The archmage did not ask immediately.
That, more than anything, unsettled me.
Morning passed without interruption. Training resumed as if the previous night had not ended with the world holding its breath around me. The pressure lingered, subdued but present, like a thought left unfinished.
It followed me into the practice yard.
Steel rang. Feet shifted. Commands were given and obeyed. I moved with deliberate precision, careful not to let instinct outrun restraint. Every correction I refused felt heavier than a mistake would have.
The archmage watched from the stone steps.
He did not open his book.
It was only after training ended that he approached.
Not in ceremony. Not in secrecy.
He walked beside me as though we had always shared the same path.
"You held it again," he said. "Longer this time."
I nodded. There was no pride in that. Only fatigue.
"Most do not," he continued. "They think restraint is weakness. They confuse control with obedience."
We stopped beneath the shade of an old pillar, its stone worn smooth by centuries of hands that had leaned and waited.
"You understand the difference already," he said.
He turned to face me then.
Up close, his presence was heavier—not oppressive, but absolute, as though the space around him had learned to behave.
"I did not come here looking for students," he said. "And I have not taken one in longer than this house remembers."
His gaze sharpened—not evaluating my strength, but my endurance.
"I am asking you to become my first disciple."
The words settled slowly.
Not because I didn't understand them.
But because I understood their cost.
I did not answer immediately.
Being a trainee had rules. Clear boundaries. Predictable consequences. This offer had none of those. It reached beyond the walls of the household, beyond routine, into a future that no longer belonged entirely to me.
"You won't be trained like others," he said, reading the silence. "There will be no comfort in progress. No praise for talent. Only responsibility."
I met his eyes.
"And if I refuse?"
A faint smile touched his lips—not disappointment, not relief.
"Then you will still awaken," he said. "Just without guidance. And the world will notice you far sooner than you're ready for."
The weight of the choice pressed against the quiet inside me.
I thought of restraint. Of the pressure waiting patiently. Of how close I had come to letting the world bend without asking permission.
"I don't want power," I said at last.
The archmage nodded once.
"That," he replied, "is why I asked."
He did not demand an answer.
Instead, he placed his book into my hands—just for a moment.
It was heavier than it looked.
"Think," he said. "Until tomorrow."
Then he stepped away, leaving me alone with the weight of a future that had finally named itself