Recognition was heavier than pressure.
Kael realized that as Iron Resolve walked through the academy corridors after the evaluation. No cheers followed them. No applause. Yet the looks they received were different now—lingering, measuring, uncertain.
Eyes no longer slid past them.
They stopped.
Whispers followed in low currents.
"That's the powerless one…"
"He didn't fall."
"His whole team stayed up."
Lyra Selendis felt it most.
For years, the attention she received had been sharp and cruel—mockery disguised as curiosity. Now it was cautious, almost respectful. It unsettled her more than insults ever had.
"They're staring," she muttered.
"Let them," Taren replied calmly. "It means they're thinking."
Mira adjusted her pack, expression steady. "They're trying to understand what we did."
Joren walked close behind Kael, shoulders squared. "This is good. Curiosity beats contempt."
Kael said nothing. He walked at the front, hands relaxed, posture straight. Inside, though, his thoughts churned.
This is different.
Before, people laughed because he had nothing.
Now they watched because they didn't understand how he had survived.
That uncertainty was dangerous—and powerful.
At the end of the hall, a familiar presence waited.
Instructor Hale.
Arms crossed. Expression unreadable.
"Iron Resolve," he said. "Stop."
The team halted instantly.
Hale's gaze swept over them—not dismissive this time, but sharp, probing, as though he were looking at raw material rather than finished products.
"You surprised the evaluators," he said. "That doesn't happen often."
Taren straightened slightly.
Lyra's heart thudded.
Kael met Hale's eyes. "We just stood, sir."
Hale's lips twitched. "That's exactly the problem."
Silence fell.
"Most trainees rely on Aether as a crutch," Hale continued. "When pressure rises, they force more power out. That creates instability. You didn't force anything."
His eyes settled on Kael.
"You endured."
Across the courtyard, another team was approaching.
Rion Valeris.
His presence drew attention like gravity. His team moved with perfect coordination, gold stars gleaming in the sunlight. Confidence radiated from them effortlessly.
Rion stopped a short distance away.
"Instructor," he greeted respectfully.
Hale nodded once. "Valeris."
Rion's gaze shifted—to Kael.
Not hostile.
Not friendly.
Assessing.
"You did well," Rion said plainly.
The words landed harder than an insult ever could.
Kael replied just as simply. "You too."
For a moment, nothing else existed between them.
Two paths.
Two philosophies.
One built on overwhelming talent.
The other on relentless refusal to fall.
"Next month," Hale said, breaking the tension, "team-based missions will increase in difficulty. Rankings will adjust faster. Failures will cost more than stars."
Some nearby trainees stiffened.
Hale's voice lowered. "And success will draw attention you may not want."
Lyra frowned. "Attention from who, sir?"
Hale didn't answer immediately.
"From those who watch the academy not as a school," he said finally, "but as a hunting ground."
The air chilled.
Kael felt it then—a subtle shift in the world, like a board being tilted just enough for pieces to start sliding.
Rion's eyes narrowed slightly. "You're saying—"
"I'm saying," Hale interrupted, "that the kingdom's enemies don't wait for graduation."
He turned away. "Prepare yourselves."
As Iron Resolve resumed walking, Lyra glanced at Kael. "Do you think they mean… the ones behind the disappearances?"
Kael nodded once. "Yeah."
His fists tightened at his sides.
Followers first, he thought.
Then the hand behind them.
Behind them, Rion watched Kael's back.
Not with contempt.
But with interest.
And somewhere far beyond the academy walls, unseen eyes turned—drawn not to the strongest Aether flare…
…but to the boy who stood without any at all.