Ashe was the first one out.

She left before the healer finished tying the final wrap on her forearm, tucking the end in herself with the impatience of someone who has been horizontal for long enough. She pulled her jacket on at the door and then turned around and looked at the ward: at Vane in his bed, at Isole sitting with her staff, at Valerica standing near the window with her arms crossed.

“Same time next semester,” she said.

It was not a joke exactly. It landed somewhere between a joke and a statement of fact about who they were and what they kept doing to themselves. Isole made a small sound that was her version of a laugh. Valerica looked at the ceiling with an expression that was trying not to do something. Vane said nothing, but Ashe looked at him for one moment with her red eyes, a real look, not a performance, the kind that passes between people who have been on the ground in the same courtyard, and then she was gone.

The ward went a little quieter.

Valerica left an hour later.

She had been standing at the window the whole time, watching the spring campus below with the focused stillness she used when she was processing something she hadn’t finished processing. The healer cleared her, she signed the forms, she tucked the discharge paperwork into her document case. Then she came and stood at the foot of Vane’s bed.

She didn’t say anything for a moment. He waited.

“You adjusted my rotation windows before the evaluation,” she said. “You accounted for the sustained output cost. You knew I would run high by hour twenty-four.”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You would have disagreed.”

She looked at him. The golden eyes doing the careful work they did when she was deciding how honest to be. “I would have been wrong,” she said. The words came out with the specific effort of someone for whom admitting this costs something real.

He said: “You held two chokepoints simultaneously for fourteen minutes under Sentinel-tier wave pressure. You didn’t need the warning.”

Her jaw moved slightly. Not quite a smile. Not quite not. She picked up her case.

“Get your ribs looked at properly,” she said. “Not the ward scan. A proper assessment.”

“I will.”

She looked at him one more time from the door. The expression was one he had been cataloguing since September, the one she wore when something mattered more than she was currently acknowledging. Then she walked out.

Isole waited until after Valerica left.

She had been sitting in the chair beside his bed for most of the morning, which he had noticed and which she had offered no explanation for. Her staff was across her knees. Her mismatched eyes were doing the half-focused thing they did when she was running her mana equilibrium rather than specifically watching anything.

When the ward was quiet she said: “You threw everything.”

He said: “Yes.”

“Perfect Copy. Event Horizon. Grey Veil. Ephemeral State. All at once.”

“Yes.”

She was quiet for a moment. “I felt the stack from the east approach. It was visible from forty meters.” She turned her head to look at him directly. “You wanted to land one.”

“I landed one.”

Something in her expression shifted. Not surprise, she had known he landed it, the whole group had known. Something else, something smaller and more personal. “Silver Fang scored on him,” she said.

“Yes.”

She nodded slowly. The mismatched eyes went back to the middle distance. “He bled.”

“Yes.”

“Good,” she said, very quietly.

She stood and adjusted her cloak. She moved to the door and then stopped, and he thought she would say something about the evaluation, or the courtyard, or any of the dozen things that had happened in the last seventy-two hours.

She said: “You are going to need to figure out what you want to say to Valerica and me.”

He looked at her.

“Nyx is awake,” she said. “The reason you were waiting is gone.” Her eyes found his and held there for a moment. “I am not rushing you. I am just telling you I know.” She paused. “We both know.”

She left without waiting for a response.

The ward hummed quietly around him.

Isaac came through an hour after that, exactly himself, exactly composed. He stopped at the foot of the bed and looked at the monitoring chart with the expression he used for data.

“The spatial field was insufficient,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Twelve weeks.” He said it the way he said everything that had been decided: as a statement, not a request. “I need twelve weeks to address the structural redundancy problem.”

“Then take twelve weeks.”

Isaac looked at him for another moment. Something moved in the pale blue eyes that was not quite the calculating neutrality he normally wore. It was close to it, but not quite.

“You lasted longer than I expected,” Isaac said. “Against him.”

“Not long enough.”

“No.” A beat. “Not yet.”

He left with Lyra a step behind, already working.

The ward was empty except for Nyx.

She had been there the whole time, watching the departures with the opal eyes that caught everything and released very little. When the last footsteps faded she recrossed her legs and looked at him.

