Training resumed the next morning as if nothing had changed.
The bell tolled in the predawn darkness, its familiar brass note echoing across the dormitory complex. Squires dragged themselves from their bunks with the automatic responses of three months' conditioning, pulling on armor and weapons without fully waking. The East Grounds filled with the familiar sounds of steel ringing against steel, grunts of exertion as wooden practice weapons clashed, and the harsh bark of instructors correcting stances and forms.
On the surface, everything appeared exactly as it had for months. The same drills. The same formations. The same relentless pressure to improve, to endure, to prove worthiness.
But Adrian felt the difference immediately, like a change in air pressure before a storm.
Eyes tracked him across the training yard—not the casual observation that all squires received as part of normal instruction, but something else. Focused attention. Deliberate scrutiny. The weight of gazes that lingered too long, studied too carefully, assessed with uncomfortable intensity.
Instructors who'd never shown particular interest in Third Squad before now positioned themselves strategically where they could watch his sparring sessions. They stood with arms crossed, faces neutral, but their eyes never straying far from Adrian's movements. When he transitioned between drills, they shifted positions to maintain line of sight.
Senior knights he didn't recognize from his months of training appeared at the edges of practice grounds, leaning against walls or standing in doorways. Their armor marked them as veterans—knights who'd moved beyond basic instruction into specialized roles. What those roles were, Adrian couldn't say. But they watched him with the focused intensity of predators tracking prey.
During formation drills, he caught glimpses of Instructor Halbrecht observing from the lecture hall windows, his scholar's eyes tracking Adrian's movements with analytical precision. Taking notes, perhaps. Or simply memorizing, cataloging, building a profile.
Sir Varic himself stood on the raised platform overlooking the grounds, his scarred face turned toward Third Squad's section far more frequently than any other. His presence alone created tension—squires straightened their backs, tightened their forms, pushed harder when they felt his gaze upon them. But while his eyes swept across all the squires periodically, they always returned to Adrian.
Measuring. Assessing. Waiting.
Waiting for him to slip. To reveal more than he should. To demonstrate the power they suspected but couldn't yet prove.
Adrian responded by becoming more controlled than ever. Every strike was textbook. Every movement efficient but not superhuman. Every response appropriate for a skilled but mortal squire. He deliberately made small mistakes—a slightly off-balance follow-through, a block that was almost too slow, a counter-attack that missed by inches.
Enough to seem human. Enough to appear fallible.
But not so much that anyone would question his overall competence.
It was exhausting in ways physical training never had been—this constant self-monitoring, this careful calibration of every action. In his previous life, he'd commanded armies, crushed enemies, moved with the full weight of his power unconstrained. Now every breath felt measured, every gesture calculated.
"Paranoid yet?" Finn muttered during a water break, following Adrian's gaze toward yet another observing instructor—this one a stern-faced woman with a commander's insignia who'd been watching their sparring for the past twenty minutes without moving.
"Not paranoid if they're actually watching," Adrian replied quietly, accepting the water skin Finn offered.
"Fair point." Finn's dark eyes swept the training ground, cataloging the observers with his characteristic tactical awareness. "I count at least six who've been focused primarily on you. That knight by the armory, the two by the gate, Halbrecht in the window, that woman over there, and Varic. Maybe more I haven't spotted."
"Seven," Adrian said. "There's another in the shadow of the northern tower. Been there since the second drill rotation."
Finn squinted, then nodded slowly. "Good eyes. So what's the play? Keep performing perfectly and hope they get bored?"
"Perfect draws as much attention as failure," Adrian said, keeping his voice low enough that only Finn could hear. "Better to be consistently good with occasional human flaws. Let them see me struggle just enough to seem mortal."
"That's... actually smart," Finn acknowledged. "Though it must be killing you, having to hold back constantly."
Adrian said nothing. Finn was more perceptive than he sometimes let on.
Edric joined them, breathing hard from his last sparring match, his ribs still bandaged beneath his training armor. "Is it just me, or does it feel like the entire academy is staring at us?"
"Not all of us," Finn corrected. "Mostly Adrian. We just happen to be standing near him."
"Wonderful." Edric took a long drink, wincing as the movement pulled at his healing wound. "So what do we do? Pretend everything's normal?"
"What else can we do?" Adrian's tone was pragmatic. "Training continues. Drills continue. Life continues. They're watching because Voss's report raised questions. Eventually, if I give them nothing to find, they'll lose interest."
"Will they though?" Edric's voice carried doubt. "You stopped a troll, Adrian. That's not something people just forget."
"Then I'll have to make sure everything I do from now on seems less impressive," Adrian said. "Gradually fade from 'remarkable' to merely 'competent.' Give them nothing to latch onto."
Brann lumbered over, his shoulder still in its sling, sweat dripping from his face despite having participated in only limited drills due to his injury. "Anyone else notice we've become the squad everyone stares at? It's like being the girl at the dance that everyone's afraid to ask."
"Terrible metaphor," Finn said dryly.
"But accurate," Brann countered. "Other squires won't spar with us. They whisper when we pass. And don't think I haven't noticed all the instructors suddenly very interested in our performance." He grinned, though it didn't reach his eyes. "We're famous. Or infamous. Haven't decided which yet."
"Infamous," Edric muttered. "Definitely infamous."
A whistle shrilled across the grounds—Sir Varic summoning all squires to formation. The break was over. Back to drilling, to training, to being watched.
