The Academy didn't feel the same when the year started.
Not because the buildings changed.
Not because the banners were new.
It was the way people moved when I walked past.
A pause that wasn't hesitation—more like calculation. The kind you make when you see a sharp edge and decide whether to step closer or keep your distance.
I noticed it in small places first.
A first-year in a fresh uniform stopped laughing mid-sentence when he saw me. His friend tugged his sleeve and pulled him away like I was a puddle they didn't want to step in.
Two second-years by the archway were talking. I caught fragments—something about summer drills, something about Class 2-S—until their eyes met mine. The conversation died instantly. Both of them straightened, then left without another word.
I didn't get the usual glares.
I didn't get the usual "representative" whispers either.
What I got was space.
And space was honest.
It told me what people decided about you without having to say it.
I kept walking anyway.
The stone path toward the Classroom Wing was clean, swept. The gardens were trimmed. Everything looked polished enough to pretend nothing ugly had ever happened beneath a throne room in a distant coastal kingdom.
But my eyes didn't work like that anymore.
I was seeing angles. Distances. Lines of sight.
Where someone could hide.
Where someone would watch.
Where someone would wait.
The Academy taught us posture. Six months taught me habit.
I passed the training fields and heard steel ringing in the distance—sparring. Students shouting. Instructors barking corrections.
Normal noise.
Except the moment I entered the corridor leading toward Class 2-S, the normal noise became… quieter.
Not silent.
Just reduced.
Like someone had lowered the volume on a room the moment I stepped in.
I didn't like it.
Not because I wanted attention.
Because the same silence had existed in the chambers under Newoaga right before everything went to hell.
And I learned then that silence was never nothing.
It was a signal.
I reached the entrance of the Classroom Wing and paused long enough to let a group of first-years pass. They didn't pass.
They stopped like they'd hit an invisible wall.
A boy with neatly combed hair stood in front. His hands were clenched around the strap of his satchel like he was holding onto it for stability.
He looked up at me, and I saw it.
Not fear.
Not awe.
Something worse.
A decision.
He bowed stiffly, fast, like he'd practiced it in a mirror.
"Sir."
The others behind him did the same, almost tripping over each other.
I blinked.
I wasn't a sir.
I wasn't a captain.
I wasn't even an instructor.
I was a student.
But the word had left his mouth like a reflex.
I stepped to the side, giving them room.
"Move," I said.
They did. Too quickly.
One of them whispered something like an apology without looking at me.
They hurried past.
As their footsteps faded, I stared at the floor for a second longer than I should have.
Strength doesn't push people away.
It makes them decide where they stand.
That was the first fracture line.
Not in stone.
In people.
When I entered our classroom, it was already loud.
Class 2-S hadn't lost their ability to fill a room like a storm.
Kazen was leaning back in his chair like it belonged to him, spinning a coin over his knuckles with one good hand and one healed but still stiff wrist—his old injury didn't announce itself anymore, but it had left a memory in his movements. The coin flashed once, twice, then vanished.
Seraphyne was arguing with Liam about something irrelevant and doing it with the same serious face she used when she fought—except now she was holding a paper fan like it was a weapon.
Liraeth sat with her shield propped beside her desk, arms crossed, watching them like she was waiting for one of them to cross an invisible line so she could hit them with a book.
Arion had his head down on the desk, mumbling something about how mornings were a curse invented by someone who hated humanity.
Aelira was fixing her sleeve with precise fingers, calm as always.
Kai was staring at the ceiling with the expression of someone trying to pretend he didn't care about anything while still listening to everything.
Theon was halfway standing on his chair, talking too loud, as if the ceiling itself needed to hear his point.
Varein sat at the edge of his desk, quiet, gaze tracking the whole room like the wind inside him had learned patience.
It was familiar.
It should have felt like relief.
It didn't.
Because the moment I stepped in—
The volume shifted.
Not dead.
Not silent.
But lowered again.
Everyone looked at me.
And they didn't do what they used to do.
They used to throw insults. Jokes. Challenges. Noise.
Now they watched like they were reading something invisible on my face.
Kazen broke it first.
He grinned. "Look who finally decided to rejoin the world."
Theon's eyes lit up. "RAIN—!"
Seraphyne snapped her fan shut. "Don't shout."
Theon ignored her, pointed at me like I was a trophy. "You're taller."
Arion lifted his head. "He's taller. Great. Now he can loom with extra efficiency."
I didn't respond right away.
My gaze swept the room once—habit—then I walked to my seat.
The seat they had left open for me.
That was the second fracture line.
Not because they left it out of kindness.
But because nobody sat there.
Because it was mine.
And nobody wanted to test whether they were allowed to take it.
I dropped my bag beside the desk. The chair scraped softly.
For a few seconds, no one spoke.
Then Varein stood up and walked over.
