If someone had told me this was what danger looked like, I would not have believed them.
No screams.
No fire.
No guards dragging anyone away.
Just a schedule pinned neatly to a board.
"Group projects begin today," Professor Hale announced, adjusting his glasses as the class settled. "You will be assessed not just on results, but cooperation."
There it was again.
That word.
Cooperation.
Names appeared on the screen, paired with ruthless efficiency. Scholarship students spread thin among elites, like threads woven deliberately into expensive fabric.
My group included Mark, Liana, and a billionaire's daughter named Seraphine Roth.
Seraphine smiled when our eyes met. Polite. Perfect. Empty.
"I've heard so much about you," she said sweetly.
I returned the smile. "Only good things, I hope."
"Of course."
Her eyes flicked, briefly, to the ceiling camera.
The project was simple enough on paper. Cultural impact studies. Presentations. Field observation. A chance to earn bonus credits.
In practice, it meant being watched while pretending not to notice.
We met that afternoon in the academy's open study garden. Tablets open, notes spread, sunlight filtering through glass panels above.
Seraphine took charge immediately.
"I'll organize," she said. "Mark, you handle data. Liana, visuals. Elena… you can observe."
Observe.
Interesting choice of word.
"I'm fine with that," I said calmly.
And I was. Observing had kept me alive so far.
Between discussions, laughter slipped in. Real laughter. Mark cracked jokes. Liana rolled her eyes. Even Seraphine relaxed enough to complain about expectations placed on her family.
For a moment, it almost felt like a normal school project.
Almost.
"Picnic tomorrow?" Liana asked suddenly. "No assignments. Just us."
I hesitated, then nodded. "Sure."
Normal activities mattered. That was another thing I'd learned.
The next day, we spread blankets near the same oak tree as before. Food was simpler this time. Homemade sandwiches. Juice. Fruit.
No officials. No announcements.
Still watched.
I lay back on the grass, staring at the sky. Clouds drifted lazily, indifferent to Valeria's politics.
Mark sat beside me. "Do you ever think about what comes after Crestwood?"
"All the time," I said.
"And?"
"I think," I replied carefully, "that this place teaches us more than it admits."
Liana snorted. "That's one way to say it."
Seraphine said nothing. She was watching other students, her expression unreadable.
Later that week, I joined the academy's debate forum. Not to argue.
To listen.
Students spoke passionately about unity, peace, sacrifice. About how much they owed the system that gave them opportunity.
I applauded at the right moments.
In economics club, we simulated resource allocation during crises. I chose conservative answers. Safe ones.
At the volunteer outreach program, we packed supplies for border regions. Cameras recorded every smile.
I learned something important then.
Crestwood didn't just educate leaders.
It trained narratives.
At home, life remained blessedly ordinary. My mother complained about rising prices. My sister begged for help with homework. Dinner tasted the same as it always had.
I clung to that.
One evening, as I organized my bag, a folded paper slipped out.
The script.
The approved story.
I stared at it for a long moment before folding it neatly and placing it back.
Compliance was a performance.
And I was getting very good at it.
Across the city, Prince Kaelith Altherion reviewed reports detailing student engagement.
Clubs joined. Activities attended. Behavioral scores rising.
Elena Winter appeared flawless on paper.
That unsettled him more than defiance ever could.
Because people who learned to survive quietly did not disappear.
They endured.
And endurance, he knew better than anyone, was how revolutions began.