Chapter 19—Ripples in Still Water

The silence after the Grand Assembly never felt like peace. It was the kind of quiet that smothered, that pressed itself onto the halls and courtyards of the Academy until every footstep echoed twice as loud as it should.

Raiden felt it most on the following morning, when the usual chorus of gossip had dimmed to murmurs. He walked with Ledios across the central causeway, the spires of the Academy cutting sharp lines against the pale sky. Students still crowded the steps, but the soundscape was wrong—conversations clipped, tones subdued, the restless air of people calculating their next words before speaking them aloud.

“Ripples,” Ledios muttered, as though the thought had forced itself past his lips.

Raiden glanced at him. “What?”

Ledios’ eyes traced the movements of students scattering from the assembly hall to their classes, their shoulders hunched as though they bore invisible weight. “Throw a stone into still water, and it doesn’t stop where it fell. It carries. That’s what yesterday was. And the ripples will not spare anyone.”

Raiden didn’t reply at once. He remembered the eyes—too many of them—staring at him during the Archmagister’s announcements. A commoner boy, son of a minor house barely clinging to name, drawing as much notice as scions of Great Houses. Unwanted. Unearned. But real all the same.

His hands tightened against his cloak. “Then we keep walking. Ripples or not.”

Ledios let a small smile curl on his lips. “That’s what I like about you, cousin. You face the storm, even when you don’t see where the lightning strikes.”

They parted ways at the entrance of the eastern wing—Ledios toward the Exemplars’ chambers, Raiden toward the Adept course halls. Randall and Tadari were waiting under the arch, leaning against the stone wall. Randall had his bow-case strapped across his shoulder, his expression as nonchalant as ever, though Raiden noticed the tension in his posture. Tadari, on the other hand, tapped his foot against the flagstones in impatient rhythm.

“You’re late,” Tadari said flatly.

Raiden ignored him and looked at Randall instead. “Anything?”

Randall’s brow furrowed. He tilted his chin toward the courtyard, where students had gathered in loose knots. “They’re quieter than usual. But they look at us too much. Whispers stop when I walk past. Can’t decide if that’s better or worse.”

“Worse,” Tadari answered for him. “When people speak out loud, at least you know where they stand. When they go silent—” he flicked a glance at Raiden “—it’s because they’re sharpening the knife.”

Raiden grunted. He couldn’t deny that the air itself felt heavier.

By noon, the unease had spread further. Meals in the refectory were hushed affairs. Conversations broke apart when new company entered, even when they were fellow classmates. And every so often, Raiden caught sight of faces half-turned toward him, eyes watching, then looking away as though burned when he met their gaze.

Randall muttered into his bread, “I’ve had more peaceful nights hunting wolves.”

“Wolves don’t stab you with smiles,” Tadari said.

Later that afternoon, when the three slipped away to the stables for practice, Randall paused by the paddock. His usual easy calm had left his features, replaced by a stiffness Raiden rarely saw.

“Horses are restless again,” Randall murmured.

Raiden looked. He’d expected idle stamping, twitching ears—but this was different. The stable’s dozen horses shifted constantly, heads tossing, nostrils flaring. Several pawed at the ground as though anxious to flee, even though the handlers had tried to soothe them.

“Same as the forest,” Randall added, his voice low. “Not natural.”

The memory flickered back—Randall’s offhand remark days ago about the forest growing quiet, prey animals vanishing as if they’d been driven deeper or farther. Raiden had dismissed it then as coincidence. Now, watching the unease ripple through the beasts, he wasn’t so sure.

He stepped closer to the fence, resting his hand against the wood. The nearest mare shied away at once, ears flat. Raiden narrowed his eyes. He could feel it—not exactly a sound, not exactly a sight, but the way air itself seemed to thicken.

Randall studied him, quietly. “You feel it too.”

Raiden nodded once. No more words were needed.

That night, back at Arkantez’ city lodging, Raiden sat across from Ledios in the study. The lamps burned low, their light catching the silver threads embroidered into Ledios’ formal doublet. Ledios had discarded the outer cloak, and with it some of his composure.

“They saw you,” he said simply.

Raiden frowned. “Who?”

“Everyone.” Ledios leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. “The Grand Assembly put you on a stage you never asked for. Now every faction measures you in their calculations. Some will want to use you. Others will want to bury you. And both will smile to your face until they decide which is easier.”

Raiden shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not interested in their games.”

Ledios’ eyes were sharp. “You don’t need to be. They already dragged you into it.” He paused, letting the words sink. “Barowen will not forgive humiliation. Tarin never plays clean. And Olwen—” his tone darkened “—they are here now, whether we wish it or not.”

