I learned early that this world rewards patience.
Not wisdom. Not talent. Patience.
As a child, I listened more than I spoke. People here talked differently. Not just the language, but the weight of their words. Conversations were slower. Meanings layered. Silence was not awkward; it was expected. A pause could mean respect. Or suspicion. Or threat.
I adapted.
My foster parents ran a modest trade. Not nobles, not peasants scraping mud. Comfortable enough to eat well, worried enough to count every coin twice. They never asked too much of me, and I never gave them a reason to.
From the outside, I was normal.
Inside, I was constantly negotiating with myself.
Do less.
Say less.
Think quietly.
Magic existed, but not the way stories romanticize it. No glowing streets. No children tossing fireballs for fun. Magic here was… tolerated. Feared, sometimes. Useful, occasionally. Most people went their entire lives never seeing a spell cast properly.
Which suited me just fine.
I watched how the world treated those who stood out. They were respected, sure, but also watched. Measured. Pulled into obligations they didn't choose. I had obligations in my past life. They ended badly.
So I stayed small.
Until the letter arrived.
The academy's seal was pressed into thick parchment, the wax a dull blue. No grand crest. No dramatic flourish. Practical. Official. Heavy in a way paper shouldn't be.
My foster father read it twice before handing it to my foster mother. She read it once, slowly, then again faster, like repetition might change the words.
They didn't look at me right away.
That scared me more than if they had.
The academy wasn't legendary. Not some mythical tower of prodigies. It was an institution. Old, respected, slightly decaying at the edges. It trained administrators, soldiers, scholars, minor mages, and people who would one day quietly run the world while others pretended they did.
A machine.
And it wanted me.
I didn't ask how. I already knew.
Small mistakes add up. Answers given too cleanly. Patterns noticed too quickly. Teachers don't always praise, but they notice. And institutions are very good at following trails.
The debate lasted days.
Academy meant opportunity. Connections. Risk.
Staying meant safety. Routine. Obscurity.
I said nothing. I learned long ago that silence is often read as maturity.
In the end, practicality won. It always does.
The academy gates were older than the city surrounding them. Stone worn smooth by centuries of hands that believed education was worth bleeding for. No statues of heroes. No divine imagery. Just walls and iron and time.
The first thing I noticed wasn't the buildings.
It was the people.
Everyone walked like they were being watched, even when they weren't. Posture mattered here. So did hesitation. Conversations stopped when certain figures passed. Not fear. Awareness.
I was assigned a dormitory with six others. Different regions. Different accents. Same uncertainty. We didn't bond instantly. That's a lie stories tell. We coexisted. Carefully.
Classes began without ceremony.
At first, I did well.
Not exceptionally. Just… well.
Enough to blend in.
Academy life settled into a rhythm faster than I expected. Wake before dawn. Cold water. Bread that tasted like nothing but filled you anyway. Classes until midday. Training. Study. Sleep. Repeat. Days stacked neatly on top of each other, like bricks in a wall.
I liked walls.
I made friends. That surprised me.
They weren't remarkable people. That was the point. A boy from the river provinces who laughed too loud. Another who talked endlessly about his family's vineyards. A girl who complained about instructors but never skipped a lesson. Ordinary, grounded, alive.
They pulled me into conversations. Meals. Study groups.
I let them.
It felt… good. Dangerous, but good.
For a while, I thought I'd done it. Escaped myself.
Then the work deepened.
Academics here weren't hard. They were thorough. Lessons layered atop each other, assumptions quietly tested, gaps exposed without warning. The academy didn't reward speed. It rewarded consistency.
I forgot to hold back.
It wasn't a single moment. No dramatic reveal. Just accumulation. Answers that came too fast. Essays that connected ideas instructors expected students to struggle with for years. Practical exams where my hands moved before I consciously decided to act.
At some point, I stopped being "reliable."
I became "impressive."
By midterm, the rankings were posted.
My name sat at the top.
The room felt smaller after that.
People looked longer. Teachers paused when I spoke. My friends joked about it at first, pride masking unease. But pride fades. Unease stays.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
The ceiling above my bunk blurred into something else. A different room. A different life. A grade on a screen. An expectation I had sworn never to chase again.
I sat up, heart racing.
You're doing it again.
Same pattern. Different world.
So I stopped.
Not dramatically. Not all at once. I missed a few questions. Gave simpler answers. Let others speak first. I smiled more. Shrugged more. Acted like the pressure didn't bother me.
Then I went further.
I skipped optional lectures. Turned in work late. Declined study sessions. Slept through morning drills. My performance dipped, not enough to be alarming, but enough to dull interest.
My friends noticed.
"You sick?"
"You okay?"
"You sure you're fine?"
I laughed it off.
Then I stopped showing up entirely.
Days passed. Then a week.
The academy doesn't like gaps.
Someone knocked on my door late one afternoon. Firm. Official. Not angry.
When I opened it, I didn't see an instructor.
I saw a student.
Her uniform was immaculate. Not rigid, but intentional. The kind of person who followed rules because she understood why they existed.
"I volunteered," she said, before I could ask. Calm. Curious. Not judgmental.
"For what?" I asked.
"To get you back."
Her eyes flicked past me, briefly, taking in the room. Sparse. Clean. Intentional.
"You disappeared," she continued. "People noticed."
I exhaled slowly.
Figures.
She smiled, just a little. Not triumphant. Interested.
"Come on," she said. "You don't strike me as someone who quits without a reason."
I stared at her for a long moment.
This was the point where paths usually diverged.
And I had no idea which one I was about to take.