The days that followed were quiet—but not in the way the Academy was used to.
In the wake of my first lecture, curiosity bloomed where fear had taken root. Whispers turned into conversations. Students began speaking to each other across house lines. A boy from House Terval lent his notes to a girl from a merchant family. The eldest son of a marquis nodded, for the first time, to a common-born scholar in the hallway.
Change had begun.
But even revolution needs rest.
I sat alone in the sunlit garden behind the east spire—my favorite place in the Academy so far. Lavender bushes swayed gently in the breeze, and sparrows danced on the old stone wall that marked the edge of the grounds. The grass was still damp from last night's rain, but the air smelled fresh, like the world had been rinsed clean.
I heard the soft approach of footsteps.
"Head Instructor," said a warm, careful voice. "May I join you?"
It was Lilia of House Caelwyn.
I gestured to the stone bench across from mine. "Only if you bring tea."
She laughed softly. "I thought you might say that."
To my surprise, she produced a porcelain flask and two delicate cups from a satchel slung over her shoulder. She poured with practiced hands—mint and jasmine. The scent drifted across the garden like a quiet memory.
I accepted the cup with a nod of thanks.
"You were hard on us," she said gently.
"I was honest."
She sipped. "It worked."
I tilted my head. "Did it?"
"I've been studying my family's holdings. We've been operating on inherited policies for decades—never questioning why or whether they still serve anyone but us." She paused. "It's strange, but... I feel lighter. Like I'm allowed to ask questions now."
The birds chirped in the hedge. I smiled behind my cup.
"That's the beginning of wisdom," I said. "Not knowing answers. Knowing which questions matter."
She looked at me with something between awe and sympathy.
"Do you miss it?"
I raised an eyebrow.
"War," she said. "Your sight. Being a general."
I let the breeze answer for a moment.
"No," I said. "I don't miss war. I miss the clarity. In battle, you know your enemy. Here… it's more complicated. There are no banners to charge."
"But the stakes are still high," she said.
"Higher."
We sat in silence for a time. Birds sang. Tea cooled.
Lilia broke the stillness. "May I ask something else?"
"Go ahead."
"Why the white blindfold?"
I touched the fabric lightly.
"To remind myself," I said.
"Of what?"
"That I no longer need to see the battlefield to change it."
She nodded slowly, understanding in her expression.
Then: "Would it be alright if I brought tea again? Next week?"
I smiled.
"I would be insulted if you didn't."
Later that afternoon, a soft knock came at my office door.
"Come in."
The door creaked open, and in walked an older man with a heavy build and thick mustache—his uniform tidy but worn at the edges. He saluted lazily.
"General," he grinned. "Or do I call you Professor now?"
I rose from my chair, a smile spreading across my face. "Captain Rourke."
My old second-in-command. A loyal pain in my side.
We shook hands firmly.
"I heard the Academy was falling apart under a certain blind bureaucrat," he said, sitting heavily across from me. "Thought I'd come see the damage myself."
"There's still hope for it yet," I said.
He glanced at the neat rows of student assessments on my desk. "Still reorganizing nations one student at a time, huh?"
"One heart at a time."
He chuckled.
"I like this version of you," he said. "Gentler. Still terrifying, but in a warm grandfatherly way."
"I'm twenty-eight."
"Your soul's at least seventy."
We laughed. And in that quiet room, between tea leaves and old comrades, I felt something I hadn't in years.
Peace.
Not the peace of surrender.
But the peace of building something better.