The morning after the presentation, Ravenshade looks the same.
Cold stone. Clean lines. Students moving with practiced ease, voices low, confidence worn like a uniform. If Alaric hadn't known better, he would've believed nothing had changed.
But his body tells a different story.
He wakes before his alarm, heart already racing, exhaustion heavy in his limbs. His eyes burn from lack of sleep, and when he sits up, the room tilts slightly before settling. He waits it out, breathing slow, letting the moment pass.
Survival has taught him patience.
By the time he leaves his dorm, his face is calm again. Controlled. He's learned how to arrange himself into something acceptable.
The first difference shows itself in the hallway.
People look at him.
Not openly. Not with hostility. Just enough to register. Conversations pause when he passes. A girl he's never spoken to nods once before looking away. Someone shifts to give him space not avoidance, not welcome. Recognition.
Alaric keeps walking.
He doesn't rush. He doesn't linger. He moves like he belongs here, even if his bones still feel like they're catching up to the idea.
His first class is quiet.
He takes a seat near the back, drops his bag at his feet, opens his notebook. The professor starts on time, voice even, material familiar. Alaric writes steadily, his hand slower than usual but precise. He doesn't miss anything.
Halfway through the lecture, he feels it.
That weight.
Not pressure this time attention.
He doesn't look up immediately. He finishes the sentence he's writing, dots the last letter carefully, then lifts his gaze.
Silveren Vale sits two rows ahead.
He isn't turned around. He doesn't need to be.
Silveren's presence has always been like that felt more than seen, a constant awareness at the edge of things. Today, though, it's sharper. Focused.
Watching.
Alaric doesn't react.
That's new.
Before, Silveren's attention had felt like a blade against his throat something to brace against, something that demanded response. Now it's just… there.
Alaric lowers his gaze again and keeps writing.
From the front of the lecture hall, Silveren notices.
He notices everything.
Rowan no. Rowan isn't here yet. Silveren corrects the thought automatically, irritation flickering through him. He shouldn't be distracted. Not now. Not by possibilities that haven't entered the board yet.
But he is.
Alaric Rowan sits straighter than he did a week ago. His movements are economical. No wasted energy. No visible tension. The dark circles under his eyes are there if you know how to look but there's no fragility in him anymore.
He endured.
Worse he adapted.
Silveren's jaw tightens slightly.
That wasn't the outcome he'd expected.
After class, the corridor fills quickly. Students pack up, voices rising, shoes echoing against polished floors. Alaric waits until the worst of it passes before standing. His legs protest faintly, but he ignores it.
Someone brushes his shoulder as they pass.
"Hey," the stranger says quickly, not unkindly. "Good job yesterday."
Alaric blinks. "Thanks."
The word feels strange in his mouth.
By the time he reaches the quad, the pattern has repeated itself three times. A look held too long. A quiet acknowledgment. No praise. No sympathy.
Just awareness.
It follows him into the library.
A librarian he doesn't recognize checks his card, then pauses. "Your access is fully restored," she says. "No restrictions."
"When?" Alaric asks.
She glances at the screen. "This morning."
He nods once and moves past her.
Fully restored.
That should feel like victory. Relief. Validation.
Instead, it feels like a test he didn't realize he was still taking.
He chooses a table near the window and sits, setting his bag down carefully. His reflection stares back at him in the glass—tired eyes, set mouth, shoulders that haven't quite learned how to relax yet.
He opens his notebook.
For the first time in days, his hands don't shake.
Across campus, Silveren stands in the administrative corridor, listening to a faculty member speak without really hearing a word of it. His attention drifts not outward, but inward, toward a growing sense of irritation he hasn't yet placed.
"President Vale?"
Silveren blinks once. "Yes."
"The review committee approved Rowan's continuation without conditions," the faculty member continues. "Given his performance, we felt it was appropriate."
Silveren nods slowly. "Of course."
The faculty member hesitates, then adds, "He handled the pressure well."
After the door closes, Silveren remains where he is.
Handled the pressure well.
He exhales quietly through his nose.
That wasn't the intention.
Alaric doesn't feel victorious as the day goes on. He feels… recalibrated. Like something inside him has shifted just enough to change how the world presses back.
He doesn't seek Silveren out.
He doesn't avoid him either.
And that, Silveren realizes by late afternoon, is the problem.
From the upper level of the academic wing, Silveren watches Alaric cross the quad below. The boy's pace is steady, unhurried. He doesn't look up. He doesn't need to.
He moves like someone who knows he can endure the next blow.
Silveren's fingers tighten slightly at his side.
Endurance was supposed to wear him down.
Instead, it sharpened him.
Silveren turns away from the window, irritation settling deep in his chest quiet, controlled, dangerous.
Approval would have been easier.
This is not approval.
This is the unsettling awareness that something he tried to break has learned how to stand on its own.
And Silveren Vale has never liked things he couldn't predict.