentation was in order and the scanner didn't make them tense.
The registration office was in the Tier Five civic center, a building that had the aggressive functionalism of everything constructed for official purposes in Caelum Spire — designed to communicate competence and permanence without communicating welcome. The registration desk was manned by a clerk in his thirties who had the thoroughly unremarkable appearance of someone who had been answering the same questions for enough years that the questions had stopped being questions and had become a procedure.
"Registered Resonance performance license inquiry," Kael said. "Specifically the licensed circuit qualification pathways."
The clerk looked at him. Not unfriendly. Thorough. "Current tier of residence?"
"Three."
"Current Resonance activity?"
"Unlicensed performance. Pit circuit, Tiers Three and Four." He put his documentation on the desk. "I'm looking at the licensed circuit as a pathway to Academy consideration."
The clerk examined the documentation. His expression didn't change, but there was a quality of attention that suggested the combination of Tier Three residence and Academy consideration was not one he encountered frequently. He ran Kael's identity chip through the desk reader.
"The licensed circuit pathway to Academy consideration requires a minimum of twelve documented licensed bouts, a performance rating in the upper quartile of your element classification, and a sponsoring licensed entity." He said this with the cadence of someone reading from an internal document. "The sponsoring entity submits your performance record to the Academy's intake office. The Academy reviews and determines consideration."
"What constitutes a sponsoring licensed entity?"
"Any registered organization with a licensed performance facility operating on Tier Five or above, or any individual with an active Academy affiliation." He looked at Kael. "Licensed facilities on Tier Five that accept Lower Tier fighters for circuit entry are — limited." He paused. "There's Vessa Hall on Five, which has an open intake program. They take Lower Tier fighters once per quarter on a performance audition basis."
"When's the next intake?"
"Eleven days."
Kael looked at the documentation on the desk. "What does the audition involve?"
"A solo performance in your element. The hall's assessment panel evaluates technical proficiency, control, and what they call 'circuit readiness.' No combat — pure performance. You'd be evaluated as a musician, not a fighter." The clerk looked at him with the slight frown of someone trying to be helpful within the constraints of accuracy. "Most applicants from the Lower Tiers don't pass the audition. The panel is looking for training-lineage competency — specific techniques associated with formal instruction."
"But it's open intake."
"It's open intake," the clerk confirmed. "That means anyone can apply. It doesn't mean anyone passes."
Kael picked up his documentation. "I'll need an application form."
The clerk produced one. It was physical, which meant it existed outside the city's monitoring systems — the licensed circuit was city-regulated, but the intake audition was a private hall function. He took it, folded it into his inner coat pocket alongside the recording chip, and thanked the clerk.
On the transit lift back down, he thought about solo performance evaluation. Technical proficiency. Control. Circuit readiness.
He thought about eleven days.
He went to Rennick.
Rennick listened to the licensing inquiry account without interrupting. When Kael finished, he was quiet for four seconds — which was, in Kael's experience, a meaningful pause for Rennick, who processed things quickly.
"Vessa Hall," Rennick said.
"You know it."
"I know all the licensed facilities on Five. Vessa Hall has an open intake because their assessment panel includes a minority bloc that has been arguing for twenty years that Lower Tier talent doesn't reach the licensed circuit because the entry mechanisms are gatekept, not because the talent doesn't exist." He paused. "The majority bloc disagrees and makes the audition difficult enough that the minority bloc's position is rarely tested."
"So the audition is genuinely hard."
"The audition is specifically designed to test for formal training that most people from Three don't have." He looked at Kael steadily. "You don't have it either, technically. What you have is something that presents similarly to formal training, which is a different thing and may or may not be sufficient." A pause. "What does this mean for the current arrangement?"
"Nothing, in the immediate term. I'm not invoking the exit clause. I'm pursuing a parallel option." Kael met his gaze. "If I pass the audition and enter the licensed circuit, the arrangement becomes incompatible — the licensed circuit requires its fighters to operate exclusively within licensed systems. At that point I'd invoke the ninety-day exit."
"And if you don't pass."
"Then nothing changes."
Rennick considered this. He had the expression of someone running a calculation that involved more variables than he was letting show. "I won't obstruct it," he said finally. "The exit clause is there for exactly this kind of situation." He paused. "Prepare well. Vessa Hall's panel is experienced."
Kael stood. "One more thing. The fight card arrangement — shows of presence at your facilities. I'd like to continue those through the audition period."
Rennick raised an eyebrow.
"The training space," Kael said. "I need the facility for the next eleven days. And the show of presence keeps the territorial situation legible."
A brief pause. Something almost like amusement. "Continue as you are," Rennick said. "Fight the schedule as booked. Use the space."
He left the logistics office with the application form in his pocket and eleven days to prepare for an audition that was specifically designed to be difficult for people with his background.
That evening he sat in the training space for three hours alone and played. Not techniques. Not drill sequences. Music — the rhythm as a thing in itself, the way he'd been doing on rooftops since he was eight. He played and listened to the gap between what he heard and what he could produce, and then he worked, methodically and without hurry, on the specific places where the gap was widest.
Eleven days.
He had been working toward this his whole life without knowing that this was what he was working toward.