He didn't smile. He didn't joke.
He stopped beside my desk and leaned down slightly so only I could hear.
"You're not ahead of us," he said quietly.
I looked up at him.
His expression didn't accuse me.
It didn't praise me either.
It was… uneasy.
"You're somewhere else."
I held his gaze.
I could have denied it.
I could have made a joke.
Instead I said the truth that didn't help anyone.
"I trained."
Varein's mouth twitched—almost a laugh, then it died before it could live.
"I know," he said. "That's not what I meant."
He stepped back.
No argument.
No tension.
Just that sentence hanging between us like a hairline crack that would widen if we ignored it.
The class resumed noise after that—forced, like someone restarting a conversation that had been interrupted by something heavy.
Kazen tossed his coin again. "So, you gonna tell us what they fed you in that castle chamber of yours?"
"Pain," Arion muttered. "They fed him pain."
Seraphyne narrowed her eyes at me. "You look like you've been sleeping in a training pit."
"I did," I said.
Theon laughed like that was the greatest thing he'd ever heard. "Of course you did."
Kai finally looked at me properly. His gaze was sharper than it used to be.
"Show us," he said.
Liam's brow raised. "Not now."
"Why not now?" Kai shot back. "It's the first day. Might as well get it out of the way."
Aelira spoke softly. "If we spar, we should do it after Aldred arrives."
Liraeth nodded once. "Agreed."
It was a normal conversation.
Except it wasn't.
Because even when they joked, they were watching.
Not my face.
My hands.
My posture.
The way my shoulders sat.
The way I breathed.
They were reading the same invisible thing the first-years had.
My reputation wasn't a story anymore.
It was a presence.
The summons came before Sir Aldred arrived.
A messenger in a neat uniform appeared at the doorway. Not a student runner. Not a first-year trying to look important.
A staff member.
He held a folded slip of paper like it weighed more than paper should.
"Rain," he said.
Just my name.
No "sir."
No disrespect.
Just… direct.
I stood. The chair scraped again.
Class 2-S went quiet without meaning to.
The staff member avoided looking at anyone else. His eyes stayed on me like he'd been trained not to acknowledge the rest.
"Administrative office," he said. "Brief."
"Why?" Kai asked.
The staff member glanced at Kai like he wasn't sure whether he was allowed to respond. Then he returned his gaze to me.
"Requested conversation."
That phrase made my stomach tighten.
Not because I feared the office.
Because I knew what "conversation" meant when it came from higher up.
It meant evaluation.
I walked out without looking back. I could feel their eyes following anyway.
The corridor to the administrative wing smelled like polished wood and old paper—different from the training halls, which smelled like sweat and steel.
A quiet room waited at the end. A table. Two chairs. A shelf of documents I didn't want to look at.
A person sat on the far side of the table.
Not a captain.
Not a knight.
Not an instructor.
Just someone in clean formal attire, posture straight, hands folded.
Their face was calm in a way that didn't belong to students.
"Sit," they said.
I sat.
They didn't introduce themselves.
That was deliberate.
Names create relationships.
This wasn't a relationship.
This was a measurement.
"You are Rain," they began.
"Yes."
"You are Class 2-S."
"Yes."
"You participated in the Newoaga incident."
I didn't move.
"Yes."
A pause. The air sharpened.
"What do you believe a knight owes the Kingdom?" they asked.
The question was simple.
The answer wasn't.
I could have said something heroic.
I could have said something safe.
Instead, I chose something true enough to survive later.
"A knight owes protection," I said. "Not comfort."
Their eyes narrowed slightly.
"And if orders conflict with that protection?"
I didn't answer immediately.
Not because I didn't know.
Because answering too quickly showed you'd rehearsed.
"I choose the world," I said finally.
Their eyebrow rose.
I continued before they could twist it.
"I follow the code," I said. "But if the code becomes the weapon that kills the people it was made for… then the code is wrong."
The person studied me for a long moment.
Then they asked another question like a blade sliding free of a sheath.
"If General Izekel ordered you to withdraw… but innocent lives would be lost by that withdrawal—what do you do?"
I stared at the tabletop.
The wood grain looked like tiny rivers.
I imagined the chamber under Newoaga again.
Bodies that weren't supposed to exist in a palace.
Blood behind a throne.
A lever meant to be found.
I lifted my eyes.
"I would not obey," I said.
A beat.
"And then I would take responsibility for the consequence," I added. "If I chose differently."
Silence.
They didn't nod.
They didn't approve.
They didn't reject.
They simply asked, almost casually:
"Do you consider yourself loyal?"
I held their gaze.
"I consider myself necessary," I said. "When I have to be."
The room went colder.
Not because of temperature.
Because of meaning.
The person finally leaned back slightly.
"Leave," they said.
No dismissal words.
