The academy did not care about revelations.
That was the first thing that struck me the morning after my conversation with Elira. The bells rang the same. Students complained the same. Instructors droned on like the world had not quietly shifted under my feet.
I half-expected something to feel different. Heavier air. Watchful eyes. A mark on my back.
Nothing.
Which was worse.
I sat through lectures with my notes half-finished, my mind chewing on fragments of the night before. You look like someone who's already died once. The words lingered longer than they should have. Not because they were accurate. Because they were said without accusation.
That kind of observation only comes from practice.
I caught myself answering questions too cleanly again. Old habits resurfacing the moment pressure returned. I corrected it mid-sentence once, deliberately fumbling an explanation. The instructor frowned, confused, then moved on.
Damage control.
During break, one of my dormmates dropped beside me on the stone steps outside the hall. Tomas. Broad shoulders, uneven haircut, laugh too loud for enclosed spaces.
"You alright," he asked, chewing on a piece of dried fruit. "You've been spacing out since morning."
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
He snorted. "That's not an answer."
I glanced at him. Really looked this time. Calloused hands. Ink stains on his fingers from notes he took too seriously. Someone who wanted to graduate, get posted somewhere stable, and disappear into a decent life.
Normal.
"I'm just tired," I said.
That part was true.
Later that day, during basic spell theory, things went wrong in the most mundane way possible.
It was a controlled exercise. No casting. Just visualization and structure. The kind of lesson meant to bore students into discipline. The instructor called on volunteers to explain mana flow models.
No one raised their hand.
I should have stayed quiet.
Instead, I nodded when my name was called, stood up, and spoke.
I realized halfway through that I was doing it again. Too precise. Too efficient. I simplified a concept most students struggled with and tied it to a mechanical analogy. Gears. Pressure. Release.
The room went silent.
The instructor stared at me like I had rearranged the furniture without asking.
Someone whispered.
Another student laughed, sharp and short.
I sat down too quickly, heat crawling up my neck. Stupid. Careless. I had promised myself restraint.
After class, the laughter followed.
Not cruelty. Curiosity. Worse.
"So you've been holding out," someone said.
"Guess disappearing didn't dull you," another added.
I smiled when expected. Shrugged. Deflected.
Inside, something twisted.
This was how it started last time. Not applause. Attention.
That evening, as I crossed the inner courtyard, a scuffle broke out near the fountains. Two students. Third-years by the look of them. One shoved the other too hard. Words escalated.
I stopped walking.
People gathered. Not to intervene. To watch.
I felt it before I thought it. The familiar itch. The calculation. Angles. Voices. How to de-escalate with minimal damage.
I took one step forward.
Then stopped.
Fourteen, I reminded myself.
Not responsible.
By the time an instructor arrived, one student had a split lip and the other was shaking, more from adrenaline than fear. The crowd dispersed like nothing had happened.
I stood there longer than necessary.
That night, Elira did not appear.
Which meant she was watching.
I lay awake in my dorm, staring at the ceiling beams, listening to the quiet breathing of boys who still believed tomorrow would be simple. My chest felt tight, not with fear, but with something closer to grief.
I had wanted a clean start.
What I was getting was familiarity in a different shape.
I pressed my palm against my eyes, harder than necessary, grounding myself in the moment. I was not back there. This was not that world. These were not the same stakes.
Yet.
And that was the problem.
Because small things always come first.
A question answered too well.
A step taken forward.
A silence noticed by the wrong person.
Somewhere in the academy, plans were being drafted without my name on them.
And somewhere inside me, a part I thought I had buried was waking up, annoyed at being ignored.
I turned onto my side, forcing my thoughts to slow.
Tomorrow, I would do less.
Tomorrow, I would be careful.
I had told Elira I would think.
What I had not told her was that thinking had always been the most dangerous thing I did.