The fracture did not announce itself.
It arrived the way tension often does, quietly and without ceremony, settling into the spaces between people rather than striking them apart outright. Genevieve noticed it first at breakfast, not because anything was said, but because of what was not.
The dining hall was full, yet conversations felt contained, folded inward. Laughter rose only in brief bursts before subsiding again. Seats were chosen carefully now, not out of habit but consideration. Some candidates clustered together with obvious intent. Others sat alone, shoulders drawn tight, eyes lowered as though bracing against something unseen.
Genevieve sat beside Devyn near the far end of one of the long tables, Sylvester curled beneath her chair. Devyn's shoulder brushed hers when he reached for his cup, a familiar, grounding contact that steadied her more than she realized. He did not move away.
Across from them, Tomas pushed his food around his plate, appetite clearly absent. His gaze kept drifting toward the center of the hall, where a small group had gathered around Liora. They spoke in low voices, heads bent close together.
"They're doing it again," Tomas muttered.
"Doing what?" Genevieve asked softly.
He hesitated, then exhaled through his nose. "Deciding things without saying them out loud."
Devyn followed his gaze, expression thoughtful. "People like certainty," he said quietly. "Especially when they feel like they're being measured."
"That doesn't make it fair," Tomas replied, his voice tight.
"No," Genevieve said, meeting his eyes. "But it does make it human."
Tomas looked unconvinced, but he nodded once, as if accepting the answer even if he didn't like it.
The morning session was held in one of Agragore's lesser-used wings, a narrow corridor lined with shallow stone alcoves. Each alcove held a basin of clear water, its surface unnervingly still.
"In this exercise," the instructor said, voice echoing softly against stone, "you will observe without interfering."
No magic was to be shaped. No energy summoned. They were instructed only to stand before the basin and become aware.
Genevieve faced her basin and focused on her breathing. At first, all she saw was her reflection, slightly warped by the curve of the stone. Then the water shifted. Ripples formed without touch, subtle and uneven, responding to something beyond sight.
Her instinct was to steady them.
She resisted.
Listen.
The ripples softened, settling into a gentler rhythm. Not gone, but balanced.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Tomas frowning, shoulders tense, his basin's surface agitated and unstable. Liora's, by contrast, barely moved at all, its stillness almost unnerving.
When the exercise ended, the instructor gave no commentary. No praise. No correction.
As they filed out, Genevieve felt the familiar pressure brush against her awareness. She acknowledged it, then let it pass. She was learning that not every sensation required response.
The day unfolded in fragments.
A lecture on magical ethics that emphasized restraint over consequence. A solitary walk through the western gardens, where the paths curved unpredictably but responded kindly to patience. An hour in the library wing, where books seemed to shift subtly when left unattended.
It was there that Devyn spoke again.
He sat across from her at a long table near one of the tall windows, his voice low. "Liora's been talking to the instructors."
Genevieve looked up from the page she hadn't been reading. "About what?"
"About Tomas. And a few others."
Her chest tightened. "Is he in trouble?"
Devyn shook his head. "Not officially. But she's worried. She thinks the academy is narrowing its focus."
Genevieve glanced toward Tomas, who sat alone at a nearby table, his posture rigid. "That's not new."
"No," Devyn agreed. "But this is the first time someone's said it out loud."
That afternoon, Genevieve found Tomas alone in a small courtyard, seated on a low stone wall with his head bowed. She approached slowly, Devyn lingering a respectful distance behind her without being asked.
"Mind if I sit?" she asked.
Tomas looked up, startled, then shrugged. "Sure."
She joined him, the stone cool beneath her palms. "You've been quiet."
He huffed a humorless laugh. "I keep thinking I've figured it out. What they want. How to move. And then it changes."
Genevieve nodded. "It does."
"How do you handle that?" he asked, looking at her directly now. "The not knowing."
She thought for a moment. "I don't try to outrun it," she said. "I let it show me where I'm supposed to stand."
Tomas frowned. "That sounds like something an instructor would say."
She smiled faintly. "Maybe. But it's also the only thing that's worked for me."
Devyn stepped closer then, his presence calm and unassuming. "You're not failing because it's hard," he added. "It's hard because it's meant to be."
Tomas looked between them, something like frustration giving way to reluctant relief. "Thanks," he said quietly.
That evening, a gathering formed again in the courtyard. This time it was more deliberate. Candidates lingered after the final session, drawn together by shared unease.
Liora spoke first. "I don't think Agragore is trying to divide us," she said evenly. "I think it's asking us to decide how we respond to difference."
"And what if some of us can't keep up?" Tomas asked.
A murmur rippled through the group.
Genevieve stepped forward before she could second-guess herself. Devyn shifted with her, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched.
"Then we help each other," she said.
Several heads turned. Some expressions softened. Others tightened.
One candidate scoffed quietly. "Easy to say when the academy favors you."
The words stung, though Genevieve kept her expression steady. "It doesn't favor me," she said. "It notices me. There's a difference."
"And you're fine with that?" another asked, skepticism clear.
"I'm not," she replied honestly. "But ignoring each other won't make it better."
Devyn spoke then, his voice calm but firm. "No one here is invisible unless we let them be."
Silence followed. Not agreement. Not rejection. Just weight.
Liora studied Genevieve for a long moment, then nodded. "That's fair."
Not everyone agreed. A few candidates exchanged glances, envy and doubt flickering across their faces. Others looked relieved, as though someone had finally voiced what they'd been afraid to say.
The fracture was still subtle.
But it was there.
That night, Genevieve returned to her room feeling both lighter and more exposed. She set the token on the desk, watching it warm beneath her fingers.
Sylvester hopped up beside it. "You made yourself visible," he said.
"I didn't mean to," she replied.
"That's usually when it matters."
She lay awake longer than usual, thoughts drifting and settling. She thought of Tomas's relief. Liora's measured approval. The skepticism in some of the others' eyes. Devyn's steady presence at her side.
Whatever lines were forming within Agragore, she knew one thing with certainty.
She would not let them form in silence.
And when sleep finally came, it was not filled with dreams of watching walls or listening stone.
It was filled instead with faces.
With voices.
With the quiet, persistent weight of choosing to stand where others hesitated—and knowing she would not be standing alone.