Days passed.
That was the problem.
Elira didn't rush. She never did. She applied pressure the way glaciers carved valleys, slowly, patiently, with inevitability. If I hadn't lived a life where adults measured you by output and potential, I might not have noticed. But I did. And I noticed everything.
She started small.
Questions between classes. Casual ones. Not about magic. Not about grades. About people. About patterns. About why instructors rotated assignments the way they did, or why certain archives were restricted on odd days only. Things that didn't matter. Until they did.
At first, I answered normally.
Then I answered carefully.
Then I started answering less.
That's when she adjusted.
She never cornered me. Never raised her voice. Never demanded. She framed everything as optional. Suggestions. Invitations. "You might find this interesting." "You probably noticed this already." "I was curious what you thought."
She treated me like a colleague.
That was the trick.
I was fourteen. She was nineteen. Five years didn't sound like much until you realized she had spent those five years learning how institutions think, how power moves without announcing itself. She wasn't stronger than me. She was positioned better.
And I was being positioned.
It showed in the schedule changes. Instructors suddenly asking me for input on lesson pacing. Being placed next to Elira more often than coincidence allowed. Being "recommended" for independent study sessions I had never requested.
I told myself it was fine.
I told myself I could handle it.
I told myself I was choosing this.
That's how you know you're being guided.
My friends noticed before I did.
"You're busy lately," one of them said over a late meal, poking at bread that had gone stale hours ago.
"Thinking too much," another added. "You used to complain more."
That one hurt.
I laughed it off. Said academy life was just like that. They didn't push. They never did. That was why I liked them. They lived in the present. I lived five steps ahead and three behind at the same time.
The pressure peaked during the third week.
Elira started walking with me uninvited.
Not every time. Just often enough.
We'd pass through the eastern courtyard, where stone paths cut through trimmed hedges and old statues of scholars nobody remembered. She would talk. I would listen. She would pause at the right moments. Let silence work for her.
I hated how effective it was.
One afternoon, after she spent ten uninterrupted minutes explaining a hypothetical logistical failure in border defense that no class had assigned, I stopped walking.
"Okay," I said. "Pause."
She blinked. Genuinely surprised. That was rare.
"Did I miss something?" she asked.
"No," I said. "That's kind of the issue."
She tilted her head. Waiting.
I exhaled. I had rehearsed this internally a dozen times. None of the versions were brave. So I chose humor. Humor disarms people who expect fear or defiance.
"Elira," I said, "are you mentoring me, recruiting me, or slowly rewriting my daily routine without consent? Because I need to know which one to emotionally prepare for."
For a moment, she just stared at me.
Then she laughed.
Not lightly. Not politely. A real laugh. Short, sharp, and honest.
"You noticed," she said.
"I always notice," I replied. "I just don't always act."
"That's what makes you useful," she said automatically.
Then she stopped.
Her smile faded, just a little.
"That was poorly phrased," she corrected. "But not wrong."
We resumed walking, slower now.
"I'm not offended," I said. "Just… concerned. You're older. Smarter. And you keep pushing me into places where saying no feels like it would be inconvenient for everyone but me."
She hummed. Thoughtful.
"That's fair," she said.
I glanced at her. "That's it?"
"You want an argument?" she asked. "Or the truth?"
I didn't answer.
She sighed. "Come with me."
We didn't go to the dorms. Or the library. Or anywhere public. She led me down a narrow stairwell near the old archive wing, the one students rarely used because it smelled like dust and iron.
At the bottom was a small study room. Empty. Quiet. Shielded.
She closed the door.
For the first time since I'd met her, she didn't immediately speak.
"You're right," she said finally. "I've been pushing. And you're right to call it out."
I leaned against the wall. Arms crossed. Defensive, but not hostile.
"Why me?" I asked.
She met my gaze directly.
"Because the empire is late," she said.
That wasn't an answer. It was a warning.
She continued anyway.
"There is something," she said carefully, "that several powers are racing toward. Not a weapon. Not exactly. More like a consequence. A remnant. A mistake that survived history."
My chest tightened.
I thought of the stories. Of ruins. Of a king turned monument. Of something pulsing beneath stone.
"You know about it," I said.
"I know enough," she replied. "And I know the empire doesn't want to be second."
I pushed off the wall. "And where do I fit into this political disaster?"
She smiled again. Not sharp this time. Tired.
"They're gathering minds," she said. "Not soldiers. Not heroes. Minds that can model outcomes. Predict failure. See where plans break before they're tested."
I laughed softly. "You're describing a strategy table, not a classroom."
She shrugged. "Same difference."
"And you think I'm one of them."
"I think," she said, choosing her words carefully, "that you already think like someone who has been used before. Which means you're harder to deceive."
That hit too close.
Silence stretched.
"So this is recruitment," I said.
"Observation phase," she corrected. "Recruitment comes later."
I shook my head. "You're doing a terrible job of selling this."
"I'm not selling," she said. "I'm explaining. Because you asked. And because if I didn't, someone else would. Less gently."
That was the grooming. Not affection. Not promises. Just inevitability, framed as protection.
I hated that it made sense.
"You could have said no," she added. "At any point."
"And been sidelined," I replied. "Or flagged. Or quietly removed from relevance."
She didn't deny it.
"I don't like this," I said.
"I know," she said softly. "I don't like that I'm good at it."
We stood there, two pieces on a board neither of us had built.
"So what happens next?" I asked.
She stepped closer, just enough to lower her voice.
"Next," she said, "you keep attending classes. You keep performing just well enough. And when the time comes, you help us think."
"Us," I repeated.
She paused at the door.
"You'll meet the rest when the race begins," she said. "And trust me…"
She glanced back at me, eyes steady.
"Once it does, there's no opting out."
The door closed behind her.
I stayed there for a long time.
Because I realized something then, something worse than being used.
I wasn't being forced.
I was being prepared.
And whatever waited at the end of this path was important enough that even refusal had already been accounted for.