The next assignment was a joint operation—multi-team, mid-tier threat. The kind of scenario where mistakes multiplied quickly.
I stayed behind the front line.
When a construct surged, I let Darian Holt step in first.
He struggled.
Not incompetently. Just honestly. His stance wavered. His breathing went uneven. Each strike carried weight because it had to.
The construct pressed harder.
I resisted the instinct to intervene.
Darian adapted instead.
Slowly. Painfully. He adjusted angles. Redirected force. Took a glancing blow that sent him skidding across the stone.
He got back up.
When the construct finally fell, the air shifted.
Subtly. Almost imperceptibly.
Later, reports came in.
A patrol in the southern lowlands had survived an encounter that should have overwhelmed them. Damage was high. Injuries severe.
But no fatalities.
Elian found me that night.
"You didn't step in," he said.
"I didn't need to."
"That's not what I meant."
He leaned against the railing, looking out over the academy grounds. "When you don't erase the struggle… things elsewhere don't spiral as fast."
I said nothing.
He wasn't accusing.
He was observing.
The world felt… steadier.
Borrowed balance.