I did not refuse the archmage because I doubted him.
That distinction mattered.
We stood where the household's authority softened into open ground, where stone paths ended and grass reclaimed its place. He waited with the patience of someone who had already accounted for every answer I might give.
"I won't go with you," I said.
The words settled between us without resistance.
"I need to stay," I continued. "I need to finish what I started here. Swordsmanship. Knighthood. This house took me in for that purpose."
The archmage did not interrupt. He did not frown. His silence was not permission—it was measurement.
"You believe the path must remain singular," he said at last. "That choosing one requires abandoning the other."
I met his gaze.
"I believe leaving now would turn everything I've built into a lie."
That earned a reaction.
Not anger.
Interest.
"You're afraid," he said calmly.
"No," I replied. "I'm anchored."
The distinction mattered to me, even if it didn't to the world.
If I left, I would become something undefined—neither knight nor mage, belonging nowhere. If I stayed, I would at least remain honest to the version of myself that had survived this long without breaking.
The archmage studied me for a long moment.
Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.