Raiden remembered the fleeting moment in the courtyard—the pale figure stepping from the carriage, retinue in tow, her gaze brushing his with an unsettling clarity. Yuka Olwen. He had felt then, for a brief instant, that he was seen more clearly than he saw himself.

“She looked at me,” Raiden admitted, surprising himself with the confession.

Ledios didn’t seem surprised. “Of course she did. You are the boy of whispers now. Even an Olwen won’t ignore that.”

The silence stretched. Finally, Ledios straightened, his voice softening. “Rest tonight. Tomorrow the ripples spread further. And we will need to decide how to swim in them.”

The lamps guttered as Raiden prepared for bed. He lay awake long after Ledios’ steady breathing filled the room beside his. The day replayed itself in fragments: whispers cut short, eyes watching, horses restless, the momentary weight of Yuka Olwen’s gaze.

Ripples in still water, Ledios had said. Raiden turned onto his side, pulling the blanket tighter. The ripples were already moving outward, and he—whether he wished it or not—was caught in their path.

The next morning dawned gray, the sky a dull iron sheet that seemed to press down on the city. Raiden pulled his cloak tighter as he walked the causeway toward the Academy grounds. Randall and Tadari flanked him, silent save for the crunch of boots on gravel. The hush wasn’t just in their steps—it clung to the streets too, as though the whole city had decided to match the Academy’s mood.

Inside the Academy gates, the atmosphere felt worse. Whispers had turned sharper overnight. Raiden could feel the edges of eyes cutting at his back, like needles prodding him. Students parted unconsciously as he passed, but they didn’t look away. They stared, weighing, measuring.

It irritated Tadari most. “I’ll carve their eyes out if they don’t stop,” he hissed, low enough for only Raiden and Randall to hear.

“Don’t waste a blade,” Randall muttered. His gaze flicked over the crowd. “They’ll do nothing here, not in daylight. But their silence is hunting silence. The kind that waits until you’ve turned your back.”

Raiden’s jaw tightened. He hated it. Not the looks—he had lived with stares since childhood, the whispers of “mixed-blood” following him like a shadow. What he hated was the way silence spread like sickness, the way it smothered laughter, drowned conversation, even bled into the training yards. It wasn’t right.

Raiden and Ledios ended their surveillance and returned to the city before dusk.

The lodge was quieter that night than it had ever been. The faint hum of magitech in the walls usually reassured Raiden—it meant Arkantez steel and stone around him, a fortress that couldn’t be breached by whispers. Tonight, it only reminded him that he was a guest in someone else’s stronghold, caught in currents he couldn’t swim against.

Ledios dismissed Rudo and Halia early, leaving Raiden with him in the common room. The fire crackled in the hearth, throwing soft orange light across Ledios’ sharp features. He poured wine for himself, water for Raiden, and didn’t speak until the silence stretched taut.

“You saw how the Academy breathed today,” Ledios began. His tone was not unkind, but it held the weight of an heir used to stating truths. “It is not life you walked through, Raiden. It is tension. And tension always breaks.”

Raiden stared into his cup. “Breaks on me.”

Ledios tilted his head. “You make it sound as though you are the only piece on the board.”

“That’s how they look at me,” Raiden muttered. “Like I’m the center of every rumor, every blade waiting to slip.”

“And yet,” Ledios said softly, “you survived what should have killed you. Twice. Do not forget that survival itself carries weight. You are not prey, Raiden. Not anymore.”

The words struck him harder than he expected. Prey. He remembered the stables, the press of bodies, Garid’s sneer before the first strike. He remembered the weight of whispers afterward, how they twisted the truth until even he doubted what he had lived.

“Prey can bite,” Raiden said, half to himself.

Ledios’ lips curved, faint as a knife’s edge. “Good. Hold onto that.”

When Raiden finally went to his room, the knot in his chest hadn’t loosened. He lay awake long after the lodge had gone still, staring at the ceiling where the fire’s glow danced across the beams. His mind replayed the day’s fragments—whispers of Barowen headhunting, Tarin’s movements, Olwen’s cold gaze finding him in the crowd.

It should have been too much. He should have felt crushed. Instead, a strange calmness crept over him, like the air before a storm. He remembered Randall’s words about the forest: quiet where life should be loud. Nature pulling back before calamity.

Maybe he was the forest now. Maybe the quiet inside him meant something was coming.

Prey, he thought bitterly. Not anymore.

He wasn’t sure if it was a promise or a warning.