Orestis had just finished deciding on his next course of action when Eirene arrived.

  She did so the way she always did—without announcement, without ceremony, with the quiet confidence of someone who had been doing this long enough that it no longer felt like intrusion. He heard her before he saw her: the familiar cadence of her steps, the faint shift of air as the door opened and closed behind her.

  He did not turn around immediately. That, too, was a mistake.

  She stopped just inside the room, not because she was surprised to see him, but because something in the scene failed to align with expectation. The worktable was cleared, tools laid out with deliberate precision rather than casual use. The armour rested nearby, folded and unassuming but undeniably present.

  And Orestis was already wearing part of it.

  “You’re busy,” Eirene said. It wasn’t an accusation—just a statement of fact.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  She came closer, setting her books down on the edge of the table out of habit. Her gaze moved over him the way it did when she examined spellwork: details first, conclusions later.

  “You weren’t planning to be,” she said.

  “I adjusted my schedule.”

  “That’s new.”

  A fraction of a smile crossed his face. “I’m experimenting with personal growth.”

  She snorted softly, then frowned. “You’re wearing armour.”

  “Yes.”

  “Not for training.”

  “No.”

  The pause that followed stretched longer than the others. Eirene circled him once, slow and thoughtful, her fingers hovering just short of his sleeve. To anyone else it might have looked like idle curiosity; to Orestis, it felt like assessment.

  “This isn’t academy work,” she said. “And it’s not theoretical.”

  “No.”

  “And you didn’t tell me.”

  “That is generally how I operate.”

  She stopped in front of him. “You don’t usually operate like this. You tell me when something affects my studies—or when you’re going to disappear for three days to avoid a lecture.”

  “This is different.”

  “How?”

  He considered lying, then discarded the idea almost immediately. “It’s temporary,” he said instead.

  Her eyes narrowed slightly. “That’s not an answer.”

  “It’s the one I’m offering.”

  They stood there, the space between them taut with unspoken inference. Eirene had always been good at reading gaps; what wasn’t said interested her far more than what was.

  “You’re leaving,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  He hesitated. She noticed.

  “I don’t know,” he said honestly.

  That earned him a look—not anger, not hurt; but calculation. He could tell that she was already reordering things in her head, accounting for his absence.

  “Does my mother know?”

  “No.”

  “And yours?”

  “Yes.”

  That reassured her. Marginally.

  “Is this about the academy?”

  “No.”

  “The temple?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Eirene inhaled slowly, then let the breath out. “Right. So it’s that kind of problem.”

  He inclined his head a fraction—close enough to agreement. She reached out, fingers brushing his wrist. Not stopping him; just confirming he was real.

  “You’ll tell me where you’re going.”

  “Orthessa.”

  She blinked, clearly not expecting him to answer so quickly—let alone honestly. “That’s… specific.”

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  “It’s also true.”

  “For how long?”

  “Long enough to matter.”

  She frowned. “You’re avoiding something.”

  “I’m containing it.”

  “You’ll write.”

  “When it’s safe.”

  “For whom?”

  He paused. “Everyone.”

  She studied him for a long moment, then nodded once, decision made.

  “Fine,” she said. “But you’re not allowed to die.”

  That was meant lightly. He could hear the effort it took.

  “That seems restrictive,” he replied, mirroring her levity.

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  That made her pause. “You don’t sound like it,” she said after a moment.

  He looked at her properly then. “I am. That’s the problem.”

  Silence settled between them—not awkward, not heavy. Just incomplete. Eirene gathered her books, hesitating only a moment before stepping back.

  “When you come back,” she said, “you’re explaining everything.”

  “Of course.”

  “I mean it.”

  “I know.”

  She studied his face once more, then nodded and turned for the door.

  “Try not to make a mess of things,” she said lightly. “I’ve grown accustomed to your presence.”

  The door closed softly behind her.

  Only then did Orestis allow the moment to settle—not regret, not doubt; just the weight of leaving something unfinished. He didn’t go after her. Instead, he stood where he was and reviewed the decision the way he reviewed everything else: not by how it felt, but by how it would behave under pressure.

  Telling her now would change nothing she could safely act on. The danger hadn’t been named; the obligations were still deniable. Any visible preparation, any premature resistance, would be logged as intent. Institutions did not need proof. They punished patterns.

  If he warned her now, she would start searching for exits before there were any to take. That would make her visible. Worse, she would start asking questions in places that remembered questions.

  He exhaled slowly. Information without leverage was not protection; it was liability.

  Eirene wasn’t like him. She had a family with high standing, a mother who understood politics, a talent that institutions preferred to claim rather than discard. There were paths open to her that would close the moment fear dictated her choices. Warning her too early would collapse them.

  So he left it alone.

