We spoke later, by accident.
The academy's outer grounds were quieter than the halls—wide stone paths bordered by trimmed grass and training fields already emptying as evening approached. I was reviewing my interface when footsteps slowed nearby.
"You don't mind if I walk with you, do you?"
The voice was calm. Not tentative. Not deferential.
I looked up. Elian stood a few steps away, his uniform slightly disheveled, mana exhaustion still evident in the stiffness of his movements.
"It's a public path," I said.
He nodded and fell into step beside me.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
"I saw your assessment," he said eventually.
"So did many others."
"Yes," he agreed. "But most of them were staring. I was counting."
I glanced at him. "Counting what?"
"How many times the platform resisted you."
"And?"
"None."
It wasn't an accusation. Just an observation.
"That's unusual," he continued. "The sigils are designed to push back. They always do."
"They responded," I said. "That's all."
He studied me for a moment longer, then looked ahead again.
"I grew up near the western passes," he said. "Mana there is thin. Everything takes more effort. People burn out early."
"That's unfortunate."
"It is," he agreed. "But it teaches patience."
I said nothing.
After a few steps, he smiled faintly. "You don't talk much."
"There's rarely a need."
He laughed quietly. "Fair enough."
We reached the fork where our paths diverged. Elian stopped.
"I'm glad you're here," he said.
I paused. "Why?"
"Because strong people usually break things without noticing," he replied. "You notice. You just don't care yet."
I left him there without responding.
The comment lingered longer than it should have.