"Very well," the archmage said.
The ease of his agreement unsettled me more than resistance would have.
"You will not come with me," he continued. "Then I will come to you."
I frowned. "That's not—"
"I am not finished," he said gently.
He turned his gaze toward the upper terraces of the estate, where the noble family's private quarters stood behind stone and custom.
"I will remain here for a time," he said. "Not openly. Not as a master with a disciple."
My unease sharpened.
"And I will not teach you alone."
The words landed heavier than the offer itself.
"There is another reason I was permitted to stay," the archmage went on. "The young lady of this house—the heir's younger sister—has been identified as possessing magical aptitude."
I felt the shape of the problem immediately.
"Her training will be public," he said. "Acceptable. Safe. Watched."
His eyes returned to me.
"Yours will not."
I understood then.
I would not be singled out as a mage. I would be hidden in plain sight, learning under the shadow of someone the household could justify investing in.
"And swordsmanship?" I asked.
"Untouched," he replied. "You will continue your path as a knight."
A dual existence.
One sanctioned.
One concealed.
This was not mercy.
It was strategy.