As they moved into position, Adrian caught fragments of conversation from nearby squads:
"—heard Third Squad took down a troll—"
"—that Blackthorn kid, the border one—"
"—something unnatural about it—"
"—my instructor said they're investigating—"
Whispers. Rumors. The currency of fear and fascination that spread through any closed community like wildfire.
Adrian kept his expression neutral, his movements precise, his attention focused on the drill instructions Varic was barking. But internally, he cataloged every whisper, every stare, every shift in how people treated him.
Information was survival. And right now, he needed every scrap he could gather.
"Sparring matches!" Varic commanded. "Pairs, random assignment. Step forward when your name is called."
Adrian's pulse quickened slightly—not from fear, but from calculation. Random assignment meant he couldn't control who he fought. If he was matched against someone weak, dominating them would draw attention. If matched against someone strong, losing would raise different questions about how he'd survived a troll encounter.
Either way, he'd have to calibrate perfectly.
"Blackthorn!" Varic's voice cut across the grounds like a blade. "Center ring."
Every eye turned toward Adrian. The whispers died.
He walked to the central sparring ring—the largest, most visible, positioned directly beneath Varic's observation platform. Of course. Not random at all. This was a test, deliberate and public.
Adrian stood in the ring, hand resting lightly on his practice sword's hilt, waiting.
"Veynar!" Varic called. "Center ring."
Ryn Veynar stepped forward, his pale eyes gleaming with something between eagerness and malice. The silver hawk of his house wasn't visible—all crests were still surrendered—but everyone knew who he was. The noble heir who'd clashed with Adrian since registration. Who'd been looking for an opportunity to prove his superiority.
Now he had it. In front of the entire academy. With every instructor watching.
Ryn took his position across from Adrian, wooden sword held in perfect form, his stance textbook ideal. "Finally," he said, voice carrying despite the attempt at discretion. "Let's see if the border steel is as sharp as the rumors claim."
Adrian said nothing. He simply settled into his own stance—balanced, ready, giving nothing away.
"Begin!" Varic commanded.
Ryn struck immediately, aggressive and fast, his blade coming in a diagonal slash aimed at Adrian's shoulder. A probing attack, testing defenses, but with real power behind it.
Adrian parried easily, redirecting the force rather than meeting it head-on. Wood clacked against wood.
Ryn transitioned smoothly into a combination—slash, thrust, overhead strike—each blow flowing into the next with practiced precision. He was good. Well-trained. The kind of noble who'd had private tutors since childhood.
But Adrian had fought for three hundred years.
He blocked each strike with minimal movement, his blade always in the right place at the right time, never wasting energy. He was reading Ryn like a book written in a language only he could understand—every telegraph in shoulder position, every weight shift that preceded an attack, every opening created by overcommitment.
But he didn't exploit them. Not yet. Not all of them. Just enough to survive, to seem skilled, to avoid taking hits that would seem incompetent.
The match continued, wood clashing in rapid rhythm. Ryn began to breathe harder, frustration showing as his attacks were consistently deflected but never quite punished. Adrian remained calm, his breathing steady, his movements economical.
"Fight back!" Ryn snarled, launching a particularly vicious overhead strike.
Adrian caught it on his guard, then twisted his blade, sending Ryn's weapon wide. For just an instant, a dozen killing blows presented themselves—exposed throat, undefended ribs, the perfect angle to sweep his legs.
Adrian took none of them.
Instead, he delivered a controlled thrust to Ryn's chest—hard enough to score a point, not hard enough to suggest supernatural precision. The kind of strike any well-trained squire might make.
"Point!" an observing instructor called.
Ryn's face flushed with anger and embarrassment. They reset.
The second round went similarly—Ryn aggressive but increasingly desperate, Adrian defensive and controlled. When an opening presented itself naturally, organically, in a way that any observer would understand, Adrian took it. A simple counter-strike, well-executed but not remarkable.
"Point! Match to Blackthorn."
Adrian lowered his weapon and offered a respectful nod to Ryn. "Well fought."
Ryn's glare could have melted steel. He stalked from the ring without responding.
Adrian returned to his squad's position, aware of the eyes still on him. He'd won, but not dramatically. Competently, but not supernaturally. Exactly as intended.
Edric gave him a subtle nod of approval. Finn's expression suggested he understood the game being played—the deliberate mediocrity wrapped in just enough skill to justify his reputation.
From the observation platform, Sir Varic's eyes remained fixed on Adrian, unreadable.
The rest of the day proceeded similarly. Every drill felt like an examination. Every movement scrutinized. Every interaction watched and analyzed.
By the time the evening bell tolled, Adrian felt more exhausted than any physical training had ever made him. The constant vigilance, the endless self-monitoring, the psychological weight of dozens of eyes measuring his every action—it was draining in ways combat never had been.
As Third Squad headed back to their dormitory, Brann spoke what they were all thinking. "How long can they keep this up? Watching everything we do?"
"As long as they think there's something to find," Finn said.
"Then we'll just have to disappoint them," Adrian said quietly. "Eventually, boring becomes normal. And normal becomes invisible."
"And if they don't lose interest?" Edric asked.
Adrian didn't answer immediately. Because the truth was, he didn't know. If the scrutiny continued indefinitely, if they kept pushing, kept testing, kept waiting for him to slip—eventually, something would break. Either he'd make a mistake, or the pressure would force his hand in ways he couldn't predict.
The cage was tightening day by day.
And Adrian still didn't know how to escape it without revealing everything he'd worked so hard to hide.