Luke wrote at night.
Not because inspiration demanded it, but because the Academy grew quieter after curfew. The corridors lost their echoes. The wards slowed their patrols. Fewer eyes lingered in the margins.
He sat alone at the narrow desk in his dormitory room, a single lumilamp dimmed low. Beyond the window, the Academy's towers glowed faintly as layered sigils traced patient arcs through the air—always watching, never blinking.
The assignment lay open before him.
Analyze what the First Lattice prevents.
No diagrams required.
No casting permitted.
Luke did not begin with conclusions.
He began with exclusions.
He wrote slowly, each line deliberate.
•Nonconforming flow patterns
•Asymmetric resonance
•Context-dependent variance
•Contextual contradictions
He stopped.
That's not what it prevents, Luke thought. That's what it fears.
He drew a clean line through the list and started again.
The First Lattice, he wrote, enforces predictability. It assumes that magic behaves identically under identical conditions. In doing so, it rejects phenomena that depend on interpretation, environment, or the observer.
His pen hovered.
Observer.
Luke allowed the word to settle before continuing.
The lattice does not fail because it is wrong.
It fails because it insists on being complete.
He added a footnote—small, precise.
Completeness is an assumption, not a proof.
The lumilamp flickered.
Luke froze. He felt it before he saw it—a subtle pressure slipping into the room, thin and exact. A ward, lightly engaged. Not intrusive.
Attentive.
He finished the paragraph anyway.
When he set the pen down, the analysis was shorter than expected. Fewer pages. Fewer words than was safe.
Luke read it once. Then again.
No provocations.
No instructions.
No alternatives proposed.
Only absences.
He sealed the pages and exhaled.
That should be enough, he thought. Or too much.
The next morning, the Academy moved differently.
Not louder. Not faster.
Sharper.
Luke felt it in the corridors—in the way instructors paused when he passed, in the glances students cut toward him before looking away. When he reached the administrative wing, a clerk accepted his submission without comment and slid it into a metal tray already half-filled.
Luke noticed the sigil etched along the rim.
Review-level, he realized. Not grading.
He left before the thought could settle.
Professor Caldrin read the analysis alone.
He did not summon Luke. He did not mark the margins. He did not annotate.
He read it twice.
Then once more with the wards lowered.
Caldrin leaned back, fingers steepled.
"It's careful," he murmured. "And that's the problem."
He folded the pages and stood.
By midday, Luke was escorted—politely—out of Fundamentals and beneath the administrative wing again. This chamber was larger than the last. Circular. Bright. A stone table occupied the center, its surface layered with sigils that hummed softly, awaiting consensus.
Three figures were already present.
Magister Vaelor.
Examiner Halvrek.
And a woman Luke did not recognize.
She wore no Academy colors. Her robes were unmarked, her presence understated in a way that demanded attention. When she looked at Luke, her gaze was sharp—measuring.
"Candidate Ardentis," Vaelor said. "This will be brief."
The woman spoke first.
"Your analysis," she said evenly, "was circulated."
Luke's expression did not change. "Among whom?"
"Those who read for implications."
Halvrek frowned. "You imply intent where there was none."
The woman did not look at him. "On the contrary. The absence of intent is the implication."
Vaelor raised a hand. "Your paper violates no statute," he said. "However, it raises questions."
Luke nodded. "That was the assignment."
The woman studied him. "You identified the lattice's blind spots without proposing alternatives."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because proposing alternatives would be irresponsible," Luke replied. "Without context."
Silence stretched.
The woman tapped the table once.
The sigils brightened—recording.
"You understand," she said, "that by naming what the lattice refuses, you invite others to look there."
Luke met her gaze. "People were already looking," he said calmly. "I only described where not to."
Halvrek looked away.
Vaelor watched Luke closely.
At last, the woman leaned back. "Observation status remains," she said. "But the scope has changed."
Luke felt it—a subtle shift, like a lens refocusing.
"You will attend an auxiliary seminar," she continued. "Invitation only. No casting. No demonstrations."
"And the purpose?" Luke asked.
"To see," she replied, "whether your thinking stabilizes under scrutiny."
Luke inclined his head. "When?"
"Soon."
The meeting ended without ceremony.
As Luke stepped back into the corridor, he felt the Academy recalibrating around him.
Not retreating.
Adapting.
They're moving the test, he realized. Out of the classroom.
Luke walked on, pace steady.
If the lattice refused certain questions—
—then he would ask them where it could no longer ignore the answers.
End of Chapter 4