"Wait, wait," I said, holding up a hand as Arin started reenacting my 'triumph' with a soup ladle. "Ilyas, did you really use the Limestone Defense while the Principal was literally wiping suds off his eyebrows?"
"I did," I said, a small, weary smile tugging at my lips. "I told them the Academy's foundations were reacting to my cleaning solution. I made it sound like a natural disaster caused by bad chemistry."
"And Cyrus saw the whole thing?" Lysa asked, leaning in.
"He saw the distraction," I corrected. "He saw the 'Ghost Architect' turn a high-security office into a laundry tub. But the most important part, children, is what he heard before the suds started flying. He heard that they aren't looking for the strongest kids anymore. They're looking for the ones who are 'too' boring."
Arin stopped mid-swing with his ladle. The playfulness vanished. "So... being a 'grey stone' isn't enough? We have to be... what? Broken stones?"
"Precisely," I said. I pulled a small, hand-drawn map of our own house's foundation from my pocket. "Albrecht wants you to look weak. The Grey Cloak wants to see if you'll fight. Tonight, if they come, we don't fight with fists. We fight with the Verne Style: The Clumsy Defense."
Avaris stood by the door, her silhouette sharp against the moonlight. "I've checked the perimeter. The shadows are moving near the treeline. They're watching the house, waiting for us to blow out the candles."
She looked at Arin and Lysa. "You two have spent years learning how to be silent. Tonight, I want you to be the opposite. I want you to be loud, clumsy, and utterly terrified. If a door creaks, I want you to jump. If a guard speaks, I want you to stumble over your own feet."
"I can do that!" Arin said, though he looked like he hated the idea of acting weak. "I'll be the clumsiest eight-year-old in history. I'll make them think I can't even hold a spoon, let alone a secret."
The knock at the door wasn't the heavy boom of a soldier's gauntlet. It was a light, rhythmic tapping.
I opened the door to find the Grey Cloak standing there alone. He still smelled faintly of my vinegar sabotage, and his cloak was damp. He didn't wait to be invited; he stepped into the warmth of our hearth, his eyes scanning the room like a hawk looking for a mouse.
"Master Verne," he said, his voice a dry rasp. "The Academy's West Wing is... currently being aired out. Your home is the nearest 'certified' structure for an Imperial official to rest. I shall be staying in your common room tonight."
It was a brilliant move. He wasn't attacking; he was occupying. He wanted to see if the "Boring" act dropped when the candles went out and the front door was locked.
"A guest! How... academic!" I squeaked, dropping my book on Crop Rotation and nearly tripping over my own hem. "Avaris, dear! The Courier needs the table! Clear away the sheep-tax ledgers!"
The Midnight Gauntlet
For three hours, the house was a tomb. The Grey Cloak sat at our kitchen table, lit by a single candle, spreading out damp documents. I sat across from him, pretending to grade papers, but my heart was hammering against my ribs.
Then, the "test" began.
A floorboard creaked upstairs. It was Arin. He had likely been lying awake, sensing the predator in the kitchen.
The Grey Cloak didn't look up from his papers. "Your son is awake, Master Verne. He moves very quietly for an eight-year-old. Unusual, for a boy with such 'flat' test scores."
"Oh, he's not quiet," I said, my voice cracking slightly. "He's just... hesitant. He's probably coming down for a glass of goat's milk. He has a very delicate constitution. Arin! Is that you?"
Arin shuffled into the light of the common room. He looked a mess—his hair was bird-nested, and he was dragging one foot slightly as if he'd forgotten how to walk. He looked perfectly "sleepy" and "uncoordinated."
The Grey Cloak stood up slowly. He picked up a heavy iron fire-poker from the hearth. "Tell me, Arin. If I were to drop this, would you catch it? Or would you stand there like a 'stone'?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He tossed the heavy iron poker toward Arin.
It was a classic physical "reflex" test. If Arin caught it with the grace of a "Peak" student, the game was over. If it hit him, he was safe, but injured.
"Arin, look out!" I shouted, instinctively reaching out but intentionally "stumbling" into the table, knocking my inkwell over and creating a huge, messy distraction.