Rethan stopped speaking to me three days after the evaluation.
Not openly. Not dramatically.
He still answered when spoken to. Still stood in the same spaces. Still trained on the same grounds. But something had shifted, subtle at first, then impossible to ignore.
Distance had formed.
It showed in small things. The way he no longer matched his pace to mine when we walked. The way his laughter came quicker around others and died faster when I was near. The way his eyes slid past me instead of meeting my gaze.
Sil noticed it before I did.
"He is measuring himself," Sil said quietly one evening as we watched trainees cycle through basic drills.
"Against me?" I asked.
"Against what you represent," he replied.
I wanted to argue. To say Rethan was stronger than that. That we had trained together too long for envy to take root so easily.
But the memory of his voice during the evaluation stopped me.
You fail at what we train for, and it still listens.
The academy changed as well.
Not in structure. In tone.
Instructors corrected more sharply. Administrators lingered longer near training grounds. Unscheduled evaluations increased. Mana measurements became routine.
They were mapping the edges of something.
Of me.
And everyone around me felt it.
That included Rethan.
We were paired for combat drills on the fourth day after the evaluation.
Not officially sparring. Controlled engagement.
The kind meant to test reflex and restraint.
When our names were called together, a murmur rippled through the trainees. I felt the weight of expectation settle immediately, heavy and unwelcome.
Rethan stepped onto the platform without looking at me.
I followed.
The instructor's voice echoed calmly. "Minimal output. First contact only. No escalation."
Rethan nodded.
I did too.
The bell rang.
Rethan moved first.
Faster than usual.
The air responded instantly, lifting him into a low arc as he closed the distance. His control was precise, refined. Years of training made visible.
I stepped aside, redirecting his momentum without touching him. The space between us tightened briefly, enough to shift his trajectory.
He landed hard and turned immediately, eyes sharp.
Again.
He came in low this time, wind compressing around his legs, boosting speed and force. I felt the intent clearly, not hostile, but urgent.
Proving.
I braced and let the pressure in my chest rise just enough to steady myself. Not to act.
Just to be ready.
Rethan struck.
The air twisted between us. His blow slid wide, redirected by a subtle shift in space. He stumbled, caught himself, then froze.
The platform was silent.
The instructor raised a hand. "Enough."
Rethan straightened slowly.
I opened my mouth. "I did not mean to."
He laughed.
Not loudly.
Not kindly.
"You never do," he said.
The words landed harder than any strike.
Later, I found him alone near the outer wall, staring out over the city. The wind tugged at his clothes, lifting his hair slightly.
"You were better today," I said.
He did not turn. "I was the same."
"That is not true."
He looked at me then. His eyes were tired.
"I train every day," he said. "I refine. I control. I push my limits the right way."
I stayed silent.
"And you," he continued, "step wrong once and bend the world around it."
"That is not how it feels," I replied.
"That is how it looks," he said sharply. "And that is all anyone else cares about."
I swallowed. "I never wanted this."
"I know," he said. "That is the worst part."
We stood there in silence until the wind grew cold.
That night, the city slept uneasily.
I could feel it in the way mana shifted, restless and uneven. The pressure in my chest responded faintly, not alarmed, but aware.
I found Lira in the records hall, long after most clerks had gone.
She looked up when I entered, surprise flickering across her face before she masked it.
"You should not be here this late," she said.
"So should you."
She smiled faintly and gestured toward the scattered tablets. "Deadlines do not care about daylight."
I hesitated near the doorway. "Rethan is pulling away."
She studied me for a moment. "Because he is afraid?"
"Because he feels replaced," I said.
"That is not the same thing," she replied.
I frowned.
"Fear looks outward," she explained. "Resentment looks inward."
The words settled uncomfortably.
"He does not hate you," she continued. "He hates what he cannot become."
I leaned against a shelf, exhaustion weighing heavy in my bones. "I do not want to lose him."
"You already are," she said gently. "The question is how."
Her honesty hurt.
We worked in silence for a while. The quiet was not awkward. It felt shared.
At some point, she handed me a cup of tea without looking at me. Our fingers brushed briefly.
Neither of us pulled away.
"I see patterns too," she said softly. "The academy is closing in."
"I know."
"And Rethan," she added, "is being watched."
That made my chest tighten. "Why?"
"Because he is close to you," she replied. "And because he is struggling."
The next day, Rethan failed an assessment.
Not badly. But publicly.
His mana control slipped during a precision drill. Nothing dangerous. Enough to draw attention.
I saw the moment it happened. The flicker of frustration. The split second where control wavered.
The instructors noticed too.
Whispers followed him after that.
I wanted to say something. To help.
Instead, I watched him train harder. Push faster. Take risks he never would have before.
He was chasing something.
And it was pulling him apart.
The breaking point came during a joint exercise two days later.
A simulated Scar breach. Controlled environment. Multiple trainees assigned roles.
Rethan and I were placed on the same team.
When the construct emerged, unstable and aggressive, Rethan charged without waiting for coordination.
"Rethan," Sil shouted. "Hold position."
Rethan did not.
He unleashed a powerful Aero burst, overextending his circuits. The construct reeled but did not fall. It struck back hard.
I moved without thinking.
The pressure surged.
Space compressed.
The construct's strike bent away from Rethan, slamming into the reinforced wall instead.
The platform shook.
The exercise ended instantly.
Rethan stood frozen, staring at me.
"You saved me," he said.
"Yes."
His expression twisted. "Again."
The silence afterward was worse than shouting.
Later, he found me near the dormitory.
"You cannot keep doing that," he said.
"Letting you get hurt?"
"Making me look weak," he snapped.
I stared at him. "I would rather you live."
"That is easy to say when you do not have to prove yourself," he replied.
The words cut deep.
"I never wanted this power," I said quietly.
"But you have it," he said. "And I do not."
We stood there, two people who had trained side by side for years, now separated by something neither of us had chosen.
Lira watched from a distance.
She did not intervene.
She understood that some fractures could not be mended by witnesses.
That night, the pressure in my chest felt heavy.
Not threatening.
Grieving.
For the first time, I wondered if protecting everyone meant losing them anyway.
And somewhere deep beneath the world, something ancient stirred, not with hunger, not with command, but with understanding.
It had seen this before.