The morning cold clung to the bulletin board. That paper—the one where Vine Ricotta's training slot had been cut again—was still pressed against the back of Grife Garger's eyes. The candidates had gathered and were saying things, one after another, but Grife barely heard them. A memo bearing Lieutenant Glatz's signature, executed with bland inevitability as institutional pressure. The words from that classified document were slowly, inexorably overlapping with it. ——The most efficient system of control: maximizing the voluntary submission of Eldians. Today's early morning training assembly was at the central training grounds of Felsen Training Facility. Eight days until selection. When the light of dawn began to illuminate the concrete ground in white, a Marleyan auxiliary instructor stood before twenty-two candidates. A man who appeared to be in his forties, with the rank insignia of a second lieutenant gleaming on the chest of his gray military uniform. Grife didn't remember his