The academy courtyard was louder than I expected.
Not chaotic—disciplined chaos. Wooden weapons cracked against each other in measured rhythm, instructors barked corrections without raising their voices, and students moved with the sharp focus of people who had learned early that mistakes carried consequences.
I felt out of place immediately.
Scholars are not meant for courtyards like this. We belong behind desks, not inside places where the ground itself seems to expect blood someday.
"This way," the instructor said.
He was the same man who had come to my door earlier, academy robes neat, posture unyielding. He walked with the certainty of someone who never doubted where his feet would land.
Lysa followed just behind him.
She hadn't said much on the walk here. Not because she was nervous—Lysa didn't get nervous—but because she was… alert. Watching. Measuring. The same way Avaris did when she thought no one noticed.
That realization sat heavier than it should have.
We passed through a wide archway and into a smaller yard. This one was quieter. Too quiet.
A boy stood at the center.
Arin.
He wasn't restrained. He wasn't injured. His clothes were neat, his stance relaxed, hands behind his back like he was waiting for a lecture rather than standing at the center of an academy incident.
The relief hit me first.
Then the dread.
"Father!" Arin brightened the moment he saw me. "You came fast."
I ignored the way several instructors glanced at him with expressions that were far too thoughtful for a simple scolding.
"What happened?" I asked.
The instructor stopped and turned. "Your son was involved in an altercation."
"Involved," I repeated.
Arin nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! Very involved."
Lysa sighed. "You're not helping."
The instructor gestured, and another boy stepped forward.
This one looked… different. Not injured, but tense. His jaw was set too tight, eyes flicking toward Arin with something like disbelief mixed with indignation.
"He accused my son of starting it," I said calmly.
The boy stiffened. "He did start it!"
Arin tilted his head. "No, I finished it."
Silence.
I closed my eyes for half a breath. "Arin."
"He shoved me," Arin added quickly. "I told him not to. Very politely."
The instructor raised an eyebrow. "And then?"
"And then he tried again," Arin said. "So I moved him."
"You moved him," I echoed.
Lysa spoke before I could continue. "He didn't strike first."
The instructor's gaze flicked to her. "You witnessed it?"
"Yes."
Her answer was immediate. Certain.
That, more than anything, shifted the atmosphere.
The instructor exhaled slowly. "The issue is not who struck first," he said. "It's how."
He turned to the other boy. "Explain."
The boy clenched his fists. "I—I couldn't touch him. Every time I reached him, he was somewhere else. He didn't hit me hard, but—" He swallowed. "I was on the ground before I realized it."
I opened my eyes.
Arin scratched his cheek. "You were unbalanced."
"That's not a thing!" the boy snapped.
"It is," Arin replied helpfully. "Father says balance decides everything."
I did not recall saying that. But it sounded like something I might have said at some point, so I chose not to deny it.
The instructor studied Arin again. Slowly.
"How long have you been training?" he asked.
Arin thought about it. "With my sister? Years. With Mother? Less. With Father?" He smiled. "Every day."
That did not help.
The instructor straightened. "You are not in trouble," he said finally.
The other boy looked like he wanted to argue, then thought better of it.
"But," the instructor continued, eyes never leaving Arin, "you are not normal either."
Arin grinned. "Thank you."
"That was not a compliment."
"I'll take it anyway."
I cleared my throat. "If my son violated academy rules—"
"He didn't," the instructor interrupted. "He demonstrated restraint."
That earned him several looks from the surrounding staff.
"Restraint?" I repeated.
"Yes," the instructor said. "He could have injured the other student. He chose not to."
Arin nodded seriously. "Mother says breaking people is inefficient."
Every single adult froze.
I laughed.
I didn't mean to. It just… slipped out.
The instructor looked at me. "Your wife is…?"
"Practical," I said quickly.
That answer, for some reason, satisfied him.
The boy who had fought Arin bowed stiffly. "I apologize," he muttered.
Arin returned the bow perfectly. Too perfectly.
"I accept," he said. "No hard feelings."
They separated.
But the instructor didn't dismiss us.
Instead, he turned and gestured toward the inner grounds of the academy—past the training yards, past the students.
