6. Dragging or Leading

Sylen's lips parted, yet no words came at first. Her eyes flicked to me, just for a moment, but in that glance, I felt and saw it: hesitation. Not fear. Something quieter. Like a ripple of uncertainty, she hadn't expected to feel it again. As she imagined, I was still like the black-robed teacher. The teacher with a reputation carved it. I was supposed to lead. Even now, after everything, a part of her maybe still believed I was more capable than she ever could be.

She stepped forward slowly. "Alright," she said, her voice soft…

I walked towards the back of the classroom. While I was walking, Sylen asked, "Why do you walk towards there? Not in the desk?"

I stopped at the back of the classroom and turned slightly, meeting her eyes.

"Because in here, I can see how the class will work; the class, the students, and the teacher."

Sylen blinked once, but said nothing.

A moment passed. Then she turned back toward the class, her fingers lightly adjusting the paper in her hand. Her voice steadied.

"Alright," she said, louder now. "Let's begin."

The room shifted with her.

A rhythm started to build, the book opened, and a few pens scratched paper. I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, not as an overseer but as a witness…

For once, I wasn't here to teach. I was here to learn. The class. The students. The teacher.

…

The voice of Sylen actually resonated with the class. I could see it in the way the room adjusted to her measure. Her words were precise. Instructions delivered like commands, not conversations. There was no wasted motion. No wasted breath.

She lectured with a clarity that cut through the air, filling the room with fact and structure. She wrote on the board in clean strokes. When she spoke, it was paced, exact, and intentional.

I recognised the pattern. It was the same method I had once, rigid, focused, and untouchable.

And like mine used to, her teaching flowed without any interaction. No pause for questions. No space for reflection. No eye contact that lingered longer than necessary. If a student didn't understand, the lesson wouldn't stop for them. It must keep moving forward.

No names were called.

No encouragement given.

No question either.

Just the lesson. The content. The structure.

She taught as if the students were merely vessels to be filled, not minds to be engaged.

The class just followed. Obedient. Quiet. Focused. They took their notes, turned pages, and stared ahead. Yet they didn't respond. Not as truly. Not as emotional. Not as personally.

They just obeyed. However, they weren't involved.

At the back of the room, I folded my arms, leaning against the wall. Watching. Listening. As this classroom shifted and became my old classroom, it echoed through her. And yet, something inside me stirred uneasily.

Sylen was doing everything right. Exactly right.

And that was what made it so hard to watch.

As part of me, an old, buried part, felt the urge to nod in approval. To step forward and say, yes, that was how it was done. That part still reminds me of the pride I once took in discipline. In control. In control. In silence. That meant authority had been earned.

However, now, standing here…I didn't feel proud anymore. I felt…Distant.

The structure, flawless. The pace, sharp. The information, precise. Nothing to criticise. Nothing to correct. It all felt…hollow. Like a body without breath. A song without rhythm.

I looked at the students again.

Finnian's hand hovered over his paper, but he hadn't written anything in minutes. Liora's gaze was steady, but it wasn't on Sylen. It was like a blank stare that my students had. Kaelen, his pen moved, but his eyes didn't follow the words. Elara sat perfectly upright, but there was no spark in her gaze. Maeve's brow was furrowed. Nim was tapping her foot softly under the desk. The only students who followed were Thalia and Lysander.

Of course they did.

Thalia, with her hunger for structure and foundation, her disciplined mind drawn to the rhythm of certainty. Lysander, with her silent obedience, who would never question a thing that told her what to do. However, the others… they were drifting.

Not because they weren't capable. Not because Sylen wasn't competent as a teacher. But because something wasn't reaching them.

I watched Maeve again, how her brow creased not in thought, but in quiet frustration. Her eyes flicked up toward Sylen. Nim, always restless, now completely still except for her tapping foot, a sign I once mistook for distraction, yet now I understood as withdrawal. Elara, proper as always, but dim behind the eyes. Even Kaelen, sharp, perceptive, looked like he was solving a problem without believing in the answer.

Liora…

Liora hadn't even moved. She was here, physically.

But her spirit? Absent. Or maybe waiting.

I turned my gaze back to Sylen.

She stood straight, her expression so composed. Not cold, but focused. Fiercely focused. She was calm. She was brilliant.

She was me.

The me from before. The me I had built with discipline and carved into stone. But so was a statue. And the statues didn't change.

