Lyle kept his head down as he crossed the Academy's inner courtyard.
The sky had turned slate gray. Not stormy—just tired. The kind of afternoon where the sun hides behind clouds and everyone walks a little quieter than they need to.
Students were still buzzing about the casting evaluation from earlier. Most of them were bragging. Some were limping. A few whispered about him.
Not loudly.
But enough.
He could feel the glances.
Some curious.
Some cautious.
None kind.
> Good. Let them think I'm strange. Mysterious gets ignored. Dangerous gets eliminated.
He reached the northern archway and was about to head back to the barracks when a voice stopped him cold.
"Greenbottle."
He turned.
A tall man in a midnight-blue robe leaned against a wall just beneath the carved sigil of the Instructor's Tower. His arms were folded. No nameplate. No formal badge.
But his eyes...
They glowed faintly gold.
Not a spell.
Not artifice.
Legacy.
The kind of glow you couldn't fake.
Lyle straightened his posture, but kept his face unreadable.
"Yes?"
"You've been selected for something," the man said calmly. "Come."
"That's not usually how invitations work."
"No. It isn't."
He turned and walked into the shadows beneath the arch.
Lyle hesitated only a second—then followed.
---
They didn't go to the Instructor's Tower.
They went beneath it.
Down a narrow stairwell that twisted like a corkscrew beneath the stone, deeper than most cadets even knew the tower extended. Cold, damp air hit his lungs as they descended, torches lighting one by one as they passed.
"This isn't official protocol," Lyle said under his breath.
"No," the man replied. "It's far more interesting than that."
They emerged into a chamber far below the Academy—a forgotten vault, square and symmetrical, with stone benches circling an old ring inlaid into the floor.
In the center was a single seat. Empty.
And seated on the benches were four other people—two men, two women—none in cadet uniforms.
They didn't speak. Just watched him.
The man in the blue robe turned and faced him properly for the first time.
"Lyle Greenbottle," he said. "Your spells adapt in real time. Your mana signature flickers between fixed patterns. And you've triggered two surveillance sweeps in under three weeks."
Lyle said nothing.
Didn't move.
Didn't even blink.
The man smiled faintly.
"Good. You know how to stay quiet."
"What is this?"
"We call it the Veiled Path," the man replied. "It's not a club. It's not a reward. It's an opportunity. The Academy doesn't train everyone the same way. The ones with… complications… go through different doors."
He gestured to the stone seat.
"You sit. You're tested. Not for strength. Not for power. For something else."
"What?"
"Intent."
Lyle stared at the chair.
The air around it shimmered, faintly.
It wasn't enchanted.
It was alive.
He glanced toward the seated figures. One woman gave him a slow nod.
"Or," the man said, "you can walk away. We won't ask twice. But if you leave, this room forgets you ever came."
The silence was absolute.
The Codex whispered faintly in his chest—too soft to read.
But it wanted him to stay.
And something older wanted to see what he'd do.
Lyle stepped forward.
And sat.
The seat hissed softly beneath him.
Not from heat.
From recognition.