  Sequencing mattered. First, he needed distance—clean, documented, indisputable. A position from which his absence could not be framed as evasion. Only then would advice become safe. Only then would warning become something other than evidence.

  He would have time. That was the assumption.

  The temple moved slowly. Bureaucracies always did: formalities took weeks, public obligations longer still. There would be announcements, clarifications, opportunities to manoeuvre. She would have warning.

  Orestis folded his arms and stared at the empty doorway. That assumption might be wrong.

  Institutions occasionally abandoned procedure when they believed speed would frighten people into compliance. Fear shortened timelines. He couldn’t plan for that yet. All he could do was choose the path that minimised immediate harm.

  Protect first. Explain later.

  He turned away from the door before the silence could become something else. There were still steps to take.

  ***

  Orestis checked the straps one last time.

  Everything sat where it should: the armour fit properly, the weight distributed evenly. He’d added a sword to his side—plain, serviceable, unadorned. Necessary camouflage for a lone traveller.

  A mage with negligible mana attracted questions. A traveller with a blade did not.

  Naturally, he would not tolerate carrying it as mere decoration. He had removed the leather to apply a suitable number of runes on the handle before wrapping it again: no slipping, no chipping, reduced impact feedback, speed boost, extra sharpness—and a few more besides.

  Efficient. Subtle. Completely illegal in three jurisdictions he wasn’t in.

  That would suffice.

  The goodbyes had already been said. Unsurprisingly, it had taken longer with his mother than with his father. She had insisted on regular communication—instant, magical, and frequent enough to satisfy her peace of mind.

  She had also been astute enough to guess that if he could teleport, then he could manage long-distance communication. Orestis hadn’t argued; some distinctions were not worth explaining.

  A small smile touched his lips at the memory.

  He drew on divine power and opened a gate in the middle of his room, setting the exit point high above the city. Orthessa spread beneath him in orderly layers—walls, streets, districts arranged with a logic that favoured function over symbolism. No spires clawed upward, no temple dominated the skyline. Even from above, it looked… managed.

  Once, he would have teleported directly into the city just to see how many wards he would trigger. Now, the agenda was different.

  After taking in the lay of the land, he stepped through and closed the gate behind him before anyone could notice. He fell for only a few seconds before a teleport carried him the rest of the way, depositing him in the forest nearby.

  Not wilderness, but not settlement either.

  The trees were spaced by habit and use, the undergrowth worn thin where people had passed often enough to leave paths without committing to roads. The forest was still.

  He moved deliberately rather than cautiously, dragging a boot against bark, brushing fabric against stone. He worked dust into the seams of his armour, dulled the fittings with earth and leaf-mould, rubbed twigs over the flat of the blade until it lost the suggestion of newness.

  At a narrow stream, he knelt and washed his face—not thoroughly, just enough to remove the last traces of home. He left his hair slightly damp, letting it dry unevenly in the open air.

  By the time he reached the road, he looked like someone who had been walking for a while. Which, functionally, he had.

  The city gates were open—not welcoming, not forbidding; simply present. A short, orderly line moved at a steady pace. Guards stood watch with diffused, practical attention; they were tracking process, not faces.

  A few steps ahead, a man was arguing with the clerk. Not loudly or aggressively; just insistently.

  “I’ve entered here before,” the man said, frustration edging into his voice. “I declared everything last time.”

  “Not these items,” the clerk replied, unruffled.

  The man tried again. Rephrased. Added emphasis. The answer did not change.

  Orestis watched for a moment, then looked away.

  There’s always one.

  When his turn came, the clerk glanced at his papers, asked two questions, made a notation, and waved him through. There was no pause, no curiosity, and no lingering assessment.

  Documented, present, unremarkable—exactly as intended.

  Inside the city, the noise settled into something steady and contained—trade sounds, foot traffic, conversation at working volume. Magic was present but subdued, woven into structures rather than displayed. He felt it in the way the streets held their shape, in the faint pressure of wards meant to maintain rather than threaten.

  He chose an inn near the centre, but not at it. The building was clean, solid, forgettable—the sort of place that survived by being reliable. The proprietor took payment in advance, assigned him a room without comment, and handed over a key marked with a number instead of a symbol.

  The room itself was small and functional: a bed, a table, a chair, a shuttered window overlooking a street that would quiet after dusk.

  Orestis set his pack down, removed his armour, and placed it carefully beside the bed. The sword followed, laid where he could reach it if needed. He sat for a moment, hands resting loosely on his knees, and listened to the city settle around him.

  He had arrived. He was registered. He was alone.

  That was enough for now.

  Tomorrow, he would observe. The day after, he would decide. For tonight, he allowed the system to do what it was designed to do; hold him, briefly, without noticing.

  And Orthessa, indifferent and well-ordered, obliged.