The afternoon class went the way it was supposed to.
I sat in the same seat as in Richard's memories — second row from the front, right side, near the window facing the training field. The instructor who walked in wasn't a face I recognized from those memories — a replacement, apparently, for the original instructor who hadn't come back to teach since the incident.
Name on the chalkboard: Instructor Hadren. History of Magic Conflicts — Modern Period.
Medium build, mid-thirties, thin glasses, measured way of speaking. Not too interesting, not too boring. The type of instructor whose face I'd forget within a week if there wasn't a specific reason to remember it.
But I still paid attention.
Not to the material — the material could be read on my own. What I paid attention to was how he talked about the Valdres Empire whenever that topic came up in between discussions about border conflicts three decades ago.
Neutral. Maybe too neutral.
Not quite how a royal academy instructor usually sounded — they typically had at least a little institutional bias in how they delivered history.
I filed that away in the back of my head, on the same shelf as all the other small things I couldn't categorize yet.
After class, the corridors filled up again.
Glen appeared from the direction of the staircase with the expression of someone who'd just survived something he didn't enjoy. "History of magical conflicts," he said, without me asking. "Three hours. New instructor who loves the sound of his own voice."
"Hadren?" I guessed.
Glen looked over. "You got him too?"
"History of magic conflicts, modern period. One hour."
"Lucky you." Glen fell into step beside me. "Three hours felt like twelve. He has a special talent for making topics that should be interesting feel like reading a dictionary."
Eric joined from the opposite direction a few seconds later, looking way more fresh than Glen. "Where are you guys going?"
"Reading room," I answered. "Need to pick up a module from Vera."
"I'll come." Eric shrugged. "Nothing until dinner."
The three of us walked down the corridor that was starting to empty — most afternoon classes didn't start for another thirty minutes, so there was a brief window where the academy felt like it was taking a breath.
At the junction leading to the library wing, I saw Felix Voss.
He was walking alone from the direction of the dormitories, books hugged to his chest, head slightly down. Not looking left or right. Just walking.
Glen and Eric saw him too. Nobody said anything.
Felix passed without looking our way.
When he was far enough away, Glen cleared his throat quietly. "Poor guy."
"Mm," said Eric, which from him counted as a fairly long statement.
I didn't say anything. But I noticed that Felix had taken a roundabout route — not the fastest path to the dormitory, but one that avoided the busier spots. A new habit formed in the first two days back.
Someone learning how to become invisible.
The north wing reading room was quieter than I'd expected.
A few students were scattered at the large tables, most of them with books open and expressions ranging from focused to half asleep. A small fireplace in the corner was going with just enough flame to keep the room warm without making you drowsy — a balance that somehow always held in this room.
Lisa was already there when we arrived — sitting at a table near the window with a thin book open in front of her. Her posture was straight as always, but there was something slightly different about how she sat here compared to in the room or the dining hall — more relaxed, maybe only by the thinnest possible margin, but enough to notice.
She gave a short nod when we walked in.
I nodded back, then went to the instructor archive shelf on the right side of the room to pick up Vera's module.
Glen and Eric took a table near the fireplace. Their conversation automatically dropped to whispers — the reading room habit that didn't need to be taught.
I came back to the table with Vera's module in hand — a small book with a grey cover, the title just a name and date. Inside, a staged energy condensation exercise broken down day by day for the next two weeks, with small notes on some pages in Vera's handwriting that was neat and had zero fluff.
Start at ten percent capacity. Increase five percent every three days. Stop if there's any discomfort at the channeling point.
Conservative instructions. More conservative than I'd expected.
You're lucky you can still access your element at all after what happened.
Vera's words from this morning came back.
I sat down, opened the module to the first page, and started reading.
The reading room stayed quiet for almost an hour.
Glen fell asleep around thirty minutes in — his head drooping onto his own shoulder in a way that I suspected happened often enough that Eric didn't react at all. Eric himself was reading something thick with the expression of someone who was either deeply engaged or completely numb — with Eric, sometimes it was hard to tell.
Lisa was still at her table. The thin book had been swapped for a thicker one.
I read through Vera's module and occasionally made small notes on a separate piece of paper.
On the surface, everything looked ordinary.
Underneath it, I was still processing the conversation with Diana from earlier.
Surveillance list. Twelve names. Mine among them.
Modified magic residue. Vera's report that didn't make it into the official conclusions.
Two pieces of information that, placed side by side, formed something more alarming than either part was on its own.
If someone had modified the Valdres formula — that meant a local party was involved in designing the weapon, not just using it. And if the report about that modification was deliberately left out of the official conclusions — then someone decided that information was more dangerous if it became public knowledge than if it stayed buried.
Dangerous for who?
For Valdres — if their formula was proven to have been modified by a third party, that weakens the narrative that the incident was purely a Valdres attack.
For the mastermind behind the incident — because the modification left a different trail than standard Valdres work.
