The response didn't take long.
It never did, once things were visible.
By nightfall, the academy had learned how to whisper again.
I felt it in the way people paused when they saw the clinic door still open. In the way footsteps slowed near the wards, lingered, then retreated. In the sudden politeness of staff who'd barely acknowledged me a week ago.
Pressure has a smell.
Fear does too.
I closed the door at the appointed hour—not slammed, not hidden. Just closed. The wards sealed with a soft, steady hum, their glow faint but unmistakable. Inside, the air settled. Outside, the corridor exhaled.
Lyra was still there, perched on the window ledge with a half-eaten apple, boots braced against the stone.
"You know," she said, chewing thoughtfully, "this is usually the part where someone sends a warning."
"Already got one," I replied, shelving the ledger. "Polite paper. Expensive ink."
"Ah." She grinned. "The classy threats are always the worst. Means they've budgeted for persistence."
A knock came almost on cue.
Lyra perked up. "Oh. That'll be them."
"It won't," I said. "Not yet."
The knock came again. Firmer this time.
I crossed the room and opened the door.
Commander Isolde Ravencroft filled the doorway.
Armor polished to a dull sheen, crimson cloak clasped at her shoulder, expression carved from discipline and restraint. She smelled like steel and oil and rain-soaked leather—someone who'd come straight from a patrol and hadn't bothered to soften herself for conversation.
"Mr. Ashford," she said. "You're requested."
"By whom?" I asked.
"By me," she replied. "On behalf of the academy."
Lyra slid off the ledge and leaned against the wall, eyes sharp. "That sounds official-adjacent."
Isolde's gaze flicked to her, assessing, then back to me. "There's been an incident."
My stomach tightened. "Injuries?"
"No," she said. "A challenge."
I stepped aside to let her in and resealed the wards. The room seemed to shrink with her inside it, as if the walls themselves straightened.
"Explain," I said.
She removed her gauntlets and set them carefully on the desk—an unconscious show of respect, or preparation. Hard to tell.
"An hour ago," Isolde said, "a formal complaint was filed with the council. Against you."
Lyra whistled softly. "Speed run."
"For what?" I asked.
"Unauthorized influence," Isolde replied. "Centralizing access. Undermining established healer authority. Encouraging dependency."
I laughed once, sharp and joyless. "They used those exact words?"
"Yes."
"Good," I said. "They're learning."
Isolde didn't smile. "The complaint includes a demand."
"Of course it does."
"They want a demonstration," she said. "Public. Supervised. A comparative trial."
Lyra's grin vanished. "Oh, that's dirty."
"Against whom?" I asked, though I already suspected the answer.
Isolde met my eyes. "The Healer's Guild."
There it was.
Not a blade. Not a whisper in the dark.
A stage.
"When?" I asked.
"Tomorrow," she said. "At midday."
Lyra pushed off the wall. "That's not enough time to—"
"It's exactly enough time," I cut in. "For them."
Isolde nodded. "They believe pressure will force compliance. Or failure."
"And the patient?" I asked. "Who are they putting on the table?"
Her jaw tightened. "A volunteer. Provided by the Guild."
Lyra snorted. "So either rigged, drugged, cursed beyond baseline—or all three."
"Likely," Isolde agreed.
I paced once, slow. The warmth in my palms stirred, restless.
"They want to weigh my work against theirs," I said. "In front of witnesses."
"Yes."
"They want legitimacy without conceding ground."
"Yes."
"And if I refuse?"
Isolde didn't hesitate. "They'll frame it as fear. Or guilt."
I stopped pacing.
"Then we don't refuse," I said.
Lyra stared at me. "You're serious."
"Yes."
"That's insane," she said flatly. "They'll sabotage it."
"I know."
"They'll hurt someone," she pressed.
I met her gaze. "Then I'll stop them. In public."
Isolde watched me closely. "You understand this binds you. Once you step onto that floor, you accept their rules."
"No," I said. "I accept the visibility."
A pause.
Then, unexpectedly, Isolde inclined her head. Just slightly. "Very well."
Lyra crossed her arms. "You're both nuts."
"Probably," I said. "But help me anyway."
She sighed, then smiled—tight, determined. "Fine. But I get to inspect the patient first."
"Agreed," I said.
"And the wards," she added. "And the observers."
"Agreed."
Isolde replaced her gauntlets. "I'll ensure the security perimeter is neutral. No enchantments beyond standard suppression."
"Thank you," I said.
She turned to leave, then paused. "For what it's worth, Mr. Ashford… this is a strong move."
"It's not a move," I replied. "It's a line."
She nodded once and left.
The door sealed.
Lyra blew out a breath. "You're about to walk into a trap."
"Yes."
"And you're calm about it."
"No," I said. "I'm focused."
She studied me for a long moment. "You're changing."
"So are they," I replied.
That night, the academy didn't sleep.
Neither did I.
I spent the hours preparing—not spells, not contingencies, but notes. Rules. Boundaries. What I would and would not do in front of a crowd. What I would refuse even if it cost me.
Especially if it cost me.
Near dawn, the system chimed softly.
[Event Imminent]
[Public Trial Detected]
[Warning: Outcome Will Alter Power Balance]
I closed the ledger and sat back.
Let it.
Midday came with sun blazing through the high windows of the Hall of Concord—a circular chamber reserved for ceremonies and judgments. Stone benches rose in tiers, already filling with faculty, guild representatives, nobles, and students pretending they weren't there to watch a man fail.
The center floor had been cleared.
Two treatment platforms stood opposite each other.
On one, robed in white and gold, stood the Guild's representative—a senior healer with serene eyes and a smile practiced in mirrors. Artifacts glimmered at his wrists.
On the other, an empty space.
For me.
Seraphina sat in the front row, back straight, expression cool and unmistakable. She didn't look at the Guild healer. She looked at me.
Lyra leaned against a pillar off to the side, arms folded, eyes narrowed.
Isolde stood at the perimeter, armor gleaming, gaze scanning the crowd.
Valentina Cross presided from above, face unreadable.
A bell rang.
The volunteer was brought out.
Young. Pale. Breathing shallow. The air around him tasted wrong—sharp, brittle, layered with interference.
Lyra stiffened. I felt it too.
Cursed.
Multiple layers. Carefully braided.
I stepped onto the floor.
The murmur swelled, then quieted.
I didn't bow.
I didn't smile.
I simply placed my hands together and waited.
The Guild healer spoke first, voice smooth. "We appreciate your willingness to submit to oversight, Mr. Ashford. Today, we will demonstrate that proper healing—untainted by indulgence—remains superior."
I looked at the volunteer.
At the way his fingers trembled.
At the way fear clung to him like a second skin.
"Before we begin," I said, my voice carrying, "I have a condition."
Murmurs rippled.
Valentina raised a hand. "State it."
"I will not proceed unless the patient gives informed consent," I said. "Out loud. Without coercion. And without suppression."
The Guild healer's smile tightened. "That's unnecessary."
"It's mandatory," I replied.
Silence fell.
The volunteer swallowed. Looked at the Guild healer. Looked at me.
"They said… they said this would fix it," he whispered.
"It might," I said gently. "But only if you choose it. Not because you're afraid of them."
A long moment passed.
Then he nodded. "I choose it."
Something shifted in the room.
I felt it—the warmth answering, steady and ready.
"Then watch," I said, turning to the crowd. "Closely."
I placed my hand on the patient's wrist.
And the counterweight fell into place.