Andreas learned early that watching was safer than helping.
The archive was quieter than usual that morning. Too quiet. Even the dust seemed reluctant to move. Andreas noticed it as he always did—before anyone said a word, before trouble announced itself properly.
Master Ellion was already awake.
That alone was unusual.
Ellion sat at the central table, sleeves rolled back, staring at his hands as if they had betrayed him sometime during the night. A thin tremor ran through his fingers, subtle enough that most would miss it.
Andreas did not.
"You were here late," Ellion said without looking up.
"Yes, sir."
Ellion's eyes flicked toward the shelves. "You should be careful. Some books don't reward persistence."
Andreas nodded. He did not apologize. He had learned that apologies invited questions, and questions were dangerous.
The disturbance came near noon.
A scholar arrived with a boy from the outer district, dragged more than guided. The boy couldn't have been much older than Andreas, though his eyes looked older—wide, unfocused, strained by something unseen.
"He tried to force understanding," the scholar said bluntly. "No preparation. No foundation."
The word landed heavily.
The boy was seated. Water was offered. A stabilizing sigil was drawn on the floor. Andreas watched everything with careful distance, committing each step to memory.
The boy kept speaking.
"Why doesn't it stop?" he asked again and again, voice cracking. "I already understand it. So why doesn't it stop?"
No one answered.
Andreas could have spoken.He understood what had gone wrong. He saw the missing steps, the absence of restraint, the way comprehension had collapsed inward without structure.
But understanding was not the same as responsibility.
So he stayed silent.
When the scholar finally led the boy away—alive, but emptied of something essential—Andreas returned to his desk. His stomach felt tight, but not with guilt.
With calculation.
That night, Andreas reopened the book he had been copying.
This time, he stopped himself.
The meaning pressed gently at the edge of his mind, familiar and eager. Accepting it would have been easy. Effortless. He knew that now.
Instead, he traced the symbols without letting them settle.
It was harder than understanding.
His hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from restraint. Something in him wanted completion. Closure. Answers.
He denied it.
Not because it was right—but because it was safer.
Later, Ellion returned with a single sheet of paper.
He placed it beside Andreas and said nothing.
It bore the seal of the orphanage district. An evaluation notice. Years away. Optional. Politely worded.
"Why are you showing me this?" Andreas asked.
Ellion studied him for a long moment. "Because one day," he said, "you'll need permission to keep asking questions."
Andreas folded the paper carefully and slipped it into his satchel.
Outside, the bells rang, unevenly, as if uncertain whether the hour deserved announcing.
Andreas went back to copying.
He did not think about the boy from earlier. He did not think about whether silence made him complicit.
He thought only this:
Next time, he would know where the limit was.
And whether crossing it was worth the cost.