The walk home took longer than it should have.
Not because the academy was far—but because I could not stop walking into futures that did not yet exist.
I have always had this problem. Scholars are taught to anticipate consequences, to trace cause into effect until patterns reveal themselves. Most people do this gently.
I do it violently.
The Empire is watching Arin.
Observation becomes interest.
Interest becomes intervention.
My feet moved forward. My thoughts ran ahead.
Future One.
Arin excels.
Not loudly. Not rebelliously. Quietly. Too quietly. His instructors praise his discipline. His reports become "anomalies." His name appears in sealed correspondence. One morning, an imperial envoy arrives with a polite smile and a document written in immaculate legal script.
Educational reassignment.
They say it like it's an honor.
They take him like it's inevitable.
We never see him unsupervised again.
My stomach tightened.
I shook my head and kept walking.
Future Two.
Arin disappoints.
On purpose. He trips. He fumbles. He smiles too much. The reports change tone. Now he's "unpredictable." "Unstable." A risk factor.
Observation becomes containment.
Containment becomes correction.
This future ended with blood on clean stone floors and official condolences delivered by people who never once used his name.
I stopped walking.
Lysa bumped into my back.
"You're spiraling," she said flatly.
"I am thinking."
"You're catastrophizing with footnotes."
She was correct. That did not help.
Beside us, Arin hummed.
Hummed.
Not nervously. Not anxiously. Just… happily. Like he hadn't just been noticed by the most efficient monster in recorded history.
"So," he said, swinging his arms, "does this mean I'm important now?"
"No," I said immediately.
"Yes," Lysa said at the same time.
Arin beamed. "I knew it."
"You are important," she corrected, eyes forward, "but not in a way you should enjoy."
Arin thought about that. "Is it the kind of important where people stop giving me snacks?"
"Yes," I said grimly.
He gasped. "Father, nothing is worse than fewer snacks."
That—absurdly—helped.
"They can only observe you inside the academy," I muttered, more to myself than anyone. "Jurisdiction doesn't extend past its wards. Observation marks require oversight. Committees. Delays."
"You're calming yourself with bureaucracy," Lysa said.
"It has worked before."
"Barely."
Arin raised a hand. "If they're watching me, should I wave?"
"No."
"Smile?"
"No."
"Trip dramatically so they underestimate me?"
Lysa stopped walking.
I nearly walked into her.
"That," she said slowly, turning to Arin, "is the first strategically sound idea you've had today."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "I am begging you both to stop helping."
By the time our home came into view, my thoughts were loud enough to drown out reason.
Then the door opened.
Avaris looked up from the table.
"Oh. You're back early."
Her voice was even. Controlled.
Not calm.
Controlled is what comes before the blade is drawn.
Arin lit up. "Mother! I might be important!"
She stared at him.
Then at me.
Then back at him.
"That," she said quietly, "is unacceptable."
I felt something in my chest loosen—and something else tighten.
"You're not surprised?" I asked.
She set the knife down with deliberate care. The wood beneath it dented.
"No," she said. "I am furious."
There it was.
"An Observation Mark?" she continued, eyes sharp now, burning. "On our son? After everything?"
Lysa watched her closely. "You've seen it before."
Avaris's jaw tightened. "Yes."
Silence stretched.
"And?" I asked.
"And it means I failed," she said flatly.
The words hit harder than shouting.
"If they noticed him," she went on, voice low and dangerous, "then something I buried wasn't buried deep enough."
Arin frowned. "Mother?"
She knelt in front of him, gripping his shoulders—gentle, but fierce. "Listen to me. You did nothing wrong. Do you understand?"
"Yes?"
"Good. Because if anyone decides otherwise," she said softly, "they will not survive the correction."
I swallowed.
Dinner happened anyway. Because in this family, apocalypse waits until after vegetables.
Arin sat down, glanced at his place setting—
—and froze.
"…Mother," he said slowly, "where is my wooden spoon?"
Avaris didn't look at him. "Confiscated."
The room went still.
"For how long?" he whispered.
"Until the Empire stops finding you interesting."
Lysa smirked. I failed to suppress a laugh.
"That's unfair!" Arin protested. "I didn't even hit anyone!"
"Exactly," Avaris said. "Which means you're learning too fast."
He collapsed against the table. "The Empire watches me, and I lose my spoon. This is oppression."
"Eat," she said.
"This is how villains are made."
I rested a hand on his head. "For what it's worth… I'm proud of you."
He looked up, startled. "Really?"
"Yes," I said quietly. "Just… try not to impress anyone ever again."
He nodded solemnly. "I will be aggressively mediocre."
Later, when the house grew quiet, I stood by the window, watching the road.
The Empire could watch Arin at the academy.
Let them.
They would see a polite boy.
A clumsy student.
A child missing a wooden spoon.
They would not see the futures I destroyed before they could form.
And if they ever tried—
Avaris stood beside me, her hand warm and steady.
"They're watching," she said.
"Yes."
"They should be afraid."
I nodded.
For now, the Empire observed.
And for now—
That was all they were allowed to do.