At that moment, I realised what disturbed me wasn't just the student's silence, it was my own reflection standing at the front of the class. In flesh.

A classroom like this didn't leave room for doubt.

Or warmth.

Or humanity.

It just kept moving. Moved.

I thought of my old students. The ones who had sat in rows like these, who had followed my perfect lessons and graduated with perfect marks. How many of them had I truly known? How many had I failed to see?

I closed my eyes.

For a moment, I wanted to stop her.

Not to correct her, but to free her.

Tell her she didn't have to carry the weight. That discipline didn't have to mean distance. That structure could still hold warmth.

Sylen's voice continued, even as the room dulled beneath it.

I tried to open my mouth, tried to stop the class, tried to free her. Before the class became more dragged into the depths of her despair.

"Excuse me, Sylen…"

Sylen paused mid-sentence. Her shoulders didn't flinch, yet I saw it in the line of her neck, the tiniest tension. Like a wire pulled taut.

She turned slightly, "Yes?"

The students looked at me. Not alarmed. Just watching. Waiting.

I pushed off from the wall and took a few steps forward.

"Are you dragging them, Sylen?" I said.

She blinked. Her voice was still even. "What do you mean, Sir Alaric?"

"In an hour of class, I see you in front, dragging them. Are you dragging them, Sylen?"

"What does 'dragging' mean?"

"You just keep going. No pausing. No, trying to look back. No leading. You just drag your student into your teaching method."

"Why do I need to pause the class?"

"Because you need to see if they're still with you…"

Sylen's eyes sharpened suddenly. She took a step forward, not away from my words, but into them. Into the challenge. Into the accusation.

"They will always be with me, Sir Alaric."

"Are you sure about that?" I asked quietly.

"Yes, sure. Because that their duty as students to follow the class…"

"But, not all of your students foll—"

Suddenly, she cut and snapped me mid-sentence, "They must keep up."

"And if they can't?"

"Then they don't belong here or they don't need to be here…"

The words were out before she could weigh them. The silence that followed was sharp. My breath caught, not in anger, but in recognition.

As I had said those exact words. Once. Long ago. Believing them to be the mark of strength.

"What did you just say?" I said, "Do you think they don't belong here?"

"Sure, they belong here if they follow the class…"

"Sylen…You need to understand that you are here for them…"

"Exactly, without me, they don't belong here. So they just need to follow."

"That's why you are dragging them…"

"They're students. They need structure. Without them, they'll flounder. Fail."

"Yet, they need connection," I said. "Or haven't you noticed? They're slipping, as you keep dragging them."

"And what would you have me do? Waste time asking how they feel? Stop every five minutes to make sure they're emotionally validated?"

I stepped closer, my voice still calm, but no longer soft. "No. I'm saying you stop and see them."

Her jaw clenched. "I see them just fine."

"What you see is just the posture. The obedience."

"They're learning. That's what matters the most."

"No, they're not learning. They're just memorising. Enduring. Holding their breath until the class is over."

She tried to open her mouth, but I kept going.

"You don't try to speak their names. You don't try to listen to their silences. You don't try to ask them. You lecture and expect them to chase your words. But they're not chasing or following. They're being dragged by you."

Sylen's voice dropped. "So what, then?" Suddenly, she raised her voice, "You want me to coddle them? Pat them on the back when they don't understand? Ask how their day was when we have class?"

Her outburst seemed to surprise even herself. The room froze. I saw her outburst, and the class was not in good condition. If I kept going in here, the class would be affected. The students. I needed to confront her, not right now. The students didn't need to see this.

The room was silent. Too silent.

Sylen's eyes were on me, no longer the sharp precision of a teacher defending her class, but something more fragile beneath it.

A crack.

The students didn't move. All of them were watching, but not like an audience. Like passengers on a ship waiting to see if it would sink or steer. I glanced around the room. Their faces weren't just curious. They were concerned. Caught between two figures.

This wasn't the time. Not here. Not now.

I took a breath. Then I softened.

"Let's take a break…And we continue this…later in an hour…"

Sylen didn't move at first. She stood there. She nodded.

The class stirred.

Chairs scraped lightly. Pens dropped. Some students blinked, finally remembering the weight of their bodies. Finnian exhaled, as if he'd forgotten how. Even Thalia turned slightly, glancing back at me. Not questioning, not judging, just watching.