One of the first rules Megaira ever learned was that attention is never accidental.
The Church insisted otherwise, of course. It taught that vigilance was a virtue, that oversight was a form of care. But attention, real, true attention, was a currency. It was spent deliberately. It was withheld as punishment, and when it was offered freely, it was never without expectation.
That morning, it followed her.
No openly. Not crudely. Just enough to be felt -the faith pause in conversations as she passed, the way footsteps adjusted their pace to hers, the subtle recalibration of space. No one stared. No one whispered. They did not need to.
Megaira told herself it was paranoia. The knowledge had made me sensitive, nothing more. When you learned to see the seams in a thing, you began to notice every loose thread.
Still, she was careful not to look for Elyra.
That, too, was a form of discipline.
The lesson hall was already half full when she arrived, its long benches worn smooth by generations of compliance. Light streamed through the narrow windows in clean, orderly lines, illuminating the lectern at the front like an altar. The instructor -a man whose name she had known once and then forgotten- stood arranging his notes with unnecessary precision.
Megaira took my usual place near the back.
Someone shifted to make room.
It was a small thing. Almost polite.
She sat anyway.
The lecture began as it always did: Law First, then Light, then Purity. The hierarchy was important. It reinforced the order of things, the inevitability of obedience. They were taught not just what to believe, but how belief should feel, measured, reverent, and contained.
Megaira listened. She always did.
But today, the words slid past me differently. Not dull, not meaningless -simply insufficient. The explanations felt rehearsed, over-polished, as if the truths they were meant to convey had been sanded down until nothing sharp remained.
When the instructor spoke of Law, he emphasized restraint.
When he spoke of Light, he emphasized exposure.
When he spoke of Purity, he spoke softly, as though kindness itself were proof of righteousness.
Megaira wondered, distantly, what he would say if asked why Purity so often required violence to maintain.
The thought did not feel rebellious.
It felt analytical.
"Megaira."
Her name cut cleanly through the hall.
She looked up.
The instructor had paused, one hand resting on the lectern. His gaze was fixed on her -not accusing, not warm. Curious.
"Yes?" She responded.
"What is the function of Law," he asked, "when obedience fails?"
The room stilled.
This was not a test he would normally give me. Megaira was not one of the favoured students. She was not one of the troublesome ones either. She existed somewhere in the careful middle, where usefulness was tolerated but not rewarded.
Every answer she had ever been taught rose easily to her tongue.
Punishment. Correction. Exile.
She swallowed those answers.
"To define the limits of failure," Megaira answered instead.
A pause.
The instructor's brow creased. "Explain."
"Law does not prevent disobedience," she continued, her voice steady. "It gives it shape. Without Law, failure is chaos. WIth it failure becomes measurable. Correctable."
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Several students were watching me now -not with hostility, but with something like interest. That unsettled her more than disapproval ever could.
"And if failure cannot be corrected?" the instructor pressed.
She thought of the redacted pages. Of the margins that were filled with both anger and fear. Of acknowledgement without any worship.
"The Law will record it," she finally answered. "So it cannot be forgotten."
Silence followed.
Not rejection but consideration.
The instructor nodded slowly. "That is… sufficient."
Sufficient was not praise. It was permission.
When the lesson ended, no one rushed for the doors. That alone marked the moment as strange. Megaira gathered her things with a deliberate calm, aware of the eyes that were tracking the movement of her hands.
As she stood, a girl whom she barely knew leaned towards her.
"That was well said," she murmured. "About Law."
"Was it?" Megaira questioned.
She hesitated before nodding. "It made sense."
Sense was a dangerous thing. It implied understanding.
The girl walked away before she could respond.
In the corridor outside, the air felt different -charged, though nothing tangible had changed. The lamps burned steadily. The stone remained cool beneath her feet.
A young acolyte stood by the wall, clutching a stack of tablets against his chest. He looked up as she approached, then quickly looked away. Then, after a heartbeat, he stepped aside.
The path had already been wide enough.
She slowed.
He flushed, colour rising high on his cheeks. "I… sorry," he stuttered. "I didn't mean-"
"It's fine," Megaira replied.
He looked at her then, really looked, eyes searching her face as if for permission.
For what, she did not know.
She moved past him.
Behind her, he exhaled shakily.
The warmth in her chest stirred -not growing, not demanding. Simply aware.
She told herself she was imagining patterns where none existed. That attention, once noticed, always seemed to multiply. The mind was good at that. It sought coherence even where there was only coincidence.
Megaira told herself many things. They were becoming easier to believe.
By the time the midday bell rang, rumours had begun -not spoken aloud, but carried in posture and pause. She felt them gather like static, invisible but undeniable. People lingered when she entered a space. They watched for her reactions. They mirrored her stillness.
No one asked Megaira any questions.
Not yet, at least.
In the refectory, she took her place at the end of the table. Her bowl was filled before she reached it.
She stopped.
The serving acolyte froze, his ladle hovering mid-air.
"I didn't-" he began. "I thought-"
"You thought what?" She asked gently.
He swallowed. "That you might need more."
Need. The word settled strangely in my chest.
"I did not ask," Megaira stated.
He nodded quickly. "Of course. I'm sorry."
He pulled the ladle back, cheeks flushed and eyes lowered.
Around us, the murmur of conversation resumed. It was quieter now, strained, as though everyone were listening for something else beneath it.
She sat and ate in silence.
Across the table, Elyra watched her.
She did not look away this time.
Her expression was careful, composed -but her fingers worked the edge of her sleeve, twisting the fabric tight. Fear, there, restrained by habit.
After the meal, she fell into step beside her without speaking. They walked the length of the courtyard together, our footsteps echoing in sync. It was only when they reached the end near the lesser chapels that she spoke.
"You've changed," she said suddenly.
It was not an accusation.
It was a statement of fact.
"Have I?" Megaira asked.
She hesitated. "You're… steadier."
Megaira considered that. "I have always been steady."
She glanced at me, sharp and searching. "No," she replied quietly. "You were contained. That's different."
The distinction mattered.
She stopped walking.
Elyra stopped, too, though she clearly wished she hadn't.
"You should be careful," she said after a moment of silence. "People are noticing."
"So you have said."
"No, I didn't," she replied. "I'm saying it now."
Concern, from Elyra, was not kindness. It was a strategy. She warned people the way sailors warned of storms -only when there was still time to change course.
"Why?" She questioned her.
She studied Megaira, weighing truth against survival. She saw the calculation behind her eyes, the moment where honestly nearly lost.
"Because," she answered finally, "they don't know what to do with you."
She smiled.
It was small. Unremarkable.
It felt like a mistake.
That night, Megaira laid awake listening to the bells that mark the hour. With each chime, the warmth in my chest remained constant, patient as ever.
No voice came.
No command.
Only presence.
Something vast and watchful, not above her or behind her, but aligned -as if they were standing side by side, observing the same unfolding truth.
She thought of the way the young acolyte had stepped aside. The way the instructor listened. The way Elyra had looked at her, not with devotion, but with fear edged by calculation.
This, Megaira realized, was how it began.
Not with miracles.
Not with defiance.
But with people deciding -quietly, unconsciously- that I was worth listening to.
She closed my eyes.
Tomorrow, she would be careful.
Tomorrow, she will be restrained.
Tomorrow, she would make sure that nothing slipped beyond her control.
The certainty settled easily over me, smooth and convincing.
She slept believing it.