Or for both at the same time.
"You've been staring at the same page for fifteen minutes."
I looked up.
Eric was watching me from across the table, his thick book closed in front of him. Glen was still asleep beside him.
"Thinking," I said.
"I can tell." Eric put his elbow on the table, rested his chin in his hand. "About earlier today?"
I looked at him.
He saw Diana come to my class. He noticed I didn't eat a full lunch. He hadn't asked directly until now.
"Partly," I answered.
Eric gave a slow nod. Didn't push further — his way, different from Glen's bluntness and different from passive silence. More like someone who opened a door and chose not to walk in until invited.
"Something has changed here," he said finally, his voice quiet enough not to wake Glen. "Not just the tightened security. Something else. I can't tell you exactly what, but I can feel it."
I waited.
"People are more careful about who they talk to. More careful about what they say." Eric glanced toward the fireplace briefly. "Not because they're scared — more because they're not sure who's safe to trust."
Exactly.
"You've been feeling it too?" I asked.
"Since yesterday when we got here." He looked back at me. "And I don't like that feeling."
I stared at the module page I'd been looking at for fifteen minutes without actually reading.
"Me neither," I said.
Dinner that night was busier than the night before.
Almost all the students had settled into the first day's routine — breakfast, class, lunch, class again, dinner. A familiar cycle that brought a kind of mechanical comfort that didn't need to be thought about.
At the usual table, Glen was back to full energy after his unofficial nap in the reading room — ordering a bigger portion than usual and commenting on tonight's soup quality with enthusiasm completely out of proportion to the subject.
I ate, listened, and occasionally glanced toward the council table on the other side of the room.
Diana was talking — but not with council members tonight. Sitting next to her was a student I didn't immediately recognize from this distance, male, dark hair, uniform that looked slightly neater than the average student on the first day back.
Something about the way Diana was talking was different from how she talked with council members — more careful, more measured distance.
"You know who that is?" I asked Glen, quietly enough.
Glen glanced in that direction without turning his head too obviously. "The one next to Diana?"
"Yeah."
Glen thought for a second. "That's Cassel. Marcus Cassel. Third year. Mental magic specialization." He went back to his soup. "His family has connections to some lords in the eastern territories. Close to the Valdres border."
Eastern territories. Close to the Valdres border.
And he's talking to Diana.
I filed that name away, then forced myself back to the food in front of me.
Stop it. You can't suspect everyone who talks to Diana.
But you also can't stop watching.
After dinner, before the mandatory return to the dormitories, there was about forty minutes of free time.
Most students used it for corridor conversations, or the recreation room on the second floor, or heading back to their rooms early. Glen and Eric went to the recreation room — there was a billiard table in there that apparently had become some kind of first-night-back ritual.
I went back to my room.
Lisa was already there — tidying up a few things on the desk, and she stopped when I walked in.
"Young Master looks tired."
"First day," I said, sitting in the chair by the window.
"Mm." Lisa continued tidying, but in the way I'd already gotten familiar enough with to read — she was waiting. Not asking directly, just leaving space in case I wanted to talk.
I stared out the window. Outside, the academy complex was starting to go dark — the lights along the garden paths were coming on one by one, their yellow warmth between the trees that were steadily losing their leaves.
"Lisa," I started.
"Yes?"
"The staff you mentioned were replaced in the administration building — you remember exactly which positions?"
Lisa stopped tidying. She turned toward me with an expression that didn't change, but something behind it was sharper. "Third desk from the left on the north side. Usually occupied by Mr. Roen — he's been here since before Young Master enrolled. Today replaced by someone I don't recognize." She paused briefly. "And the official mail receiving desk in the east corner — usually Mrs. Lara. Also replaced."
"Official mail receiving desk," I repeated.
"All incoming and outgoing student correspondence goes through that desk to be logged before being forwarded."
All correspondence. In and out.
Including letters from the Palace. Including replies.
I stood up, walked slowly to the window, and stood there looking out.
If that desk was replaced with someone unknown — correspondence passing through could be read, copied, or even held back before reaching its destination.
And who has an interest in monitoring student correspondence at this academy right now?
Diana's surveillance list.
Twelve names.
Unofficial surveillance through an internal academy network.
"Lisa." I didn't turn from the window. "Starting tomorrow — if any letter comes in for me, I want to know where it's from before it's opened. And if there's a letter I need to send — don't go through the official administration channels."
A brief pause.
"I understand," said Lisa. "There's a private courier network that can be used. Slower, but it doesn't go through the official logging system."
I turned. "You know how?"
"I've been here two years, Young Master." Her tone was exactly the same flat delivery as always. "I know a lot of things about how this academy works that aren't written in any rule book."
Of course.
I almost smiled. "Good."
Lisa nodded, then went back to tidying the desk with the same calm movements as before the conversation happened.
I was almost asleep when the knock at the door came.
Not Lisa's knock — too loud for that, too unhurried to be anything urgent.
