Agragore did not sleep.
Genevieve realized this sometime after midnight, when the steady quiet she had come to recognize as the academy's resting state failed to deepen into true silence. The hum in the walls persisted, low and constant, like breath drawn and released by something far larger than the people moving through its corridors. She lay awake beneath the quilt, eyes open, listening.
Sylvester was awake too. She could feel it in the way his small body remained alert beside her, ears twitching in response to sounds she could not hear.
"You're thinking loudly," he murmured.
"I'm trying not to," she whispered back.
She shifted onto her side and stared at the faint outline of the window. The grounds beyond were lit only by a handful of lanterns now, their glow softened, their patterns slow and deliberate. The academy felt less watchful at night, but she had learned enough to know appearances meant very little here.
Her thoughts kept returning to the lesson.
Not the instructor's words, but the sensation of the current moving through the hall. The way it had bent and reshaped itself around Devyn's presence. The way her own magic had responded when she chose to listen instead of reach.
That choice had mattered.
She sensed it in the aftermath, in the subtle shifts of the day that followed. The glances from robed figures who lingered just a moment too long. The way doors opened a heartbeat earlier for her than for others. The faint pressure that followed her through certain corridors and vanished entirely in others.
Agragore was adjusting.
The realization sent a shiver down her spine.
The next morning arrived without ceremony. When Genevieve finally slept, it was shallow and brief, broken by fragments of half-formed dreams she could not recall upon waking. She rose early, dressed quietly, and stepped into the corridor with Sylvester close behind.
The halls were nearly empty at this hour. The academy felt vast in the absence of voices, its architecture more imposing without the buffer of movement and sound. Genevieve walked slowly, paying attention to the way the floor responded beneath her steps. There was a subtle give to it here, a barely perceptible resistance there.
She stopped near an archway where the corridor split in two.
The pressure returned.
Not strong. Not threatening. Just present.
Genevieve closed her eyes and steadied herself, breathing as she had during the lesson. She did not summon. She did not push.
She listened.
The pressure eased, sliding away like a tide receding from shore.
When she opened her eyes, a robed figure stood a few paces away.
Mistress Elowen regarded her quietly, hands folded within the sleeves of her robes. "You've been awake for some time," she said.
Genevieve inclined her head politely. "Yes."
"Walking helps some candidates settle," Elowen continued. "Others find it… illuminating."
Genevieve said nothing.
Elowen's gaze flicked briefly to Sylvester, then returned to Genevieve. "The academy responded to you last night."
Genevieve's chest tightened. "I didn't do anything."
"I know," Elowen replied. "That is why it responded."
They began walking together, their pace unhurried. The corridor curved gently, leading them into a small gallery lined with stone reliefs. The carvings depicted scenes Genevieve did not recognize. Figures gathered in circles. Hands raised toward light. Shadows cast in deliberate shapes.
"Do you know what this place is?" Elowen asked.
"No," Genevieve admitted.
"A record," Elowen said. "Not of events. Of patterns."
Genevieve studied the carvings more closely. Some figures appeared alone. Others stood together, their outlines overlapping, their shadows merging.
"Magic leaves impressions," Elowen continued. "Not just in people, but in places. Agragore remembers those who shape it, and those who allow themselves to be shaped."
Genevieve swallowed. "Which am I?"
Elowen stopped walking.
"That," she said, "remains to be seen."
They resumed their path, the gallery opening into a sunlit courtyard where several candidates were already gathered. Devyn stood near the edge of the group, arms folded loosely, expression thoughtful. He glanced up when he saw Genevieve and offered a small nod.
Relief washed through her, quiet but unmistakable.
Elowen left without another word.
Devyn fell into step beside Genevieve as they joined the others. "You look like you didn't sleep," he observed.
"Neither did you," she countered.
He huffed a quiet laugh. "Fair."
The instructor for the day's session arrived moments later, their presence settling over the courtyard like a drawn curtain. Today's lesson focused on balance, on maintaining awareness while moving through shifting environments. The candidates were instructed to navigate a series of paths that subtly changed beneath their feet, the ground responding to hesitation and overconfidence alike.
Genevieve moved carefully, adjusting her steps as needed. She did not look for shortcuts. She did not rush. When the ground shifted unexpectedly, she adapted instead of resisting.
Devyn stayed close, not crowding her space, but present enough that she could sense him without looking. Their movements gradually synchronized, each responding to the same shifts in the terrain.
It felt natural.
By the time the lesson ended, several candidates were visibly frustrated. Others looked shaken. A few wore expressions of quiet satisfaction.
Genevieve felt tired, but steady.
As the group dispersed, Devyn lingered. "You noticed it too," he said quietly.
"The ground?" she asked.
"The way it stopped fighting once you stopped trying to outthink it."
She nodded. "It's like the hall yesterday."
He smiled faintly. "Exactly."
They walked together toward the dining hall, falling into an easy rhythm. Genevieve realized, not for the first time, that Devyn never pushed her to explain herself. He observed. He adjusted. He stayed.
That mattered more than she could put into words.
Later that afternoon, Genevieve returned to her room to find a small object resting on her desk.
It was not a letter.
It was a token, no larger than her palm, carved from pale stone and etched with a single symbol she did not recognize. When she touched it, warmth spread briefly through her fingers, then faded.
Sylvester hopped closer, nose twitching. "That wasn't there before."
"No," Genevieve said softly.
She turned the token over, noting the smoothness of its surface. It felt old. Purposeful.
A message without words.
That evening, as she and Devyn sat along the edge of a quiet balcony overlooking the grounds, she told him about the token.
"They're marking progress," he said after a moment. "Not ownership. Yet."
She glanced at him. "You sound like you've thought about this."
Devyn shrugged. "I've had to."
They sat in silence for a while, watching the lanterns below trace their slow paths through the dark.
"I'm glad you're here," Genevieve said eventually.
Devyn looked at her, surprised, then nodded. "Same."
As night settled in, Genevieve returned to her room with a strange sense of calm. The academy still watched. Still measured. Still remembered.
But now, she understood something she hadn't before.
Agragore did not only test strength.
It tested choice.
And each time she chose awareness over fear, presence over resistance, the walls seemed to remember.
When Genevieve lay down to sleep, her magic rested quietly within her for the first time since arriving.
Not dormant.
But listening.
Ready.