I arrived at the academy earlier than necessary.
Not because I feared danger—but because waiting felt irresponsible.
The town was quiet in that late-afternoon way that meant nothing important had happened. No messengers. No guards. No sudden urgency hanging in the air. Just students spilling through the gates with complaints, laughter, and the loose exhaustion of drills and boredom.
Good.
That meant the academy was still what it claimed to be.
A school.
I waited near the outer wall, hands folded behind my back, posture deliberately unremarkable. No authority. No presence. Just a father pretending this was routine.
Then I saw them.
Arin emerged first—walking too casually, which immediately concerned me. His expression was neutral in a way that required effort. Lysa followed half a step behind, eyes alert but no longer searching every shadow.
They were relaxed.
That alone told me everything.
"Father!" Arin called, waving like he hadn't spent the previous day causing administrative confusion.
I exhaled.
"You're early," Lysa said when they reached me.
"I was punctual," I replied. "You were delayed."
"That sounds like blame."
"It is."
Arin grinned. "Good news first or bad news first?"
"There is no bad news," I said carefully.
"Oh," he said. "Then you already know."
I stopped walking.
"…Know what?"
Lysa reached into her bag and handed me an envelope.
Thin. Official.
And already opened.
"We read it," she said. "Twice."
I unfolded the letter as we resumed walking.
Once.
Then again.
Then slower—line by line, syntax by syntax, as my mind refused to accept relief without proof.
No Empire.
No jurisdiction.
No surveillance authority.
Just a formal apology wrapped in administrative embarrassment.
A test.
A stress evaluation.
A principal who had mistaken cleverness for wisdom.
My steps slowed.
"They never had the right," I murmured. "Not even hypothetically."
Arin squinted up at me. "You rewrote the future, didn't you."
"…I evaluated several unfavorable projections."
"How many?"
"Seven."
Lysa winced. "That explains the headache you're pretending not to have."
We kept walking.
I had calculated the probability of the Principal being a complete idiot.
Not an idiot—those were common and statistically manageable—but a dangerous one. The kind that mistook cleverness for wisdom and tests for insight.
Based on limited data—his posture, his timing, the phrasing of the letter as recalled by my children—I placed the odds at a comfortable thirty-seven percent.
Unacceptable, but survivable.
The remaining sixty-three percent split evenly between well-meaning incompetence and administrative hubris, both of which were far less lethal than deliberate malice.
In other words: this situation was stupid, not catastrophic.
I adjusted my expectations accordingly.
The town felt different now—lighter. Ordinary. Shopkeepers closing shutters. Children running with sticks instead of swords. Life continuing, blissfully unaware of how thoroughly I had dismantled it in my head.
As we began the walk home, we passed a family going the opposite direction—two parents, a younger child between them, arguing cheerfully about sweets and chores.
They looked… light.
Unburdened.
The father laughed too loudly. The mother scolded without real heat. The child complained without fear.
Normal.
Something sharp twisted in my chest.
Beside me, Arin slowed half a step.
Lysa's gaze flicked—hands, belts, posture, spacing.
"So," Arin said, swinging his arms, "I'm not secretly important?"
"No," I said immediately.
"Yes," Lysa added.
I sighed. "You are academically interesting. That is not the same thing."
"Then why did Mother confiscate my wooden spoon?"
"That," I said gravely, "is a separate and far crueler authority."
Home came into view.
The door was already open.
Avaris stood inside, arms crossed, posture rigid—not calm, not casual. Waiting.
Her eyes went to the children first.
Arin.
Lysa.
Whole. Unmarked. Still hers.
Only then did she look at me.
"…Well?"
I handed her the letter without speaking.
She read it once.
The parchment made a soft, brittle sound as her grip tightened—not tearing yet, just protesting. Ink smeared beneath her thumb, black lines bleeding into her skin like a brand that refused to settle.
She read it again.
Her jaw set.
The paper finally gave way with a quiet, vicious crunch, fibers collapsing under controlled strength. The sound was small—but it carried.
Ink stained her palm. Not symbolic. Real. Messy. Permanent until scrubbed away.
She looked up.
There was no rage in her eyes.
Only decision.
"If they touch them again," she said calmly, "I will not ask who authorized it."
I believed her.
"They thought this was appropriate," she said flatly.
"They underestimated how attached parents can be," I replied.
"That," she said, voice tight, "is what terrifies me."
Dinner was quieter than usual—but not cold.
Recovery quiet.
The kind where everyone eats slowly, checking to see if the world's geometry had finally settled back into right angles.
Halfway through, Arin glanced toward the shelf.
"…Mother."
"Yes."
"My wooden spoon."
"No."
I opened my mouth.
She cut me off with a look.
"You scared us," she said. "All of you."
Arin shrank. "I didn't mean to—"
"I know," she said immediately, softer. "That's why you're still sitting here."
She turned to me then—anger spent, leaving only exhaustion.
"For a moment," she said quietly, "I thought this town wasn't enough to hide us anymore."
I reached across the table and took her hand.
"It is," I said. "And so are we."
She squeezed back once. Firm. Grounded.
Later, when the house settled and the lamps dimmed, we stood together by the window.
"I hate that academy," she said.
"I know."
"But I'm relieved," she admitted. "Which makes me angry at myself."
I smiled faintly. "That's called being human."
She leaned against me.
Outside, the town slept peacefully.
No Empire.
No watchers.
No grand designs.
Just home.
And that—
For once—
Was enough.