No thank you.
Just the end.
I stood.
As I turned to go, they added one last thing—quiet, almost polite.
"Lionhearth is proud of assets that do not break."
Asset.
The word followed me out like a shadow.
On the walk back, I didn't rush.
I watched.
Students moving in groups—some clustered by confidence, others by bloodline, others by simple fear of being alone.
Instructors speaking to different students with different tones.
Not favoritism.
Something subtler.
A pattern.
A well-dressed second-year passed an instructor and didn't bow. The instructor didn't correct him.
A first-year passed the same instructor and bowed too deep. The instructor didn't correct him either.
He just watched.
Measured.
Sorted.
I passed an open scheduling board pinned near a staff door.
I wasn't supposed to look.
So I looked anyway.
Some training slots were marked private. Some were "special instruction." Some were "medical monitoring." Some were "evaluation."
Certain names appeared in patterns.
Certain names didn't.
It wasn't corruption.
Lionhearth wasn't rotten.
It was a blade.
And a blade chooses what it cuts.
It chooses what it sharpens.
It chooses what it discards.
I walked past the board and kept my face blank.
But my mind didn't stop.
Lionhearth isn't training knights.
It's filtering which ones are allowed to rise.
That thought didn't feel like betrayal.
It felt like understanding.
And understanding was heavier.
I returned to the training fields as the class period shifted.
That was when I felt eyes on me that weren't from students.
I turned slightly.
A third-year stood near the edge of the arena.
Not wearing a captain's cloak. Not wearing instructor markings.
But his stance didn't belong to a normal student.
He held a practice sword loosely.
Loose in a way that meant control.
He didn't smile.
He didn't posture.
He simply stepped forward.
"You," he said.
No name.
No insult.
Just me.
The surrounding students went quieter. The air tightened.
Sir Aldred was entering the field at that moment, expression neutral until he noticed the upper-year's posture.
A flicker of recognition crossed his face.
Then it was gone.
The upper-year spoke again.
"Show me what Sir Adranous made."
There was no point pretending this was optional.
I stepped into the arena.
The sand shifted under my boots.
Sir Aldred didn't stop it.
He watched.
That told me everything.
This was allowed.
This was part of the Academy's real machinery.
The upper-year raised his blade.
No salute.
No announcement.
He moved.
Fast.
Not flashy.
A straight line aimed at my throat.
I leaned back a fraction, parried, and felt the weight behind the strike.
It wasn't a test strike.
It was a strike meant to force an error.
He followed with a low sweep—meant to take my footing—then a shoulder check with his body weight behind it, trying to make me stumble so he could finish.
Dirty.
Efficient.
War techniques disguised as sparring.
I didn't counterattack.
I stepped aside, let him pass, and used his momentum against him—small rotation of my hips, redirected force.
He corrected instantly.
No surprise.
No frustration.
He expected me to adapt.
He pressed again, feinting high then striking midline. He aimed for my ribs.
I shifted, took the impact on my forearm guard, and felt pain bloom.
Not serious.
But deliberate.
He wasn't trying to win.
He was probing what I protected.
What I sacrificed.
What I prioritized.
My breathing stayed even.
My aura stayed contained.
He would have noticed if it didn't.
Ten exchanges.
Twenty.
He forced me into the corner of the arena, then suddenly stepped back.
His blade lowered slightly.
He watched me.
"Good," he said. "But you still think like a student."
Then he moved again.
This time he attacked my blind angle—exactly where my eyes couldn't see without turning.
A move designed to punish the instinct to look.
I didn't look.
I pivoted on my heel, parried by sound and air displacement, and felt the blade scrape my guard.
Sand kicked up.
The crowd held its breath.
I could hear someone mutter my name.
I didn't care.
I pushed forward—not to strike, but to break his distance control.
He raised his blade to intercept.
I stopped an inch short.
The point of my practice sword hovered near his chest.
Not touching.
Not threatening.
Just there.
A statement.
He stared at the blade, then at my eyes.
For a heartbeat, I saw something.
Not respect.
Not approval.
Interest.
He stepped back again, lowering his sword fully.
"That'll do," he said, and walked out of the arena like nothing happened.
No explanation.
No victory declaration.
No closure.
Just a test completed.
Sir Aldred finally moved, stepping into the sand. His gaze flicked to my forearm where the strike had landed.
"You didn't use will," he said quietly.
I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
Because the truth was simple,
I didn't need to.
And that thought didn't make me proud.
It made me uneasy.
The backlash hit later.
Not in the arena.
Not during the fight.
After.
When the adrenaline drained and the body remembered what it had done.
I was walking back toward the classroom when the pressure started behind my eyes.
A slow tightening, like invisible hands squeezing the inside of my skull.
I didn't stumble.
I didn't show it.
I kept my pace steady.
