Becoming the top trainee did not change the routine.
It changed how closely everything was watched.
The following days unfolded as they always had, with the same drills, the same hours, the same expectations placed on my body, yet the absence of ceremony made the shift more noticeable. Where attention had once been diffuse, it now settled with intent, lingering longer than necessary, as though the Noble House had finally decided that I was worth observing in detail.
I was placed at the front of formations without explanation.
Pairings adjusted themselves around me, positioning me against newer trainees and more experienced ones alike, not to test my dominance, but to see how consistently I would perform under expectation. Each match carried quiet weight, not because victory was demanded, but because deviation would be noticed.
Failure, I realized, would no longer be overlooked.
The other trainees felt it too.
Conversations quieted when I approached, and distance formed without hostility, shaped instead by caution. Some watched with curiosity, others with restrained resentment, but none challenged my position openly. The absence of confrontation made the pressure heavier, as though whatever response they might have offered was being postponed until it could be justified.
I did not respond to any of it.
I trained.
The instructors changed subtly.
Corrections became more precise, less forgiving. Mistakes that would once have been adjusted quietly were now allowed to unfold fully, as though they wanted to see how I recovered rather than whether I made them. Fatigue was no longer something they monitored closely; it was something they expected me to manage without guidance.
I understood what was being asked of me.
Not excellence.
Reliability.
The training itself intensified without formal declaration.
Stamina drills extended further into exhaustion, sword exercises demanded precision after fatigue had already set in, and rest became something I took only when the body demanded it beyond reason. The tests were no longer about whether I could endure once, but whether I could endure repeatedly without degradation.
Endurance, I learned, was now my responsibility.
Elisa noticed the change before I did.
I saw it in the way her movements slowed when she passed the training grounds, in the brief moments her attention lingered before discipline reclaimed her expression. She did not speak to me, and I did not look at her for longer than was safe, but her awareness felt heavier than the instructors' scrutiny.
Someone else was counting now.
At night, the weight settled deeper than muscle.
Lying awake, I found that exhaustion no longer quieted thought as it once had. Instead, it sharpened it, forcing awareness of the position I now occupied. Being at the top did not grant protection. It removed anonymity.
I was no longer someone the Noble House tolerated.
I was someone it expected from.
No reward followed.
No acknowledgment was offered.
But when new standards were applied without explanation, when pressure increased without warning, and when my presence began to influence the structure around me, I understood the truth of what had changed.
Becoming the top trainee was not an achievement.
It was a responsibility I had never asked for.
And here, responsibility was simply another word for exposure.