The warnings did not come as orders.
They came wrapped in calm voices, careful language, and rooms that were too quiet. That was what made them harder to push back against. No one raised their voice. No one accused me of anything. They simply spoke as if the decision had already been made, and my role was to understand it.
I was summoned before training even began.
A junior attendant found me while I was still tying my boots. He held a thin slate in his hands and avoided my eyes the way people did when they carried bad news they did not want to own.
"You are requested," he said. "Immediately."
He did not say by whom.
I followed him through corridors I rarely used. Narrow paths carved deep into the academy stone. The farther we walked, the quieter everything became. Training sounds faded. Footsteps echoed too clearly.
I noticed the lack of windows.
The room they led me into was small and undecorated. A single table. Two chairs. One narrow window overlooking the city. Mana haze drifted past the glass in slow, uneven streams, as if even the air outside hesitated to linger.
The instructor from the previous day was already there.
He did not offer me a seat.
"You understand why you are here," he said.
"Yes."
"You interfered in a controlled exercise."
"Yes."
"You disrupted an Ignis release using a method you cannot identify."
I hesitated. "I reacted."
He regarded me for a long moment. "Reaction without understanding is how people die."
I clenched my jaw and said nothing.
He gestured to the chair. "Sit."
I obeyed.
"We have reviewed your records," he continued. "Your progression is inconsistent. Your mana absorption remains unreliable. Your circuit stability does not align with your output."
"I know," I said quietly.
"And yet," he said, "what you did yesterday required precision."
I looked up despite myself. "It was not controlled."
"It was effective," he replied.
That word settled heavily between us.
"You bent active Ignis output without destabilizing the platform entirely," he said. "Do you know how many trained Adepts fail to do that?"
"I did not intend to," I said again.
"That is not reassuring."
He leaned back slightly, studying me. "You are approaching a threshold without understanding what lies beyond it."
I took a slow breath. "Then help me understand."
The silence that followed was longer than before.
"We cannot," he said at last.
My chest tightened. "Why?"
"Because we do not know what you are," he replied calmly.
There was no anger in his voice. No threat.
Only certainty.
"You are restricted from unsupervised training," he continued. "All sparring is suspended. Movement drills only, under direct observation."
"And if I refuse?" I asked.
His gaze hardened just enough to make the answer clear. "Then your place here will be reconsidered."
I stood.
He did not stop me.
Outside, the academy felt different.
Not hostile.
Alert.
People watched me openly now. Some whispered. Some stared as if trying to see past my skin. I had been ignored for so long that attention felt unnatural, like wearing clothes that did not fit.
Rethan found me near the edge of the grounds.
"They pulled you in early," he said. His smile was forced. "That never happens to people they trust."
"They are being cautious," I replied.
He scoffed. "They are afraid."
We walked together for a while, our steps out of sync.
"I told them you did not mean to," he said after a moment.
I stopped. "You should not have done that."
He frowned. "Why?"
"Because if they decide I am dangerous, they will start watching you too."
His expression shifted. Not fear. Something closer to doubt.
"I am not afraid," he said.
"I know," I replied. "That is why you are vulnerable."
He did not answer.
Sil joined us later, quiet as always.
"They spoke to me as well," he said.
Rethan turned sharply. "About him?"
"Yes."
My chest tightened. "What did they ask?"
"If I felt threatened," Sil said. "If I noticed instability."
"And?" Rethan asked.
"I said I was concerned," Sil replied. "Not afraid."
That distinction mattered.
Training that day was limited to movement only. No sparring. No pressure.
I followed every instruction. I did not push. I did not react. The pressure in my chest stayed low, restrained but restless, like something held under water.
By midday, exhaustion set in. Not physical.
Mental.
Holding back required more effort than failure ever had.
When training ended, I left early and walked without direction. The lower districts were busy. Beasts worked in silence under watchful eyes. Guards leaned on spears, bored and alert at the same time.
I stopped near a storage annex I had never noticed before.
A girl sat on the steps.
She wore clerk's clothing and carried a stack of thin record tablets balanced neatly at her side. She looked up when I approached, not startled, not curious.
Attentive.
"You are bleeding," she said.
I glanced at my hand. A shallow cut along my knuckle. I had not felt it.
"It is nothing," I replied.
She nodded and handed me a cloth. "Still."
I accepted it. "Thank you."
She watched my face rather than the wound.
"They are watching you today," she said.
"I noticed."
"It is my job to notice," she replied. "I keep records. Logistics. Connections people pretend are separate."
I hesitated. "Then you know why they are watching."
"I know why they think they are," she said.
"And what do you think?"
She studied me for a moment. "I think you are exhausted."
That caught me off guard.
She stood and gathered her tablets. "Be careful," she added. "People do not like what they cannot place."
Then she left.
That night, sleep did not come easily.
The pressure in my chest felt different now. Not just restless.
Aware.
The warnings had been given.
It was not to stop me.
To prepare for what would happen when restraint failed.
And for the first time, I understood something clearly.
They were not afraid of what I had done.
They were afraid of what I might choose to become.