Walking back through the academy gates felt different the second time.
Not because anything had changed.
Because I had.
The stone didn't loom more. The banners didn't look heavier. Students still moved with that same careful awareness, the practiced balance between confidence and caution. But now I knew something I hadn't before.
I knew what it felt like to step outside the system.
And how quickly it noticed.
She didn't rush me. Didn't lecture. Didn't ask invasive questions. She simply walked a half step ahead, hands folded behind her back, posture relaxed but deliberate.
"You could have ignored the summons," she said casually, as if commenting on the weather.
"I considered it."
She glanced over her shoulder. "And?"
"And decided it would make things worse."
A small smile. "Correct."
We crossed the inner courtyard, where older students practiced formations under a senior instructor's watchful eye. No shouting. Just quiet correction. Precision over enthusiasm.
"This place doesn't like unpredictability," she continued. "Talented students are assets. Disappearing assets raise flags."
"I wasn't trying to make a statement."
"Most people who do never are."
That landed closer to home than I liked.
Inside the administrative wing, the air changed. Less dust. More polish. Sound carried differently here, absorbed by thick walls and expensive decisions. Doors were closed. Voices low. Everything whispered importance.
She stopped in front of a dark oak door.
"They asked me to accompany you," she said. "Not as punishment. As documentation."
"Documentation," I repeated.
"Yes. You're interesting now."
I exhaled slowly. So much for fading quietly.
Inside, the room was simple. A long table. Three chairs on one side, one on the other. Shelves lined with records, not books. Lives reduced to parchment and ink.
Two instructors waited.
Not the kind that teach.
One was older, hair silvered but posture sharp. The other younger, eyes calculating, fingers stained with ink. Administrators. The most dangerous type of educator.
"Sit," the older one said, not unkindly.
I did.
The girl took a seat to the side, pulling out a slim notebook. She didn't look at me. That somehow made it worse.
"You were absent for nine days," the younger administrator began. "No formal request. No illness reported. No incident logged."
"I understand."
"Do you?" His tone wasn't accusatory. It was curious.
The older instructor leaned back. "You are not in trouble. Let's make that clear. This is not a disciplinary hearing."
That should have comforted me.
It didn't.
"This academy tracks progress," he continued. "Not to reward it. To anticipate it. You rose quickly. Then you vanished."
Silence stretched.
I chose my words carefully. "I misjudged my limits."
The younger one raised an eyebrow. "Academically?"
"No. Personally."
They exchanged a glance.
Interesting. I had deviated from the expected script.
"You were performing at the top of your cohort," the older instructor said. "Without appearing strained. Then your performance declined sharply. Deliberately."
I didn't respond.
"Why?"
There it was.
I thought of my past life. The grade. The suffocating expectations. The way excellence turned into obligation, then into a cage.
"I didn't want to become… defined," I said finally.
The younger administrator tapped his pen once. "Define that."
"I didn't want my worth here to be measured solely by output."
Silence again.
The girl's pen paused.
The older instructor studied me for a long moment. "You understand that this academy exists to measure output."
"I do."
"And yet you enrolled."
"I was enrolled."
A corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
"Fair."
The younger one leaned forward. "You believe mediocrity is safety."
I met his gaze. "I believe visibility has a cost."
"Everything has a cost," he replied. "Including restraint."
That one hurt.
The meeting ended without resolution. No punishment. No warning. Just a quiet understanding that I was now recorded, categorized, and watched.
As we left, my friends waited outside the wing. Awkward cluster. Relief mixed with irritation.
"You idiot," one of them muttered. "You scared us."
"I didn't mean to."
"That doesn't help."
We walked together for a bit. Small talk. Normalcy. But something had shifted. They looked at me differently now. Not with awe. With uncertainty.
Back in my room that night, I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at my hands.
I had wanted a new start.
Instead, I had become a variable.
Across the academy, someone was writing my name into a ledger, not as a student, but as a potential problem.
And I had the uncomfortable feeling this was only the beginning.