"Come in."
Glen opened the door, hair slightly messier from the billiards apparently, with an expression different from the night before. More serious. More careful.
He closed the door behind him and stood for a moment without immediately saying anything — unusual for Glen who normally got straight to the point.
"There's something I need to tell you," he said finally. "But I don't know if it's important or if I'm just overthinking."
"Tell me first," I said. "We'll figure that out after."
Glen nodded, then sat in the chair Lisa had been sitting in earlier — a familiar gesture, done plenty of times before in this same room.
"In the recreation room just now," Glen started, his voice quieter than usual. "Me and Eric were playing billiards. The table in the corner, the one that's usually the quietest." He stopped briefly. "At the table next to us were two people I didn't recognize. Third or fourth year maybe. They weren't looking our way."
"And?"
"They were talking pretty quietly. But in that room if you're standing in the right corner, sound bounces off the walls in a weird way." Glen looked at me. "I didn't mean to hear. But I heard."
"What were they talking about?"
Glen took a slow breath before answering. "Your name. And the Crown Prince's name." He stopped again. "The only sentence I caught clearly was one. The rest had too much noise from the billiard table."
"What sentence?"
Glen looked at me directly. "They said — the second tree should've already fallen."
The room went quiet.
Outside, wind came through the window that was still slightly open, carrying the sound of leaves in the garden brushing against each other — a sound that should've been ordinary, but tonight felt like something that was listening.
The second tree should've already fallen.
When two trees fall, the forest will be ready to be cut down.
The sentence from the paper found in Harlen Voss's bag. A sentence that should only be known by the royal investigators, Duke Austin, and me.
But someone in this academy's recreation room tonight had just said a version of it.
"You remember what they looked like?" I asked, my voice coming out calmer than I actually felt.
"I tried not to look too obviously." Glen shifted his position slightly. "But one of them — tall, dark red hair, small scar under the right eye. I think I've seen him in the corridor but I don't know his name."
I stored that description.
"Did Eric hear it too?" I asked.
"No. He was on the other side of the table, too far away." Glen looked at me. "I didn't tell him."
I was also asked not to tell Glen and Eric about the conversation with Diana.
And now Glen is coming to me with information that connects directly to what Diana told me.
But I can't explain that to Glen without breaking what I already agreed to with Diana.
"You did the right thing telling me," I said. "Don't tell anyone else yet. Including Eric."
Glen frowned. "Why not Eric?"
"Not because I don't trust Eric." I chose my words carefully — words honest enough for Glen to accept, but not opening more than needed to be opened right now. "But the fewer people who know what you heard just now, the smaller the chance the wrong person finds out too."
Glen was quiet for a few seconds, processing. Then nodded — slow, not completely satisfied, but he got it.
"Okay," he said.
He stood up, headed to the door. At the doorway he stopped briefly without turning back — a gesture that for some reason reminded me of Diana earlier today.
"Richard."
"Yeah?"
"Be careful." Short sentence, said toward the door, not toward me. "I mean it."
Then he walked out, and the door closed quietly behind him.
I sat alone in the room that had gone dark — only one small lamp in the corner of the desk still on.
The second tree should've already fallen.
Someone in this academy knew that sentence. Someone confident enough to say it in a half-crowded recreation room, in a voice quiet enough but not quite quiet enough.
Was that carelessness? Or was it deliberate?
Someone who wants to be heard without appearing to be speaking loudly — that's how you deliver a message without leaving a traceable trail.
A message for who?
I stood up, walked to Lisa's door, knocked twice — a knock different from the usual one, a pattern we'd developed without ever explicitly discussing it.
The door opened within a few seconds.
Lisa looked at me with eyes that were clearly not yet asleep, even though she was already in her nightclothes. She still had the book she'd been reading in her hand.
"Tomorrow morning," I said quietly, "before breakfast — I need you to find out one name. Third or fourth year student. Tall, dark red hair, small scar under the right eye."
Lisa nodded once. Didn't ask where the information came from. Didn't ask what it was for.
"I'll find out," she said.
"Thanks."
I went back to my room.
On the canopied bed that was starting to feel slightly more familiar than yesterday, I lay down and stared at the ceiling in the darkness.
Day one.
Surveillance list. Modified magic residue. A report that vanished. Replaced staff. Names that couldn't be categorized yet. And now — a sentence from the night of the incident spoken by someone who shouldn't have known it, in the corner of a recreation room, loud enough to be caught by ears that happened to be in the right place.
Was that a coincidence?
Or was Glen deliberately positioned to hear it?
Too many possibilities.
But for the first time, those possibilities were starting to take shape — no longer vague and scattered in every direction, but beginning to show a pattern.
Still not clear enough to act on.
But clear enough to start looking in a more focused direction.
Day one done, I thought, my eyes starting to get heavy.
Still a lot that's unanswered.
But at least now I know which questions to ask first.