"There's something you should see," he said.
I felt Lysa tense beside me.
We followed.
And as we walked deeper into the academy, past walls marked with old insignias and banners faded by time, one thought echoed louder than the rest:
The instructor said, "the principal wishes to speak with you."
"With me?" I asked.
"With all of you," he corrected.
Arin perked up. "Is this important?"
"Yes," the instructor said.
Lysa adjusted her grip on her books.
Very important.
As we followed the instructor, the silence of the inner hallways felt heavier than the noise of the yard. I tried to walk with "scholarly dignity," which mostly meant trying not to trip over my own robes while keeping pace with a man who walked like he was marching to war.
"Arin," I whispered, leaning down slightly.
"Yes, Father?"
"The boy you… moved. Did you actually use the 'unbalanced' lecture I gave you last Tuesday?"
Arin beamed. "Word for word! Except for the part about the historical context of the Southern Isles' trade routes. I didn't think that applied to him being on his face."
"Focus is important," I muttered.
Lysa made a small, sharp sound of disapproval. "You forgot the most important part, Arin."
Arin frowned. "I didn't hit him."
"No," Lysa said, her voice dropping to that terrifyingly calm pitch she'd inherited from her mother. "You showed your hand. You showed them how you move. Now they'll expect it."
"They're instructors, Lysa," I interjected, feeling a headache forming behind my eyes. "They're supposed to expect things. That is their entire job description."
The instructor leading us didn't turn around, but his shoulders stiffened.
"We are approaching the Sanctum," he announced, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "Please refrain from… tactical debriefing."
"Sorry," Arin said, then looked at me. "Father, if the Principal is mad, should I move him too?"
"No," I said, perhaps too loudly. "We do not move the Principal. We do not move anyone. From this moment on, you are a statue. A very polite, very quiet statue that knows nothing about balance or efficiency."
"A statue," Arin repeated, testing the word. He immediately locked his joints and began walking with a stiff, mechanical gait that made him look like he'd had a sudden, unfortunate accident with wood glue.
"Normal," I hissed. "Walk. Normally."
"Statues don't walk, Father. This is a compromise."
I looked to Lysa for help. She was busy examining a 400-year-old tapestry of a Great War, tracing the lines of the formation with a look of intense, professional critique.
"The spear-line is too thin," she whispered to herself. "One heavy cavalry charge and the whole dynasty ends right there. Pitiful."
I closed my eyes. Most parents worried about their children failing their exams. I was worried mine were going to accidentally overthrow a small province before lunch.
I reached out and placed a firm, guiding hand on Arin's shoulder—partly to steer him, and partly to keep him from vibrating with any more "helpful" insights.
"Walk," I whispered, nudging him forward. "No more 'moving' people. No more lectures on balance. Just... be a child. A bored, slightly confused child who likes sweets and forgets his homework."
Arin looked up at me, his eyes wide with a terrifyingly sharp intelligence. "I can do that! I shall pretend my cognitive functions are at forty percent capacity."
"Just walk, Arin."
I practically steered him down the hall like a shepherd with a very polite, very dangerous lamb. He had stopped doing the stiff-legged statue walk, but now he was overcompensating by swinging his arms in a way that he clearly thought looked 'normal' but actually looked like he was practicing a complex rhythmic dance.
Behind us, Lysa was still eyeing the tapestries as if she were planning a siege, her footsteps silent and deliberate.
The instructor stopped. We had reached a set of double doors carved from dark, ancient oak. He didn't knock; he simply stood aside, his face unreadable.
"The Principal is expecting you," he said.
I took a deep breath, straightened my scholar's robes, and gave Arin's shoulder one last, pleading squeeze.
"Remember," I hissed. "Forty percent capacity."
"Understood, Father," Arin whispered back, his face suddenly going remarkably blank.
The doors groaned open, revealing a room that smelled of old parchment and cold stone. The instructor didn't look back at us; he was already focused on the silhouette waiting inside. I felt the weight of the Principal's gaze before I even saw his face. This wasn't an inquiry. It was an invitation—the kind you aren't allowed to refuse.