The academy pretended nothing had changed.
That was the part that bothered me most.
Classes ran on schedule. Bells rang. Professors lectured about mana flow and historical treaties as if no one was carving coercive curses into first-years and daring me to notice. Students laughed too loudly in corridors, their voices brittle at the edges. Guards walked their routes with the same measured pace as always.
But the air was wrong.
It pressed in on the skin. Not cold, not heavy—expectant.
By the time I reached the clinic the next morning, there were no students waiting outside.
That should have been a relief.
It wasn't.
The corridor was empty in a way that felt staged, like a room after furniture had been quietly removed. Even the echoes of my footsteps sounded too clean.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The wards flared then hesitated.
Just a fraction of a second.
My hand stilled on the latch.
"Don't do that," I muttered, pressing my palm to the sigil and reinforcing the pattern manually. The ward snapped back into place with a low hum that vibrated up my arm.
Residual interference.
Someone had brushed against the clinic's perimeter wards overnight. Not enough to breach them. Enough to test.
I exhaled slowly and crossed the room, shrugging out of my coat. The smell of the clinic hit me immediately ink, old paper, linen and beneath it, something sharp and unfamiliar.
Oil.
Not lamp oil. Alchemical.
My gaze dropped to the desk.
A letter lay there.
Cream-colored paper. No seal. No signature. It hadn't been there when I'd locked up last night.
I didn't touch it right away.
I circled the desk once, checking the floor, the shelves, the window. No disturbances. No obvious curse residue. Whoever had placed it here hadn't forced their way in.
They'd been invited.
Or they'd been clever.
I finally picked up the letter.
The paper was heavier than it looked. Expensive. The kind nobles used when they wanted to remind you they could afford better than you.
It smelled faintly of roses.
I unfolded it.
> Mr. Theo Ashford,
Your talents have not gone unnoticed.
It would be regrettable if misunderstandings were allowed to escalate when they could instead be… guided.
Discretion protects all parties. Visibility invites scrutiny.
I would welcome the opportunity to discuss how your work might continue without unnecessary attention.
—A Friend
I stared at the words until they blurred.
"No," I said aloud to the empty room. "You don't get to call yourself that."
The letter wasn't a threat.
That was the problem.
Threats were honest.
This was an offer.
I crumpled the paper in my fist, then stopped. Uncrumpled it carefully. Folded it once. Twice. Slid it into the bottom drawer of the desk.
Evidence mattered.
A knock sounded at the door.
Not hesitant.
Not authoritative.
Careful.
I straightened and opened it to find Professor Miriam Thorne standing there, arms wrapped around a stack of books she definitely didn't need help carrying.
"You're early," I said.
She smiled faintly. "So are you. That's usually a bad sign."
I stepped aside to let her in. As the door closed behind her, the wards hummed and this time, they held steady.
Good.
"You look tired," she said, setting the books down and studying my face with an expression that had nothing to do with diagnosis.
"I am."
She sighed softly. "I was hoping you wouldn't say that."
I raised an eyebrow. "Why? Planning to scold me?"
"No," she said. "Planning to warn you."
That got my attention.
She didn't sit. Didn't even take off her gloves. She paced the room once, fingertips brushing the spines of the books I kept pretending I'd organize someday.
"There was a closed meeting last night," she said. "Faculty only. No minutes recorded."
My shoulders tensed. "About me."
"Yes."
"What was decided?"
"That you are… useful," she said carefully. "And therefore inconvenient."
I let out a short breath. "That's not reassuring."
"It's worse," she replied. "They're divided."
"On what?"
"On whether to protect you," she said, "or control you."
Silence settled between us.
Miriam met my gaze squarely. "Theo, someone is positioning themselves as your intermediary. They're offering to 'manage' requests. Filter patients. Reduce visibility."
"And in exchange?"
She hesitated. "Access. Influence. Silence."
My jaw tightened. "They left me a letter."
Her eyes flicked to the desk drawer. She didn't ask how she knew.
"That was fast," she murmured.
"I'm not interested."
"I know," she said. "That's why I'm here."
She finally sat, removing her gloves and folding them neatly in her lap. The small domestic gesture felt strangely grounding.
"There's something else," she said. "About the coercive curse you suppressed yesterday."
I looked up sharply. "What about it?"
"It wasn't experimental," she said. "It was referential."
I frowned. "Explain."
"The inscription pattern," she continued. "It matches an older template. One used by a specific circle within the Church." Her voice dropped. "They don't usually operate at the academy level."
"So why now?"
"Because someone told them you wouldn't interfere," she said quietly. "Or that if you did, you'd be… persuaded otherwise."
Anger flared, hot and immediate. "They marked a student to test me."
"Yes."
"And if I'd refused treatment?"
"They would have learned that pressure works."
"And because I didn't?"
"They'll escalate."
I scrubbed a hand over my face. "I'm not equipped for this."
Miriam leaned forward. "You are. You just don't want to be."
"That's not the same thing."
"No," she agreed. "But it rarely matters to people like them."
Another knock interrupted us.
This one was sharper. Impatient.
I opened the door to find two academy guards standing rigidly at attention and behind them, Headmistress Valentina Cross.
She didn't bother with pleasantries.
"You're coming with me," she said.
Miriam rose immediately. "Is that necessary?"
"Yes," Valentina replied. "And overdue."
I locked the clinic behind me as we walked, my mind racing. Students watched from doorways and stairwells, whispers trailing us like smoke.
We didn't go to her office.
We went lower.
Down past the administrative wing, into the older part of the academy where the stone was darker and the air smelled faintly of damp earth and old magic.
Valentina stopped before a door I'd never seen before. No markings. No handle. Just smooth stone.
She placed her palm against it.
The door opened.
Inside was a circular chamber, warded so heavily the air buzzed against my skin. Candles burned along the walls, their flames unnaturally still.
"Sit," she said.
I did.
She didn't.
"They're moving sooner than I expected," she said without preamble. "Church observers, noble intermediaries, internal collaborators."
"You knew this would happen," I said.
"Yes," she replied calmly. "But not how quickly you'd become the focal point."
"I didn't ask for that."
"No one ever does," she said. "But you have it anyway."
She studied me for a long moment, then spoke more quietly.
"You have three options, Theo."
I braced myself.
"First," she said, "you accept an intermediary. Let them manage demand. You gain protection at the cost of autonomy."
"No," I said immediately.
She nodded. "Second, you go underground. Fewer patients. Less visibility. You survive, but others will suffer for it."
"No," I repeated.
"Third," she said, eyes sharp, "you step fully into the light."
I swallowed. "Meaning?"
"Meaning you stop pretending you're a quiet anomaly," she said. "You formalize your role. You choose allies openly. You let certain people be seen standing with you."
Seraphina's words echoed in my head.
Visibility invites scrutiny.
"What happens then?" I asked.
Valentina's smile was thin. "Pressure increases. Lines harden. And those testing you will be forced to show their hands."
"That's dangerous," I said.
"Yes," she agreed. "But it's honest."
I leaned back in the chair, heart pounding.
"If I do this," I said slowly, "people get hurt."
"They already are," she replied.
Silence fell.
Finally, she said, "You don't have to answer now. But understand this indecision is also a choice. And it's the one your enemies prefer."
She turned and left me there, the door sealing shut behind her.
I sat alone in the humming chamber, palms warm, pulse racing, the weight of every line being drawn pressing down on my chest.
Pressure didn't ask permission.
It simply revealed what shape you were willing to take.