Royushi learned something important that morning.

Being watched felt heavier than being tested.

He noticed it while walking through the Citadel corridors—the way conversations dipped when he passed, the way instructors’ gazes lingered half a second too long. No one confronted him. No one accused him of anything.

That was worse.

“Congratulations,” Rikishu said quietly from his place near the wall. “You’ve entered the phase where people pretend you’re normal.”

Royushi frowned. “That doesn’t sound like congratulations.”

“It isn’t.”

Royushi sighed and adjusted the strap of his bag. “I liked it better when people ignored me.”

“You still do,” Rikishu replied. “They’re just doing it intentionally now.”

“That’s unsettling.”

“Yes.”

Royushi stopped near a window overlooking the lower yards. Cadets were running drills below, their Shuryoku flaring openly, loudly. Watching them felt like staring at a crowd speaking a language he’d decided not to use.

“Do you think they know?” Royushi asked.

“Know what?” Rikishu replied.

“That you’re… here,” Royushi said, tapping lightly against his chest.

Rikishu didn’t answer immediately.

“They don’t,” he said finally. “But they feel the consequences of it.”

Royushi grimaced. “That’s somehow worse.”

Master Devrik noticed Royushi’s hesitation before Royushi did.

“Stop,” Devrik said mid-drill.

The command cut clean through the hall. Cadets froze, some startled, some relieved.

Devrik’s eyes were on Royushi.

“You’re listening too hard,” Devrik said.

Royushi blinked. “I—what?”

“You’re reacting before you decide,” Devrik continued. “That means someone else has already decided for you.”

Royushi swallowed.

Rikishu’s voice was quiet. “Answer carefully.”

Royushi straightened. “I’m just being cautious.”

Devrik walked closer, boots heavy against stone. “Caution is useful. Obedience is not.”

The other cadets exchanged glances.

Devrik gestured toward the center of the hall. “Again. Same drill. No adjustment.”

Royushi nodded and took a position.

The drill began.

He moved—careful, measured, deliberately imperfect. But something had shifted. He could feel it. The circulation inside him responded faster now, smoother. It wanted to correct more than he allowed it to.

He hesitated.

The mistake came late.

He stumbled—not enough to fall, but enough to be noticed.

Devrik raised a hand.

“Enough.”

Royushi froze, heart pounding.

“You’re carrying something,” Devrik said. “And you’re afraid of dropping it.”

Royushi didn’t respond.

Devrik didn’t push.

“Dismissed,” he said to the others. “Kairo, stay.”

The hall emptied slowly.

When they were alone, Devrik spoke again, quieter now. “Pressure isn’t the enemy. Misplaced pressure is.”

Royushi nodded slowly. “I don’t know where to put it.”

“That’s honest,” Devrik said. “Good. Then learn this: when people watch you, they want consistency. Give them confusion instead—but don’t confuse yourself.”

Royushi almost laughed. “That sounds impossible.”

“It’s difficult,” Devrik corrected. “There’s a difference.”

He turned to leave, then paused.

“And Royushi?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Whatever you’re carrying—decide whether it’s yours,” Devrik said. “Or whether someone handed it to you.”

Then he was gone.

Royushi stood there for a long moment.

“…That felt like a warning,” he muttered.

“It was,” Rikishu said. “And a kindness.”

Ishara Veyl watched from the edge of the hall.

She hadn’t meant to.

She told herself that twice.

Royushi looked… strained today. Not breaking. Just aware. Like someone who’d learned where the cracks were and now couldn’t stop seeing them.

She approached him after Devrik left.

“You okay?” she asked.

Royushi considered lying.

“I think I’m visible now,” he said instead.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “That was inevitable.”

“Yeah,” Royushi said. “I was hoping inevitable would take longer.”

She crossed her arms. “You don’t look panicked.”

“I’m tired of panicking,” he replied.

That surprised her.

She studied him, really looked. “Something’s changed.”

Royushi shrugged. “I got better at standing still.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He glanced at her. “Then what did you mean?”

She hesitated. “You don’t feel like you’re hiding from people anymore. You feel like you’re hiding with a reason.”

Royushi smiled faintly. “That’s… oddly comforting.”

“Good,” Ishara said. “Because comfort doesn’t last.”

He laughed softly. “You’re really bad at reassurance.”

“I know.”

They stood there for a moment.

“Listen,” Ishara said, lowering her voice. “If someone approaches you—asks questions you didn’t invite—tell me.”

Royushi raised an eyebrow. “That sounded like an order.”

“It was advice,” she corrected. “From someone who doesn’t want you cornered.”

“…Thanks,” Royushi said.

She nodded once and walked away, but not before glancing back.

“You’re allowed to exist loudly sometimes,” she added. “Just not all at once.”

Royushi watched her go.

“That was… helpful,” he said.

Rikishu hummed. “She’s learning.”

“So am I,” Royushi replied.

Maris noticed the shift, too.

She sat in a maintenance alcove, tools laid out neatly, eyes half-lidded as if bored. In reality, she was tracking Royushi’s route through the Citadel.

He changed paths today.

Not randomly.

Intentionally.

Interesting, she thought.

Her comm-link pulsed once.

Status?

— Sevran

Maris typed quickly.

Subject adapting to observation. Not panicking. Receiving guidance from internal Citadel actors (likely Devrik, Veyl).

Recommendation: Apply indirect pressure.

The reply came after a pause.

Approved. No confrontation. Let him choose wrong once.

Maris exhaled slowly.

She didn’t like that instruction.

But she followed orders.

Night fell.

Royushi returned to the rooftop alone.

The wind was stronger tonight, tugging at his sleeves, pressing cold into his bones. The stars looked the same as always, which felt unfair.

Rikishu appeared beside him, quieter than usual.

“You handled today well,” Rikishu said.

Royushi snorted. “That’s twice in one week. Are you sick?”

“Possibly,” Rikishu replied.

Royushi leaned back against the stone. “I think people are closing in.”

“Yes.”

“…And I think I don’t hate it as much as I thought I would.”

Rikishu studied him. “That’s dangerous.”

“I know,” Royushi said. “But it also feels real.”

Silence settled.

“Rikishu,” Royushi said suddenly.

“Yes?”

“If Sevran shows up… what happens?”

Rikishu didn’t answer right away.

“Then you’ll be asked to choose,” he said finally. “And this time, no one will pretend it’s an accident.”

Royushi swallowed. “Do you trust me?”

Rikishu’s expression softened.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Royushi smiled faintly. “Good. Because I’m still figuring out what I want.”

“That’s allowed,” Rikishu said.

They stood together, watching the Citadel glow below.

Somewhere inside its walls, pressure shifted again—quietly, deliberately.

And Royushi Kairo felt it.

Not as fear.

But as weight.

Something he could finally choose how to carry.