The academy did not announce the accident.
There was no bell.
No notice on the boards.
No formal address.
By morning, however, everyone knew.
Astren felt it before anyone spoke to him.
The corridors were quieter than usual, footsteps measured, conversations lowered the moment he passed. Not avoidance—distance. The kind people kept when they didn't know which version of the truth was allowed.
Rovan was alive.
That fact spread first.
"He'll recover."
"Beast Path bones are tough."
"They said no permanent damage."
That was the public reassurance.
What followed were the questions.
Astren entered the dining hall and felt dozens of glances slide toward him, then away. A group of Flame Path students paused mid-conversation. Someone at a nearby table stopped laughing too abruptly.
Lyra spotted him and raised a hand slightly.
Astren joined her.
"They moved him to the infirmary wing," she said quietly. "Restricted section."
Astren nodded. "Am I in trouble?"
Lyra considered the question.
"Officially?" she said. "No."
Astren exhaled slowly.
"Unofficially," she added, "they're trying to decide what kind of problem you are."
That sat heavier.
The academy liked clear categories.
Strong. Weak. Promising. Failed.
Astren didn't fit any of them.
Across the hall, Calden watched them. He looked tired, eyes shadowed, posture tense.
"He didn't blame you," Calden said when he approached. "Rovan, I mean."
Astren looked up. "He doesn't remember what happened."
"That's what he said," Calden replied carefully. "He remembers stepping back. Then waking up."
Astren's fingers tightened around his cup.
That made it worse.
Breakfast ended without incident, but the day didn't resume normally. Classes continued, yet instructors lingered longer than usual. Assistants double-checked equipment. Some tests were quietly postponed.
Astren noticed one thing clearly:
No one asked him to participate.
In Applied Foundations, his name was skipped.
In Combat Theory, he was assigned observation only.
In Resonance Study, he was told to take notes.
At first, it felt like relief.
Then it felt like containment.
Instructor Varos watched him closely during lecture, eyes flicking up whenever Astren shifted in his seat.
Not accusing.
Measuring.
By evening, Astren returned to his quarters with a dull ache behind his eyes. Not pain—fatigue. Like his mind had been pressed flat all day.
He sat on his bed and stared at his hands.
I didn't do anything, he thought.
That was the problem.
---
The summons came the next day.
Not dramatic.
No guards.
No threat.
Just a simple message delivered by an assistant.
> Report to Evaluation Wing C. Alone.
Evaluation Wing C was older than the rest of the academy, its stone darker, corridors narrower. The air smelled faintly of metal and old records.
Astren was led into a small room with a round table and three chairs.
Two were occupied.
Instructor Halvek sat on one side, posture rigid. Across from him was a woman Astren hadn't seen before—short dark hair, expression calm, eyes sharp in a way that made him uncomfortable.
She wore no Path insignia.
"Astren Veyra," she said. "Sit."
He did.
"This is not a disciplinary hearing," she said immediately. "Do you understand?"
Astren nodded. "Yes."
"Good," she replied. "Because we are not interested in blame."
Halvek shifted slightly but said nothing.
The woman folded her hands. "We are interested in consistency."
She slid a thin slate across the table.
Astren glanced at it.
Test logs.
Resonance failures.
Incomplete readings.
All with the same notation:
> Subject present. Results inconclusive.
"You see the pattern," she said.
Astren swallowed. "I don't know how to fix it."
"That is not what I asked," she replied. "Do you feel anything unusual during these incidents?"
Astren hesitated.
Pressure behind his eyes.
Moments of sharp clarity.
The sense that space didn't behave quite right.
"I feel… tired," he said carefully.
The woman studied him.
Halvek finally spoke. "When the equipment failed during the stress-response test, did you act?"
"No," Astren said immediately. "I didn't channel anything."
"I believe him," Halvek added.
The woman raised an eyebrow. "Belief is not evidence."
She turned back to Astren. "If we were to test you again, privately, would you cooperate?"
Astren considered it.
"What happens if something goes wrong?" he asked.
A pause.
"We would stop," she said.
Astren met her gaze. "That's what you said last time."
Silence stretched.
Finally, she nodded. "Fair."
She closed the slate.
"For now," she said, "you will continue classes. Limited participation. No unsupervised testing."
Astren nodded.
As he stood to leave, she added, "One more thing."
He stopped.
"If another accident happens," she said evenly, "it will not be written off as equipment failure."
Astren left without responding.
Outside the room, Halvek caught up to him.
"You should keep your head down," Halvek said quietly. "The academy protects its systems first."
Astren looked at him. "And people?"
Halvek didn't answer.
---
The days that followed were worse than the accident itself.
Rovan's friends stopped acknowledging Astren entirely.
Some students avoided him openly. Others watched from a distance, curiosity sharpening into something harder.
Rumors shifted.
At first it was: "He's unlucky."
Then: "He interferes with tests."
Finally: "Something happens when he's nearby."
Astren heard none of it directly.
That's how he knew it was bad.
Lyra stayed close, though she spoke less now, eyes always moving.
"They're changing protocols," she said one evening as they walked the outer ring of the academy grounds. "New safety margins. New redundancies."
"For me?" Astren asked.
"For anomalies," she replied.
That word again.
They passed a training yard where Path students sparred under instructor supervision. Astren paused, watching.
He felt it then—that familiar pressure, faint but present. The space felt crowded, strained by overlapping forces.
He stepped back instinctively.
Lyra noticed. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he said. "I just… shouldn't be there."
She studied him. "You're not broken, Astren."
He didn't answer.
That night, alone in his room, Astren reviewed his schedule.
More observation.
More restrictions.
Less participation.
Containment without confinement.
They're waiting, he realized. To see if I'm worth the trouble.
Outside, the academy lights dimmed as night settled.
Astren lay awake, star
ing at the ceiling.
He hadn't wanted power.
He still didn't.
But he understood something now, with uncomfortable clarity:
As long as the academy couldn't measure him,
it couldn't trust him.
And if it couldn't trust him—
Eventually, it would try to remove him.