Alaric didn't sleep well that night.
Not because of fear though fear hovered close but because his mind refused to rest. Every time he closed his eyes, the same moments replayed doors blinking red, polite smiles that led nowhere, Silveren standing across the quad like he'd been waiting all along.
By morning, exhaustion sat heavy behind his eyes.
It followed him into the dining hall.
He stood in line with his tray, listening to the low hum of conversation around him. People spoke easily here, voices overlapping, laughter careless. No one looked at him directly, but he could feel the awareness like he was a stone in a river, something the water bent around.
When he finally sat, the chair across from him scraped softly.
"Mind if I join you?"
Alaric looked up.
It was Mara, a second-year student from his department. They'd talked once during orientation nothing deep, just small complaints and shared confusion. She held her tray close, expression careful.
"Sure," he said.
She sat, hesitated, then leaned in slightly.
"You've… had a rough start," she said quietly.
Alaric gave a humorless smile. "That obvious?"
She nodded. "People talk."
He didn't ask what they said.
She glanced around before continuing. "Look, I shouldn't be saying this, but there's an easy fix."
Alaric's fingers tightened around his fork.
"Is there," he asked.
Mara lowered her voice. "You just need to apologize. To him."
She didn't say Silveren's name. She didn't need to.
"Acknowledge the misunderstanding," she went on. "Show respect. That's all. This kind of thing… it doesn't last if you handle it right."
Alaric stared at his tray.
The food had gone cold.
"What if I don't think I was wrong?" he asked.
Mara sighed softly. "That doesn't matter here."
He looked at her then. Really looked.
Her expression wasn't unkind. It was practical. Concerned, even. She wasn't warning him because she enjoyed it she was warning him because she'd seen what happened to people who didn't listen.
"It'll make everything easier," she said gently. "Your access. Your schedule. All of it."
Alaric knew she was right.
That was the problem.
After breakfast, the advice followed him.
A senior tutor pulled him aside and suggested he "clear the air."
An administrator hinted at "formal channels" for conflict resolution.
Even an email short, vague appeared in his inbox, encouraging him to resolve "any misunderstandings with student leadership."
Every message carried the same implication.
Bow.
Alaric walked across campus slowly, letting the noise fade into the background. He stopped near the edge of the quad, where the buildings cast long shadows across the stone paths.
He thought about his past.
About all the times he'd learned that compliance made things smoother. That silence was safer. That it was easier to let people decide who you were than to argue.
Those lessons had kept him alive.
They had also hollowed him out.
He leaned against the cold wall of the library and closed his eyes briefly.
I could fix this today, he thought.
I could end it.
He pictured the conversation measured words, a lowered gaze, an apology that didn't mean anything except survival.
Comfort was within reach.
So was the cost.
Alaric straightened.
He turned away from the library and headed toward the administrative wing.
Not to apologize.
To submit a request.
The office was quiet when he entered. A woman at the desk looked up.
"I need to file an appeal," Alaric said.
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "Regarding?"
"Access restrictions. Schedule changes."
She typed for a moment, then nodded. "You'll need to acknowledge the source of the issue."
"I will," Alaric said.
She slid a form across the counter. "Here. You can note any misunderstandings and-"
Alaric took the pen.
He read the section she indicated.
Statement of Accountability.
He paused.
Then, carefully, he crossed it out.
The woman blinked. "You can't do that."
"I'm not accepting responsibility for something I didn't do," he said calmly. "I'm appealing the changes. Not apologizing for existing."
The silence stretched.
She studied him for a moment, then sighed. "This won't go the way you want."
"I know."
He signed the form and handed it back.
When he stepped outside again, the air felt sharper. Lighter. Like he'd cut away something heavy, even if it meant bleeding.
By late afternoon, word had reached Silveren.
He stood on the balcony outside the student council chambers, listening to a quiet report delivered by someone who kept their head bowed.
"He refused," the student said. "Filed an appeal instead."
Silveren didn't respond immediately.
He watched the movement below the flow of students, the rhythm of the campus. His hands rested lightly on the railing, posture relaxed.
"Did he?" Silveren said at last.
"Yes."
Silveren's gaze sharpened, just slightly.
He'd expected fear. Delay. Hesitation.
What he'd gotten instead was resistance.
A refusal to kneel even when kneeling would have been easy.
Interesting.
Below, Alaric crossed the quad alone, shoulders squared, expression unreadable.
Silveren watched him for a long moment.
Then, slowly, his lips curved into a faint smile.
Not amused.
Not pleased.
Dangerously intrigued.