"Where were you yesterday?"
I froze mid-step. The question came from behind me, soft as a falling leaf.
Nareva didn't even look up as she asked it. She was crouched near the edge of the greenhouse, wiping dust from the rim of a broken clay pot like it was the most interesting thing in the world.
"I—" My throat caught. "I just… needed some air."
She hummed. Neutral. Like she was deciding whether to accept that or not.
"A whole afternoon of air?"
I scratched the back of my neck. "The city isn't that far."
She set the pot down. Stood. Still didn't look at me.
"I'm not your jailer, Kaelen," she said quietly. "But if you vanish like that again without telling me, I'll chain a ward to your ribs."
My mouth twitched. "That seems excessive."
"I'm a mage. We invented excessive."
Only then did she glance over her shoulder. Her eyes weren't angry. But they weren't warm, either. Just… tired.
"You don't owe me your schedule," she added. "But I'm not stupid. I felt your mana spike while you were gone. Not a lot—but enough."
I looked away.
She turned fully now, brushing her hands clean. "Did you meet someone?"
"Yes," I said, too fast.
She blinked. "...Was it dangerous?"
"No," I muttered. "Just... different."
There was a pause. The kind that dared me to keep going. I didn't.
Instead, I sat down at the edge of the training circle and unwrapped my spellbook. Pretended like we were just going to get on with the lesson.
Nareva didn't push. She simply walked to the center, drew a shallow line in the dirt with her boot, and said, "Show me the Quiet Thread."
I swallowed hard. Closed my eyes. Focused.
Breathe in. Channel. Circle. Anchor.
I felt the mana pulse to life—just a thread, soft and subtle, swirling behind my ribs like a slow tide.
But beneath it?
Pressure.
Weight.
It wasn't coming from the magic.
It was coming from everything else.
Veyr hadn't come back yet.
But his words had. His stare had. The silence he left behind was louder than anything Calden had ever barked at me.
He knew.
Maybe not everything. But something. Enough to make him curious. Enough to mark me.
And if he did come back?
I'd be tested. Measured. Stripped down and dissected until the lie broke. And once the lie broke—
The Academy.
Not a "school." Not a place for "potential."
A place to sort. To label. To control.
If I ended up there, I wouldn't be Kaelen anymore. I'd be a ticking weapon, wrapped in velvet, studied under glass.
That thought made the magic in my chest stutter.
The Quiet Thread slipped. Mana surged for a heartbeat. My skin flushed hot—too hot.
I hissed, breaking the circuit.
Nareva was already stepping forward, eyes sharp. "Breathe."
"I was breathing."
"Then breathe better."
I bit my lip.
She crouched in front of me and placed her hand lightly on my sternum. "Here. Feel it. Right under the ribs. Don't force it to behave. Ask it."
I wanted to laugh.
Ask the thing inside me that flared like a storm and whispered like the void? Sure. Why not.
Still, I closed my eyes again.
This time, I didn't grip it. I didn't yank or shove.
I asked.
And it moved.
Slower. Heavier. But smoother.
Like a wolf slinking through snow.
I held it. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty.
Then I released it, carefully. Let it drain back inward, quiet as breath.
Nareva exhaled softly. "Better."
"Still not good."
"No. But better."
She stood again, brushing her skirt off. "You've made progress. That counts."
Later, after training, I walked the long way back to the east wing.
The mansion was too quiet. The way it gets when the nobles are planning something.
I overheard my father speaking to his steward through the study door.
"Veyr's evaluation was preliminary," he said. "But promising. If the Academy reaches out—yes, of course. We'll respond formally."
My blood turned cold.
No. No no no.
I pressed my back to the hallway wall and slid down until I was sitting on the tile, heart hammering.
It wasn't a question anymore. It was happening.
The Academy was coming for me.
Because I was promising. Because I had "potential." Because Veyr saw something I hadn't meant to show.
And if they dug even a little beneath the surface—if they tested me—
My aura would light up like a goddamned bonfire.
