Aron learned quickly that the Academy did not like empty space.
Silence, yes. Distance, yes. But emptiness—unused rooms, unaccounted-for people, gaps in the day—were treated as errors waiting to be corrected.
His slate chimed before dawn.
He was awake already.
The sound didn't startle him. It did something worse: it confirmed that someone expected him to be. Aron sat on the edge of the narrow bed for a moment before reaching for it, feet planted firmly on the cold stone floor. He waited, not because he thought the slate would change, but because delay had always been his first defense.
Nothing changed.
A new block had appeared at the top of his schedule.
Foundational Assessment — Attendance Required
No location at first. Then, after a brief pause, coordinates resolved themselves into a corridor designation he didn't recognize.
Aron dressed carefully. He caught himself smoothing his jacket and forced his hands to still. It wasn't vanity. It was a habit — the minor adjustments you made when you wanted to look predictable. Predictability kept people from asking questions.
The corridor lay deeper within the Academy, past areas he'd only passed through the day before. The stone here was darker, the light dimmer, as if the building itself had decided this was a place meant for observation rather than display. The walls were lined with faint seams that suggested doors without revealing them outright.
Other students were already gathered.
They stood in loose clusters, evenly spaced so no one touched. Conversations were muted, voices kept low without anyone needing to say so. Laughter appeared once or twice, brief and quickly reined in.
Aron slowed as he approached, then stopped a few steps short of the group.
No one acknowledged him immediately.
He felt it anyway — the subtle redistribution of attention. Like water adjusting around a new obstruction. A boy near the wall glanced at him openly, eyes sharp and curious. A girl further down the corridor let her gaze travel over him without apology, then leaned closer to the person beside her and murmured something too low to hear.
Aron kept his eyes forward.
He told himself he didn't care.
That was a lie, but it was a useful one.
A section of the wall slid open soundlessly. The seam widened, revealing a chamber beyond. A man stood just inside, hands folded behind his back, posture relaxed in a way that felt practiced rather than natural.
"Inside," he said.
No one rushed.
They entered in an orderly line, spacing themselves instinctively. Aron ended up near the middle, flanked by people who didn't look at him directly but never quite turned away either.
The room was circular, its walls etched with shallow grooves that caught the light unevenly. The floor sloped gently toward the center, where a single platform rose no more than a step above the stone.
The man moved to it without hurry.
"This is not an examination," he said. "It is an observation."
Aron's shoulders tightened despite himself.
"You will be asked to respond to a series of scenarios. There are no correct answers. There are only recorded ones."
A pause.
"Do not attempt to impress us."
That earned a ripple of quiet amusement through the room. Aron did not smile.
The first scenario was clean and hypothetical. A delayed transit. A choice between efficiency and fairness. Students answered in turn, voices confident, reasoning precise.
Aron listened.
Patterns emerged quickly. Specific answers drew faint nods. Others passed without reaction. Some responses earned looks from the observing staff stationed discreetly along the walls.
When it was Aron's turn, the man's gaze lingered a fraction longer.
"You are responsible for rerouting a supply line," the man said. "The fastest route will cause minor disruption to a residential area. The slower route delays essential materials. What do you choose?"
Aron didn't answer immediately.
He thought of the outer districts — of alleys that flooded and never fully drained, of repairs labeled temporary that lasted for years. Of the phrase minor disruption being used whenever the people affected didn't have the influence to argue.
He'd heard that phrasing before.
It always meant the same thing.
"I'd take the slower route," he said.
The man tilted his head slightly. "Why?"
"Because 'minor disruption' isn't minor to the people living there," Aron said. "And delays can be mitigated."
A pause.
"And if mitigation fails?" the man pressed.
Aron swallowed.
The words slipped out before he could soften them — not as a challenge, not as an insight, but as something learned the hard way.
"Then someone pays."
The room felt tighter.
The man studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. Not approval. Acknowledgment.
"Recorded," he said.
The assessments continued.
By the time they were dismissed, Aron's jaw ached from clenching it. He exited the chamber with the others, senses buzzing in a way he couldn't explain.
The corridor felt closer now, like it had narrowed while he wasn't looking.
"Outer districts."
Aron stopped.
The boy who'd glanced at him earlier stepped closer, hands in his pockets, expression openly curious.
"That was you, right?" the boy said. "Supply line answer."
Aron nodded once.
"Huh," the boy said. "Didn't expect that."
"Why?" Aron asked.
The boy shrugged. "Most people here don't think like that."
Aron considered it. "Most people here haven't lived where I have."
The boy laughed softly. "Fair."
A beat passed.
"I'm Jalen," he said. "People were asking about you."
Aron's stomach tightened. "Asking what?"
Jalen smiled faintly. "Why you're here."
Before Aron could answer, a woman approached from the opposite direction. Older. Staff, by her posture alone.
"Aron," she said.
Not a question.
"Yes."
"You're late to your next block," she said, though the slate in his hand showed no such thing.
"I—"
"Come," she said, already turning away.
Aron followed.
As they walked, he became aware of how many eyes tracked them. Conversations stalled. Heads turned just enough to notice.
"You stand out," the woman said quietly.
"I didn't intend to," Aron replied.
She glanced at him. "Intention is rarely relevant."
They stopped outside another door. This one bore a faint mark near the top — subtle, deliberate.
"You'll follow an adjusted schedule going forward," she said. "Nothing punitive. Merely responsive."
Responsive.
The door opened.
Inside, the room was smaller. More intimate. A single desk. Two chairs.
"Sit."
Aron did.
She studied him for a long moment.
"You interfere," she said.
Aron stiffened. "I acted."
She inclined her head slightly. "Yes. And the distinction matters. But so does the cost."
She turned toward the door. "You'll learn. Or you won't."
The door closed behind her.
Aron sat alone, heart beating too fast.
He had spoken. He had been noticed. And something had shifted.
Outside, the Academy continued its quiet rhythm.
Inside, Aron realized with cold clarity:
He wasn't just being observed anymore.
He was being shaped.