The pressure did not announce itself.
There were no summons. No warnings. No restrictions added to Luke's record.
Instead, the Academy adjusted around him.
His dorm room was reassigned—higher floor, better view, closer to the central wards. His class schedule shifted by minutes, never enough to protest, always enough to notice. Seats near him emptied faster than before. Conversations paused when he entered, then resumed with careful neutrality.
Observation had become ambient.
Luke adapted.
He shortened his routes through the corridors. Altered his study hours. He spoke less in public spaces and listened more. Patterns emerged—not threats, but preferences.
Who avoided him.
Who lingered too long.
Who pretended not to see him at all.
One name surfaced repeatedly.
Not spoken.
Circulated.
Archivist Mareth.
Luke encountered him three days after the seminar.
The man was thin, ageless in the way archivists often were, robes dusted with old sigils and newer ink stains. He stood between shelves that reached higher than the eye, cataloging something that did not appear in the public index.
"You're late," Mareth said, without looking up.
"I wasn't summoned," Luke replied.
Mareth smiled faintly. "That's how you know this isn't official."
He slid a slim folio across the desk. No seal. No crest.
"Read," Mareth said. "Or don't. Either way, someone will note your decision."
Luke did not touch the folio.
"What is it?" he asked.
"A record of things the lattice did not record," Mareth said. "Archived under misclassification."
Luke felt the margin tighten.
"Why me?" he asked.
Mareth finally looked up. His eyes were sharp, amused. "Because you don't mistake silence for absence."
Luke opened the folio.
Inside were fragments. Incomplete reports. Failed annotations. Marginal notes that contradicted official summaries—then stopped mid-sentence. Each entry ended the same way.
—Classification Unstable. Review Suspended.
Luke closed the folio slowly.
"This isn't sanctioned," he said.
"Correct."
"And you're showing it to me."
"Also correct."
Luke met the archivist's gaze. "What do you want?"
Mareth shrugged. "I want to see what you do when the Academy doesn't tell you what to think."
Luke considered the options.
Refuse—and confirm caution.
Accept—and confirm interest.
Neither was safe.
He took the folio.
"I'll return it," Luke said.
"Of course," Mareth replied. "Assuming you still agree with the definitions when you're done."
The pressure escalated that evening.
Not from the faculty.
From the students.
Luke found his door marked—not vandalized, just annotated. A chalk symbol drawn low, subtle enough to miss unless you were looking for it.
A question mark.
He erased it without comment.
At dinner, a group at the far table fell silent as he passed. Someone laughed too loudly. Someone else stood and left. The pattern repeated, imprecise but deliberate.
Elowen joined him later, tray untouched.
"They're testing proximity," she said quietly. "Seeing who breaks pattern first."
Luke nodded. "Who's encouraging it?"
She hesitated. "No one officially."
"That means more than one person," Luke said.
Elowen studied him. "You're calm."
"I'm mapping," Luke replied.
She leaned closer. "Then map this. Mareth asked three people about you today."
Luke paused. "About what?"
"About whether you ask questions," she said. "Or wait for them."
Luke finished his meal.
That night, Luke read the folio.
Not quickly. Not completely.
He cross-referenced fragments against public doctrine. Compared annotations against silences. The pattern that emerged was not a flaw in the lattice.
It was a habit.
When observation produced ambiguity, the Academy paused.
When ambiguity persisted, the record ended.
Luke wrote nothing.
He did not annotate the folio. Did not add conclusions. He simply marked the points where the record stopped—and why.
At dawn, he returned the folio.
Mareth accepted it without comment. Then glanced at Luke's hands.
"You didn't write," the archivist noted.
"No," Luke said.
Mareth nodded. "Good."
"Why?" Luke asked.
"Because writing would have made this transferable," Mareth replied. "Silence keeps it local."
Luke frowned. "That's farworse."
Mareth smiled. "Now you're learning."
The choice came later that day.
A notice appeared on Luke's schedule—temporary reassignment.
AuxiliaryPracticum. Observation Track.
Attendance: Optional.
Optional was never optional.
Elowen read over his shoulder. "This isn't a class," she said. "It's a funnel."
"For what?" Luke asked.
"For people who won't stop thinking," she replied.
Luke folded the notice.
Attending would place him inside a controlled environment.
Declining would mark him as noncompliant.
Both paths narrowed the margin.
Luke looked at the Academy's towers, at the wards that never blinked.
"They want me where they can see me," he said.
Elowen's voice dropped. "Then don't give them what they expect."
Luke nodded slowly.
He wrote one line on the notice before submitting it.
Attendance deferred. Reason: insufficient context.
For now.
As Luke walked away, the pressure sharpened—not heavier, but clearer.
They were done waiting.
And he had just chosen the one option that forced them to move.
End of Chapter 6