But the world sharpened too much—edges too defined, sounds too clean.
My heartbeat sounded like it belonged to someone else.
Then came the tremor.
Not in my hands.
Deeper.
In my core.
Like the will inside me was shifting against bone.
I stopped beside a stone pillar and placed one palm against it like I was simply resting.
I breathed in slowly.
Out slowly.
It didn't help.
For a moment—just a moment—I felt that detachment again.
That terrifying calm that isn't calm at all.
The kind of calm that makes you think you could watch the world burn and feel nothing.
I hated that feeling more than pain.
Pain reminded you you were alive.
Detachment reminded you you could become something else.
I clenched my jaw until it hurt.
Forced my focus back into my body.
Feet.
Breath.
Weight.
Will isn't free.
It takes.
And if you aren't careful, it takes you.
The tremor faded after a minute.
But it left something behind.
A warning.
Sir Aldred found me later, not in front of the class.
Not publicly.
He caught me in the corridor between the training wing and Akris Hall.
"Rain," he said.
I turned.
He studied me for a moment—long enough that I knew he wasn't looking at my uniform or my posture.
He was looking at what I didn't show.
"You're past the point where mistakes stay personal," he said.
His voice wasn't harsh.
It was stripped of all instructor performance.
That was worse.
I didn't respond immediately.
Then I nodded once.
He continued.
"You're going to be asked questions you shouldn't have to answer at fifteen," he said. "And you're going to be placed in situations where there is no clean choice."
I held his gaze.
"I know," I said.
Aldred's jaw tightened slightly. Not at me. At the world.
"Being deliberate isn't the same as being slow," he said. "Don't confuse the two."
He stepped closer and lowered his voice.
"And don't confuse your ability to endure with your right to carry everything alone."
I didn't flinch.
I didn't deny it.
But I didn't accept it either.
I simply said, "Understood."
Aldred exhaled through his nose, like he wanted to say more.
Then he stopped himself.
He nodded once.
And walked away.
That was the warning.
No speech.
No comfort.
Just reality.
The news didn't come in announcements.
Lionhearth didn't panic publicly.
Rumors slipped through corridors like wind.
"Border patrols increased."
"Monster territories shifting near the coast."
"Trade routes delayed."
"Some villages evacuating quietly."
Nothing official.
Nothing confirmed.
But when you hear enough whispers from different mouths, you stop calling it rumor.
Kazen mentioned hearing something from a noble contact.
Liam overheard instructors talking in clipped voices when they thought students weren't around.
Aelira noted that certain medical supplies were being ordered in larger quantities than usual.
Varein said nothing.
He didn't need to.
His eyes told me he was sensing things too—wind carries more than sound.
I kept thinking about Newoaga.
About how the city didn't know.
How the kingdom didn't know.
How it had all been hidden until it wasn't.
And how quickly something ancient had moved when it chose to.
Newoaga wasn't isolated.
Azazel wasn't random.
If something like that could happen under a throne…
Then something larger was already aligning.
I didn't know what.
But I could feel it.
Like pressure under the sea before a wave rises.
That night, I returned to Akris Hall.
The building was too clean.
Too new.
Like Lionhearth wanted to wash Class 2-S in luxury until we forgot we'd ever bled.
I walked through the empty corridors.
Past rooms that belonged to my classmates.
Past the training area where the floor still smelled faintly of wood polish and fresh paint.
I reached my room on the third floor.
The door clicked shut behind me.
Silence.
I dropped my bag and sat on the edge of the bed.
I stared at my sword leaning against the wall.
Its edge was chipped. Worn. Scarred.
It had been with me through everything.
And I had been pretending not to see the truth:
It wouldn't last.
Neither would the idea of "normal."
I thought about the administrative office.
About the word asset.
About how the Academy watched.
Filtered.
Sorted.
And I asked myself something I didn't want to ask.
"Am I becoming a knight… or a tool?"
My hands tightened around nothing.
No answer came.
Only the weight of the question.
I stood and walked to the window.
Lionhearth stretched below—towers, lights, training yards faintly illuminated.
It looked peaceful from above.
A kingdom that believed in itself.
A fortress that believed it could endure anything.
I pressed my palm against the cool glass.
I didn't feel heroic.
I didn't feel despair.
I felt clarity.
We survived.
Now we have to live with it.
I watched the lights for a long time, until the lines of the rooftops blurred into one dark shape.
The ground hadn't broken yet.
But I could feel the stress lines forming beneath my feet.
And somewhere beyond the walls—beyond the Academy's schedules and polished stone—something was shifting, slowly, inevitably.
Not a battle.
Not a lesson.
A future.
I turned away from the window, picked up my sword, and set it beside my bed where I could reach it without thinking.
Then I laid down.
Not to rest.
But to be ready when morning came.