Alaric feels the weight of it immediately the expectation, the authority behind the tone. The forum has already fractured into small groups, conversations blooming and fading as people filter out. Faculty members move toward the exits. The noise returns slowly, cautiously.
Isaac Blackwell is already gone.
That detail lodges itself in Alaric's mind even as he nods once and follows Silveren toward the side corridor.
The door closes behind them with a soft click.
The hallway is narrow, lit by recessed lights that cast clean shadows along the stone walls. This isn't a place meant for confrontation. It's meant for administration. For quiet corrections.
Silveren stops a few feet ahead of him and turns.
"You spoke freely in there," he says.
Alaric doesn't pretend not to understand. "I was asked a question."
"You answered without restraint."
"I answered honestly."
Silveren studies him in silence, gaze sharp and measuring. He steps closer not into Alaric's space, but near enough to make the distance noticeable.
"Honesty," Silveren says, "is not always strategic."
Alaric lifts his chin slightly. "Neither is silence."
A pause.
"You're attracting attention," Silveren continues. "That rarely ends well."
"I didn't ask for it."
"Intent doesn't matter," Silveren replies. "Only outcomes."
Alaric exhales slowly. "Then I'll accept them."
That earns him a look brief, unreadable, edged with something darker.
"You're moving too quickly," Silveren says. "People will assume you're being positioned."
"Am I?" Alaric asks.
Silveren's gaze hardens. "You tell me."
Alaric thinks of Isaac's voice. Calm. Direct. The way he hadn't waited for permission. The way he hadn't looked at Silveren at all.
"I think," Alaric says carefully, "that people notice when things change."
Silveren steps back.
"That was a warning," he says coolly. "Not advice."
Alaric nods once. "I understand."
Silveren watches him for a long moment, as if waiting...waiting for something to crack, for a sign of retreat or concession.
It doesn't come.
Finally, Silveren turns away.
"Don't confuse tolerance with approval," he says.
Alaric watches him go, pulse steady, spine straight.
He doesn't feel victorious.
He feels… measured.
The message arrives later that night.
Alaric is seated at his desk, notes spread out in uneven stacks, the low hum of campus activity drifting through the window. He's halfway through reorganizing his week when the notification lights up his screen.
He almost ignores it.
Almost.
Cross-Departmental Research Initiative — Invitation Confirmed
He stares at it.
Reads it once.
Twice.
Then slowly sits back in his chair.
The initiative isn't new. It's one of Ravenshade's worst-kept secrets an elite research track reserved for students with the right lineage, the right backing, the right approvals. He had applied months ago.
And been rejected without explanation.
Now the invitation sits open, clean and efficient. Full access. Immediate clearance. Orientation scheduled for the following morning.
No justification.
No note.
No mention of Silveren Vale.
Alaric closes his laptop carefully.
This wasn't a negotiation.
The next day proves it.
His ID clears doors it never has before. The administrative wing feels different when you're allowed to walk its inner corridors quieter, sharper, stripped of illusion. A staff member greets him by name and hands him a folder without question.
Everything moves smoothly.
Too smoothly.
The orientation room is small. Intentional. Six students sit around the table, all of them familiar faces upper-tier, confident, well-connected.
They look at Alaric with curiosity, not confusion.
As if his presence makes sense.
The door opens.
Isaac Blackwell enters.
He doesn't acknowledge the room immediately. He doesn't need to. The facilitator straightens, voice shifting as she welcomes him. Isaac nods once and takes a seat near the head of the table.
His gaze flicks to Alaric.
Not surprised.
As if this outcome had been decided long before Alaric knew it was possible.
The session is efficient. Resources outlined. Expectations made clear. The kind of access that quietly reshapes futures.
Alaric listens, aware of the weight settling in his chest.
This isn't just opportunity.
It's positioning.
When the orientation ends, people linger. Alaric gathers his folder and turns toward the door.
"Rowan."
Isaac's voice stops him.
"Yes?" Alaric replies.
"You were blocked from this initiative before," Isaac says, as if stating a fact rather than prying.
"Yes."
"You aren't now."
"No."
Isaac studies him. "You didn't ask why."
"I assumed it wouldn't matter."
A brief pause.
"It doesn't," Isaac agrees. "What matters is what you do with it."
"And the cost?" Alaric asks.
Isaac steps closer not invading his space, but close enough that Alaric feels the shift in air, the controlled presence.
"Visibility," Isaac says. "And the expectations that come with it."
Alaric meets his gaze. "I'm already visible."
Isaac's mouth curves slightly not a smile.
"Good," he says. "Then this won't be wasted."
He turns and leaves, the decision sealed.
Silveren hears about the initiative in the worst possible way.
Casually.
A faculty member mentions it in passing during a meeting, praising the diversity of perspectives now included.
Silveren doesn't interrupt.
He listens.
Later, alone in his office, he stares out over the quad.
Alaric crosses it below, folder tucked under his arm, posture composed.
Silveren hadn't opened that door.
Which means someone else had.
The realization settles cold and sharp.
Isaac Blackwell didn't ask.
Didn't consult.
Didn't wait.
Across the courtyard, Asher Crowe leans against a pillar, watching Silveren watch Alaric.
"You didn't give him that access," Asher says lightly.
Silveren doesn't answer.
Asher smiles. "And he didn't knock."
Silveren's jaw tightens.
The board has shifted.
Not because someone challenged him.
But because someone moved without him.
And for the first time, Silveren Vale understands something he doesn't like at all
There are now too many players in the game.