The class dismissed without ceremony.
Students filed out in clusters, conversations resuming with renewed energy now that structure had released them. Leonhardt remained seated for a few seconds longer, gathering his notes with unhurried precision.
He felt it before he heard it.
"Leonhardt Virellion."
The voice was calm. Measured. Not loud enough to command, but confident it would be obeyed.
Leonhardt looked up.
The assistant instructor stood near the edge of the platform. A man in his late thirties, robes trimmed modestly, insignia marking him as administrative rather than academic. Someone who handled logistics, assessments, and quiet reports.
Not someone who spoke to extras.
"Yes?" Leonhardt said.
"Walk with me," the man replied, already turning.
Leonhardt followed.
They moved through a side corridor reserved for staff, the noise of departing students fading behind them. The air here was cooler. The walls bare.
The man stopped near a tall window overlooking the inner courtyard. He folded his hands behind his back.
"You were attentive today," he said.
Leonhardt waited.
"You did not speak," the man continued. "But you listened."
"Yes."
Another pause.
"In my experience," the assistant instructor said, "students who listen without participating fall into two categories."
Leonhardt remained silent.
"Those who lack confidence," the man went on. "And those who are measuring the room."
He turned slightly, studying Leonhardt's reflection in the glass.
"Which are you?"
Leonhardt did not answer immediately.
The question was not an inquiry. It was a probe.
"I didn't think my classification mattered," Leonhardt said at last.
The man smiled faintly. "It usually doesn't."
He faced the courtyard again. "But occasionally, someone appears who doesn't fit where statistics say they should."
Leonhardt felt the weight of that sentence settle.
"You were present during the incident yesterday," the man said. "No report mentions you. And yet, several outcomes differ from expectation."
Leonhardt met his gaze. Briefly.
"I didn't do anything," Leonhardt said.
"I know," the man replied.
That was the problem.
Silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant sounds of students below.
"I advise the academy on irregularities," the assistant instructor said. "Not to punish. To understand."
Leonhardt inclined his head. "And have you?"
The man's smile thinned. "Not yet."
He stepped aside. "You may go."
Leonhardt did not ask permission. He turned and walked back toward the main corridor.
Behind him, the assistant instructor remained by the window, gaze fixed not on the courtyard, but on the reflection that had already moved out of frame.
Leonhardt exited the academy as dusk settled in.
The light had softened, shadows stretching long across the courtyard stones. Students moved past him in familiar patterns, their paths guided by friendships, ambitions, and grudges already taking shape.
He walked among them without joining any flow.
The conversation with the assistant instructor replayed itself quietly in his mind. Not the words. The intention behind them.
Irregularities.
Understanding.
Those were not threats. They were invitations to be defined.
Leonhardt stepped through the gates and into the capital street beyond. The noise rose immediately. Carriages rattled past. Vendors called out. The city carried on, indifferent to academy politics.
He slowed near a row of lit windows, their glass reflecting fractured images of passersby. His own reflection appeared briefly. Plain. Unremarkable. Correct.
Still unwritten.
That was the advantage.
Roles in this world came with expectations. Heroes advanced. Villainesses fell. Advisors whispered from behind curtains. Once assigned, movement became predictable.
Leonhardt had avoided that.
So far.
He resumed walking, posture relaxed, eyes forward. Each step felt ordinary, and that ordinariness was deliberate.
The world wanted to know what he was.
He would not tell it yet.
Not because he lacked direction. But because choosing too early meant surrendering flexibility. Silence had already altered one outcome. It had sharpened another.
If he spoke now, if he acted openly, the ledger would fill itself in quickly.
Leonhardt reached the corner where the carriage waited.
The driver opened the door without comment. Leonhardt stepped inside and settled back as the vehicle pulled away.
Through the window, the academy gates receded into the distance, framed by lamplight and stone.
Behind them, questions remained unanswered.
Leonhardt closed his eyes briefly. Not in exhaustion. In acknowledgment.
He was still alive.
Still unplaced.
And as long as that remained true, the story would continue circling him, searching for a role he had no intention of accepting.
Not yet.