The deadline is three days away.
Alaric feels it in everything now in the tightness behind his eyes, in the way his shoulders ache from sleeping wrong, in the constant awareness that Silveren is never far.
The project isn't simple.
It was never meant to be.
Institutional ethics. Power structures. Compliance theory. The kind of topic that looks neutral on paper but bleeds politics once you dig into it. Silveren had designed it that way. Alaric knows this. The assignment isn't just about research it's about endurance.
They work in the same room every evening.
A reserved study hall on the upper floor. Quiet. Glass walls. No privacy, no comfort. Just long tables and harsh lighting that makes exhaustion impossible to hide.
Silveren always arrives on time.
Alaric always arrives early.
Neither of them speaks at first.
By the second night, Alaric hasn't slept more than four hours.
His notes are messy now, margins filled with corrections, arrows, rewritten thoughts. He's revised his section three times already. Every time he thinks it's done, Silveren finds another flaw.
"This argument is weak," Silveren says, standing behind him, eyes scanning the screen.
"It's cautious," Alaric replies. "There's a difference."
"There is," Silveren agrees. "And cautious arguments don't survive scrutiny."
Alaric clenches his jaw and keeps typing.
He doesn't argue. He doesn't defend himself.
He fixes it.
By the third night, Silveren changes tactics.
He stops correcting.
He watches.
Alaric notices it halfway through rewriting a section on authority bias. The silence stretches too long. When he glances up, Silveren is leaning against the table across from him, arms crossed, eyes steady.
"You're slowing down," Silveren says.
Alaric doesn't look away from the screen. "I'm tired."
"That's not an excuse."
"No," Alaric agrees. "It's a fact."
Silveren steps closer. "If you can't keep up-"
"I can," Alaric interrupts quietly.
Silveren raises an eyebrow. "Barely."
Alaric's fingers pause above the keyboard. For a moment, exhaustion presses hard against his chest. He could say it. He could admit this is too much. That he needs an extension. That he needs help.
He doesn't.
He straightens instead.
"Then barely will have to be enough."
Silveren studies him.
There it is again that irritation. Not disappointment. Not satisfaction.
Annoyance.
Because Alaric is still functioning.
The final presentation is scheduled for the next afternoon.
Alaric hasn't slept at all.
He stands in the presentation room with a printed copy of the report in his hands, pulse steady only because he refuses to let it race. Silveren stands beside him, perfectly composed, looking like this costs him nothing.
The faculty panel enters.
Three professors. Neutral expressions. Tablets in hand.
Silveren begins.
His delivery is flawless. Confident. Precise. Every word lands exactly where it should. Alaric listens, detached, waiting for his turn like a man bracing for impact.
Then Silveren nods toward him.
Alaric steps forward.
The room feels warmer suddenly. Smaller.
He speaks anyway.
He doesn't match Silveren's confidence. He doesn't try.
Instead, he explains. Slowly. Clearly. He lays out the flaws in compliance-based systems. The cost of silence. The danger of institutions that punish visibility instead of abuse of power.
His voice doesn't shake.
But it isn't polished either.
It's honest.
One professor leans forward.
"Are you suggesting Ravenshade operates this way?"
Alaric doesn't hesitate. "I'm suggesting no institution is immune."
The silence that follows is sharp.
Silveren doesn't look at him.
That's how Alaric knows he's crossed the line correctly.
The panel asks questions. Difficult ones. Ones designed to trip him up.
Alaric answers what he can.
When he doesn't know, he says so.
"I don't have data on that," he admits once. "But the pattern suggests-"
"That will be enough," the professor says.
The presentation ends.
The panel confers quietly.
Alaric stands still, blood rushing in his ears, legs aching. He feels hollowed out, scraped thin. But he's upright. He hasn't asked for mercy.
Finally, the panel nods.
"You may go," one of them says. "We'll release evaluations later."
Outside the room, the hallway is empty.
Alaric exhales slowly and leans against the wall, eyes closing for just a second.
He doesn't collapse.
Silveren watches him.
Up close now, Alaric looks worse than Silveren expected. Pale. Dark circles under his eyes. Shoulders tense like they've forgotten how to relax.
He should have broken.
That was the expectation.
Instead, he adapted.
Silveren speaks into the quiet hallway. "You cut it close."
Alaric opens his eyes. "I didn't miss it."
"No," Silveren says. "You didn't."
There's something sharp in his tone now.
Frustration.
"If you'd failed," Silveren continues, "this would have ended."
"And because I didn't?" Alaric asks.
Silveren meets his gaze. "Now it gets complicated."
Alaric lets out a tired, humorless breath. "It already was."
Silveren doesn't respond immediately. His eyes trace Alaric's posture, the tension in his hands, the exhaustion he refuses to acknowledge.
"You survived," Silveren says finally.
Alaric straightens fully. "I didn't survive you."
Silveren's jaw tightens.
"I survived this place."
The words hit harder than any insult.
Silveren looks away first.
Not because he's ashamed.
Because he's annoyed.
Failure would have been easy. Clean. Predictable.
This this quiet resilience, this refusal to fall apart forces recalculation.
And Silveren hates recalculating.
As Alaric walks away down the hall, slow but steady, Silveren watches until he's gone.
Still standing.
Still unbroken.
And that, Silveren realizes, bothers him far more than defeat ever could.