“Touching,” she said.

“Don’t.”

“I mean it genuinely. They stayed.” She tilted her head. “Valerica stood at that window for three hours waiting to be last so she could say that to you alone. Isole sat in the chair for most of the morning not because she needed to but because she wanted to be in the room.” She paused. “That is not a common thing, Vane.”

He said nothing.

She reached into her discharge paperwork and produced something, a folded sheet from the Academic network. “Your theory results,” she said. “Since you were unconscious when they posted.”

She handed it to him. He unfolded it.

Strategic Arcana: A. Rowan’s note: Question 7 answered as an after-action report. Only correct answer in the class.

Threat Classification: A-. Unclassified extreme designation in Section 3 is irregular. It is also accurate. Full marks for intellectual honesty.

Mana Systems Theory: B+. Vyla’s note: Check your inference.

Institutional Doctrine: B.

Combined semester standing: Rank 4.

He folded it. He looked at the combined board number without softening it.

“Your Mana Systems inference about intent-layer degradation at Sentinel rank is correct,” Nyx said. “Vyla marked it down because you couldn’t cite a source. In second year she will give the same type of question and you will lose the same points unless you have a source she recognizes. Find one before September.” She stood, collecting her things. “Lancelot completed the theory exam in two hours and forty minutes. No variance between disciplines, no instructor annotations, perfect scores across all four sections.”

“I know.”

“Rank 3.”

“I know.”

She looked at him with the specific quality she used when she was revising an assessment upward. “You’re not upset about it.”

“It’s accurate.”

“Yes,” she said. “It is.” She moved toward the door. “That means you’re already thinking about what to do about it, which means this conversation is over.” She stopped with her hand on the door. “Isole was right, you know. About figuring out what you want to say. They’ve been waiting with more patience than you deserve.” She pushed through.

He was alone.

He looked at the ward ceiling for a moment. He thought about what Isole had said. The reason he had been waiting was gone. Nyx was awake. The board was settled. Second year was two months away.

He knew what he was going to say. He had known for a while. The question had always been when, not what.

He sat up, careful of the ribs, and called for his discharge papers.

Apologies. Rewriting the final section only, everything above the Villa 1 scene stays identical.

Villa 1 was warm when he arrived.

Mara was in the kitchen. She looked at him once, assessed his functional status, and handed him something hot without being asked. He sat at the table and she put food in front of him and he ate, and somewhere in the middle of the meal she told him Lyra had sent a letter. He read it. Three lines about the cipher network. He put it in his pocket.

He ate the rest of the meal.

Afterward he went to his room and changed out of the ward clothes and stood for a moment looking at the bookshelf. The boxes. He had promised himself he would deal with them when Nyx woke up.

Nyx was awake.

He had spent the walk home composing what he wanted to say, and it was clear, and it was honest, and it was the right time. He picked up his jacket.

The front door of Villa 1 opened.

He heard it from upstairs. He had not heard an approach. He came to the top of the stairs and looked down into the foyer.

The man standing there was not large. Not in the way Kaito was large. He was lean and scarred and dressed in plain dark traveling clothes, and his obsidian horns were worn blunt at the tips. He stood in the foyer with his hands at his sides and looked up at Vane with a stillness that had no performance in it.

The pressure in the room changed.

It was not aggressive. It was not threatening in the way a drawn weapon threatened. It was the particular quality of a mana density so complete that it simply altered the weight of the air around it, the way a mountain alters the weather in its valley without intending to. Vane had felt this once before, at the Winter Gala, standing near Isadora Glacium before he understood what Transcendent rank actually meant to a room. He had filed that sensation as the upper boundary of what power felt like in proximity.

This was at least that. Possibly more. He could not tell where the ceiling was from where he was standing.

He stood at the top of the stairs and said nothing.

The man looked at him with the same quality Ryuken used for everything, the reading of a body rather than a face, the assessment that started with how a person stood and worked backward from there.

A sound from behind Vane.

Ashe had come up the back stairs from the training entrance, chalk on her boots, her forearm wrap slightly looser than when she had left the ward. She saw the man in the foyer.

She went completely still.

“Father,” she said.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep