The afternoon sun was hitting the Academy's stone archway at a sharp angle, casting long, dramatic shadows that seemed to mock the "boring" students walking through them. I was feeling particularly refreshed. I had spent four hours in the town library's basement, and I had finally discovered why the 232 tax ledgers were so light: a localized ink shortage in the Northern districts. Truly, history is a thrill ride.
I leaned against a pillar, clutching a bundle of scrolls to my chest like a prize. As the bell rang, a sea of grey-tunicked children poured out.
"Father!" Arin's voice broke through the chatter. He was running toward me, but he looked... different. He was stumbling every three steps, his satchel was hanging off one shoulder, and he looked like he'd spent the day trying to remember how to breathe.
"Arin! Careful, son! If you trip at that velocity, you'll displace the gravel and ruin the path's drainage!" I called out, reaching out to steady him.
Arin crashed into me, nearly knocking my ink-shortage scrolls to the ground. "Sorry, Father! I'm just... clumsy. So, so clumsy. Right, Lysa?"
Lysa arrived a second later. She wasn't stumbling; she was just moving with the personality of a brick. "He's a disaster, Father. A total, average disaster."
I chuckled, patting Arin's head. "Well, that's what the Remedial sessions are for! But wait—who are these two?"
Standing ten feet back were the transfer students. The boy, Cyrus, looked like he was trying to calculate the exact distance between my feet and his. The girl, Mira, was so still that I almost missed her entirely, despite her standing right in front of a bright red flowerbush.
"Ah! The Northern scholars!" I stepped forward, beaming. "Cyrus, isn't it? And Mira? I heard about your arrival. I hope the local water-table maps have been welcoming to you."
Cyrus looked at me, his eyes darting behind thick lenses. "The maps are... acceptable, sir. Although the scale is off by 0.04 percent."
I froze. I slowly lowered my scrolls. "0.04 percent? You... you noticed the cartographer's curve? Most people don't account for the parchment's humidity-stretch!"
Cyrus's posture shifted. He stopped twitching. "It's a basic variable, sir. If the ink has a high lead content, it weights the paper. It's simple physics."
"My boy!" I shouted, grabbing his hand and shaking it vigorously. "You are a revelation! Lysa, Arin, why didn't you tell me we had a real analyst in the village? Cyrus, you must come over. I have a 1:50 scale map of the lower irrigation canals that will make your spectacles fog up with joy!"
Behind me, I didn't notice the Imperial Courier in the grey cloak step out from behind the gatehouse. He was holding a small piece of charcoal, ready to mark his parchment. He was looking directly at Arin.
"Father," Lysa said, her voice dropping to a sharp, tactical whisper. "We should go. Now. Mother has the stew on, and you know how she gets about the simmer-time."
"But I was just explaining the humidity-stretch!" I protested.
"Explain it on the way!" Arin said, grabbing my left arm. Lysa grabbed my right.
They began dragging me toward the street. I looked back, waving my scrolls at Cyrus and Mira. "Bring the girl, too! We'll discuss the transparency of vellum! It'll be a riot!"
As we walked down the main road, the two children were practically jogging to keep me moving. I didn't see the Grey Cloak watching us. I didn't see him look at me—a man shouting about vellum—and then look at Arin, who was currently "tripping" over a perfectly flat paving stone.
"You know," I said, once we reached the safety of our lane. "Those two are wonderful. They seem so... consistent. Not like those flashy 'Hero' types you hear about in the capital. Just good, sturdy, boring children."
"We made a pact, Father," Arin said, his voice suddenly very serious. "The four of us. We're going to look out for each other. We're going to make sure that at this Academy, 'average' is the only grade that matters."
"Teamwork!" I beamed. "The collective pursuit of the middle-ground. I couldn't be prouder."
The Dinner Table Standoff
We entered the house, and the smell of rosemary-lamb hit me like a physical embrace. Avaris was standing by the hearth, her back to us. She was stirring the pot, but the rhythm of the spoon was... precise. Like a heartbeat.
"You're four minutes late, Ilyas," she said without turning.
"A scholar is never late, my dear, he is simply—"
"—caught in a conversation about dirt," Avaris finished for me. She turned around, her eyes immediately scanning the children. She didn't look at their faces; she looked at their hands, their knees, their posture.
"The Northern students," Avaris said, her gaze settling on Arin. "What did you learn about them?"
"They're like us, Mother," Arin said. He sat down at the table and began tearing a piece of bread with a strange, controlled intensity. "They don't want to be noticed. We've decided to... help them not be noticed."
Ilyas pulled out his chair, blissfully happy. "They're a 'Study Group for Discreet Excellence,' Avaris! It's marvelous. They're going to help Arin with his clumsiness, and Arin is going to help them... well, he's going to help them be as wonderfully ordinary as a Verne!"
Avaris sat down slowly. She looked at me, then at the children. She saw the secret alliance in their eyes—the "Half-Friendship" that was actually a survival pact.
"I see," Avaris said. She reached out and took my hand under the table, her grip firm. "A pact for a quiet life. In that case, I approve. But remember, children..."
She leaned forward, the firelight catching the white scars on her wrists.
"...a secret is only a secret as long as everyone thinks it's a lie. If you're going to be boring, be the most convincing 'boring' the Empire has ever seen."
"We will, Mother," Lysa said.
I raised my water glass, oblivious to the weight of her words. "To the Verne family! And to our new, exceptionally dull friends! May we all be forgotten by history!"
"To being forgotten," the children whispered.
Avaris didn't say anything. She just clinked her glass against mine and began to serve the stew, her eyes never leaving the window, watching the shadows lengthen in the garden where the Crossed Circle was buried.