The morning smelled of bread, warm tea, and quiet resentment.
Arin stared at the table like it had personally betrayed him. His bowl sat full. His posture did not move. His eyes, however, kept drifting toward the kitchen shelf.
"Mother," he said at last—careful, respectful, and clearly rehearsed.
"When," he asked slowly, "will I be getting my wooden spoon back?"
Avaris did not look at him.
"When you stop being interesting," she replied, pouring tea with surgical precision.
Arin's shoulders slumped. "So… never."
"That depends," Lysa said lazily, tearing a piece of bread. "You could try becoming boring."
Arin turned to her, wounded. "I tried that yesterday. Father said I did it too well and frightened people."
I cleared my throat. "In fairness, you frightened authority figures. That is an advanced skill."
Avaris finally glanced at me.
I smiled gently. Scholar to scholar. "Wooden spoons," I said carefully, "are not taken forever. They are merely… temporarily archived pending behavioral review."
Arin's eyes lit up. "Archived means I get it back?"
"Yes," I nodded. "After review. Possibly footnotes."
He thought about that. "I can live with footnotes," he said bravely. "I cannot live without spoons."
Avaris took a sip of tea. "Do not test your father's optimism."
Lysa smirked. "Congratulations, Arin. You lost a spoon and gained an academic debate."
Arin sighed dramatically, resting his chin on the table.
"The Empire notices me, and I lose household privileges. History is cruel."
I reached over and ruffled his hair. "History," I said softly, "is written by those who survive breakfast."
He straightened a little at that.
The spoon remained on the shelf.
For now.
__________________________
I walked them to the academy myself.
Not because it was dangerous.
Not because the Empire lurked behind every corner.
But because leaving conclusions unfinished offended me on a personal level.
Lysa walked on my right, posture straight, eyes sharp—already half in combat readiness despite the early hour. Arin walked on my left, dragging his feet slightly, mourning the continued absence of his wooden spoon.
"Father," he said quietly, "if I am watched today, should I walk differently?"
"No," I replied. "Walk normally."
He nodded seriously. "Then I will trip naturally."
"That is acceptable," I said. "Intentional incompetence is suspicious. Genuine clumsiness is timeless."
Lysa snorted.
The academy gates came into view—stone, orderly, and far too confident in their authority. I stopped just short of them.
This was as far as I went.
Inside those gates, systems watched. Observers counted. Records accumulated.
Outside them—
They were still just my children.
I knelt slightly, placing a hand on Arin's shoulder. "Remember," I said gently, "you are here to learn. Not to impress. Not to be noticed."
Arin looked up at me. "And if I am noticed anyway?"
I smiled thinly. "Then be polite about it."
Lysa met my eyes. "And if someone causes trouble?"
"Then you walk away," I said.
She frowned.
"…Unless walking away fails," I added.
Her smile was sharp and satisfied.
I watched them enter—the boy who pretended to be ordinary and the girl who refused to be anything less than dangerous.
Only when the gates closed behind them did I release the breath I'd been holding.
Weak or not, a father's duty did not end at the doorstep—especially when conclusions were still unresolved.
And until the Empire learned that distinction—
I would keep walking them to the gate myself.
__________________________
Arin
The academy smelled different in the morning.
Less fear. More soap.
That meant inspections had already happened, and I had missed all the fun.
I walked through the gates with my hands behind my back, posture relaxed, face pleasantly empty. Father would have been proud. Thirty-five percent capacity today—forty if I felt generous and no one annoyed me.
"Stop smiling," Lysa said beside me.
"I'm not smiling," I replied.
"You are smiling internally. I can feel it."
I tried to frown. It came out thoughtful instead.
The courtyard buzzed with noise—wooden weapons cracking, boots scraping, instructors shouting things like Again! and No, that is not how joints work!
Normal academy sounds. Comforting, really.
No imperial banners.
No ominous observers in dark cloaks.
No glowing marks trying to crawl up my arm.
Disappointing.
"Do you think they're watching right now?" I whispered.
"If they are," Lysa said calmly, "they're already bored."
That hurt a little.
We split near the training hall—me toward combat basics, Lysa toward tactical theory. Before leaving, she grabbed my sleeve.
"Don't do anything stupid."
"I never do stupid things," I said. "I do efficient things."
"That's worse."
She let go.
__________________________
Lysa
Arin disappeared into the crowd like a pebble dropped into a river.
Too smooth.
Too unremarkable.
I didn't like it.
Class was already in progress when I arrived. Instructor Halvek stood at the front, chalk in hand, diagramming formations on the board. He paused when he saw me.
"You're late."
"By thirty-seven seconds," I replied. "I counted."
A few students snickered. Halvek sighed the sigh of a man who had lost this argument years ago.
"Sit."
I did—but my attention drifted.
Yesterday's meeting replayed in my mind. The mark. The Empire. The way the Principal had smiled.
I didn't trust smiles like that.
Halfway through the lesson, a junior aide entered and whispered something to Halvek. He frowned, then cleared his throat.
"Verne," he said, eyes on me. "You and your brother are to report to the administrative wing after second bell."
The room went silent.
Of course it did.
I stood calmly. "Is this disciplinary?"
"No."
That was worse.
__________________________
Arin
I was practicing controlled falls when the aide found me.
"Arin Verne."
"Yes, that is me," I said, already standing. "I am cooperative."
"You're summoned."
"Again?" I asked. "Did I trip too convincingly?"
He didn't answer.
Lysa was waiting near the hall entrance, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"Administrative wing," she said. "Try not to breathe suspiciously."
"I will breathe at a statistically average rate."
"Lower."
We walked.
No dramatic music.
No tightening of fate.
Just long corridors and the sound of our footsteps echoing like bad decisions.
They led us not to the Principal's chamber—but to a smaller office.
Inside: a desk, a chair, and a sealed envelope.
The aide placed it down, nodded once, and left.
We stared at the envelope.
"It's not glowing," I noted.
"That's a bad sign," Lysa said.
I opened it.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
I read it.
Blinked once.
Then read it again—slower this time.
"…Lysa."
"What."
"This is—"
She snatched it from my hands.
Her eyes scanned the page.
Once.
Twice.
Then she froze.
"…You have got to be kidding me."
The Letter
To the Verne Family,
Yesterday's 'Observation Mark' explanation was delivered as part of an internal evaluative exercise.
The Empire has not issued surveillance authority, nor does it currently hold jurisdiction over either child.
The mark itself was non-functional and temporary.
In short:
Congratulations.
Your son demonstrated exceptional restraint, adaptability, and emotional control for his age.
We apologize for any distress caused.
— Principal Albrecht
P.S. The look on the scholar's face was, regrettably, memorable.
___________________________
Arin
I stared at the paper.
Then at Lysa.
Then back at the paper.
"…So," I said slowly, "the Empire isn't watching me specifically?"
"No."
"And Father rewrote the future seven times for nothing?"
"Yes."
"And Mother confiscated my wooden spoon—"
"Yes."
I gasped. "This was a prank."
Lysa folded the letter carefully. "A test."
"A joke."
"A very unfunny one."
"I think it was funny," I said.
She looked at me.
"I mean," I added quickly, "not for Father. For me, it was emotionally devastating but narratively satisfying."
She sighed. "We are going to die at home."
Later, as we left the administrative wing, I couldn't help smiling.
"Lysa?"
"Yes."
"Do you think Father will believe the letter?"
She paused. "Eventually."
"And Mother?"
She didn't stop walking.
"She will believe it immediately."
"…Oh."
"Yes. Oh."
I winced.
The Empire wasn't watching.
But something far scarier was.
Home.