Ishara found Royushi in the quietest corner of the practice yard, where the lights were dimmer, and the stone still smelled faintly of rain. He sat on an overturned crate, lacing and re-lacing his gloves as if the motion could weave steadiness into his fingers.

She watched him for three breaths. The rhythm was a small thing—three beats—and in that time she mapped the whoever-he-was now against the ledger she kept in her head. His shoulders were looser than yesterday, but his eyes held the same cautious reserve. He looked like a man who'd learned to carry things by tucking them closer to his chest.

“You avoided everyone today,” she said when she reached him.

Royushi didn’t look up right away. He pretended not to hear, which was his safe mode. Ishara did not let him use it.

“You’re being watched,” she continued. “And you’re avoiding glare like a pro. But you don’t get to be both invisible and interesting.”

He finally lifted his head. “That sounds like a paradox designed at the Citadel.”

“I’d file it under ‘you need to pick one.’” Her voice was flat but not unkind. “Why are you hiding, Royushi?”

He blinked. For a heartbeat, his mask cracked—surprised, honest. Then he tilted his head, as if trying to decide whether an itch was worth scratching.

“Because if I’m good at something, people ask me to be better. If I’m bad, they ignore me. I prefer ignoring.”

She folded her arms. “That’s selfish.”

“Probably,” Royushi agreed. “Also, efficient.”

Ishara exhaled softly. “Do you ever think you deserve other options? Like… people who’d accept you without trying to put you into a box?”

His fingers paused on the lace. “I think I’d like that.” His voice was small; she hadn’t heard it so small before. “But I don’t know what that looks like.”

She sat down beside him, careful not to invade his space too quickly. “I used to think fairness was a scale. Now I think it’s a list of things you can do. Sometimes you need someone to read the list with you.”

He chuckled, a short, surprised sound. “You make administrative metaphors sound sentimental.”

“Practice makes a liar out of me,” she said. “Listen. You don’t have to be loud. But if we’re being tactical: stop failing in ways that make other people pity you. It’s worse than attention.”

He stared at her. “Ishara—why do you care?”

She met his eyes as if itweres the simplest answer in the world. “Because you’re not wasted. That’s not a strategy I can stand.”

He swallowed. “That might be the nicest threat I’ve ever gotten.”

She did not smile. “I’m not threatening. I’m offering consequences.”

He considered that. “You have an interesting vocabulary for a cadet.”

“Language is useful,” she replied. “Also, sometimes people need to know that not everyone is trying to use them.”

Royushi looked out over the yard. “I don’t even know who I’m allowed to trust.”

“You can start with people who don’t write you off,” Ishara said. “Like Devrik. Like… maybe me.”

“Maybe,” Royushi echoed, and the word was half promise, half question.

Ishara’s eyes softened in a way she rarely allowed herself. “And if you want, I’ll watch. Not out of duty. Out of habit now.” She paused. “And because you annoy me enough that I don’t want something wasted.”

He met her gaze, and something like relief showed on his face. Not victory—nothing so dramatic—but a small loosening. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll try not to be disappointingly mediocre.”

She gave him a brief, almost imperceptible smile. “That’s ambitious.”

They sat together for a few more minutes, two quiet people under dim light. Outside the yard, the Citadel hummed: schedules, steps, distant orders. Inside the yard, there was negotiation—two ways of choosing to be called something other than an accident.