Tainted White.
I curled my fingers into fists. My magic stirred again. Unsteady.
Not now. I forced the thought into my bones. Not here. Not when they're this close.
The pendant Nareva gave me hung heavy around my neck. I touched it without thinking, pressing the cold metal against my skin until the trembling eased.
She said it would blur my aura for a few minutes.
But what if they made me cast something?
What if they used a mirror?
What if Veyr already knew?
I stayed like that for a long time.
Until the hallway lights dimmed.
Until the servants passed by with trays and folded linens, and no one looked down to see me.
Just a boy on the floor, quietly falling apart.
That night, I sat on the greenhouse bench long after training ended.
Nareva had already left. She gave me one last look before walking off—half-worry, half-warning—but didn't say anything.
The stars blinked through the broken glass above.
I pulled the pendant out and looked at it in the moonlight.
So small.
So simple.
And somehow, the only thing standing between me and the life I used to live.
In the end, I whispered to the darkness:
"I don't want to go."
No one answered.
But the dirt beneath me didn't crumble.
And the mana didn't bite.
So maybe that was enough.
For tonight.
A few days later, I returned to sword training.
Calden seemed… unusually mad at something. Or someone.
Probably that ginger Veyr.
He didn't say anything at first, of course. He never did. Calden's anger was the kind that brewed under the skin—quiet, sharp, and waiting for a reason to swing. His jaw was tighter than usual. His footfalls heavier. When he tossed me the wooden blade, it clacked harder against my palm than it needed to.
"Form two," he barked.
I blinked. "No warmup?"
"You've had days to rest. If you're weak, then you're wasting my time."
Okay. So it was going to be that kind of session.
I stepped onto the practice line, trying to ground myself. Dragon Style—form two. Low stance, curved defense. Fluid turns. It required rhythm, not force.
I didn't have rhythm today.
My arms were sore from magic training. My focus split six ways between remembering spell compression exercises, aura flow, Veyr's looming presence, and the fact that my entire life might implode at the next bloodline test.
Relax, I told myself. Sword first. Worry later.
But Calden didn't make it easy.
He didn't correct my form. He didn't shout.
He just… watched.
Each failed pivot, each stiff parry—he watched them all in silence, eyes narrowed. Not angry. Not surprised. Just waiting.
I hated it more than yelling.
Finally, after I stumbled over my own foot during a turn, he stepped forward and smacked the flat of his blade against mine. The echo snapped through the yard like a slap.
"Again."
"I am trying," I snapped.
"Try harder."
"I am!"
The moment the words left me, I regretted them.
Calden didn't raise his voice. He didn't even blink.
He just stepped closer and said, "Do you think shouting will help you survive? Do you think your opponent will care that you're tired? That your mind is elsewhere?"
He leaned in.
"Do you think Veyr will?"
I froze.
The name landed like a thrown knife. Direct. Deliberate.
He was mad about him.
"You don't know anything," I muttered.
"I know he's watching you. And I know you've been slipping ever since."
I looked away. Couldn't meet his eyes.
"I'm fine," I said.
"No. You're lying. You want to look fine. But your balance is off. Your strikes are cautious. And worst of all—" He pointed to my grip. "You're holding that sword like it's made of glass. Like you're afraid you'll break it. Or it'll break you."
His words hit too close.
"I'm not scared," I whispered.
He didn't soften.
"You are. And that's fine. But if you don't learn to move through that fear, Veyr—or someone worse—will use it to break you. Do you understand me?"
I clenched my jaw. Said nothing.
"Do you understand me?" he repeated.
"…Yes."
He stepped back. "Good. Form two again. Slower this time. You're not racing your ghosts—you're learning to kill them."
The rest of the training wasn't easier.
But it was quieter.
Focused.
Every movement hurt a little less. Every strike felt a little more like something I chose—not something I borrowed. Calden didn't speak again until I finished the full form three times in a row without error.
"Good," he said simply. "You're still in there."
I wasn't sure if he meant that as a compliment or a warning.