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The Shape of Attention

✦ Chapter Two ✦

The Shape of Attention

The room was smaller than I expected.

Stone walls. A narrow bed. A desk worn smooth by generations of use. No decoration meant to soften the space. The Royal Military Academy didn’t care who you were once the door closed behind you.

That suited me.

I set my bag down and sat on the edge of the bed, letting the silence settle. Only then did I allow myself a slow, careful breath.

Day one wasn’t over—and already, something had shifted.

Sorren’s suspicion was manageable. He was direct, emotional, the kind of person who confronted problems head-on. Easy to anticipate. Easy to deflect.

Elion was not.

There was something about the way he watched—not searching, not judging, simply noticing. As if he’d learned long ago that the smallest inconsistencies mattered more than loud mistakes.

I stood and adjusted my uniform in the narrow mirror. Hair tied back. Collar slightly loose. Expression calm, almost bored.

Convincing.

A knock sounded at the door.

Once. Sharp.

I opened it to find an academy aide waiting. “All first-years are required in the east hall,” he said. “Immediately.”

I nodded and followed.

The east hall was vast—tiered seating circling a marked training floor. Instructors stood at the front, their presence heavy. To one side, four familiar figures were already waiting.

The princes.

They weren’t clustered together. Caelan and Idris spoke quietly. Sorren leaned against a stone pillar, arms crossed. Elion stood slightly apart, gaze unfocused—until we entered.

Then it sharpened.

We were ordered into rows. The head instructor stepped forward.

“Today’s assessments determined your baseline,” she said. “From this point onward, performance determines rank. Rank determines opportunity.”

Her gaze swept over us slowly.

“And opportunity determines survival.”

A pause.

“You will now be assigned squads.”

Names were called. Students moved. I stayed still.

“Ren Aurelian.”

I stepped forward.

“You will be assigned to Squad Four.”

My attention narrowed instantly.

Squad Four.

That wasn’t chance.

“Prince Caelan.”

“Prince Idris.”

“Prince Sorren.”

“Prince Elion.”

A ripple moved through the hall.

Four princes. One squad.

And me.

I took my place without reaction, even as the weight of it settled. Caelan glanced at me briefly, assessing. Idris didn’t look at me at all. Sorren’s gaze was open, sharp with interest.

Elion met my eyes.

Just for a second.

Then he smiled—barely.

It felt like a question I hadn’t agreed to answer.

“Squads will begin synchronized training tomorrow,” the instructor said. “Dismissed.”

The tension broke as voices rose. I turned toward the exit—

“Ren.”

Caelan’s voice stopped me.

“Yes?”

“You fought well today,” he said evenly. “Despite appearances.”

It wasn’t praise. It was acknowledgment.

“Thank you,” I replied, keeping my tone careless.

Sorren scoffed. “You don’t look like someone who plays it safe.”

I shrugged. “Looks can be misleading.”

Idris finally glanced at me, eyes cool and unreadable.

Elion said nothing.

That unsettled me more than words would have.

—

Training began before sunrise.

Formation drills. Endurance runs. Coordinated strikes. Squad Four moved as a unit, adjusting instinctively around one another.

Too instinctively.

They were used to each other. Years of shared training, shared expectations. I was the variable.

I kept pace. Stayed precise. Spoke little.

During a short break, Sorren tossed me a canteen. You’re quiet.

“Is that a problem?”

“Depends,” he said. “On whether you’re hiding something.”

I met his gaze steadily. “Aren’t we all?”

He laughed, sharp and brief.

Caelan watched from a distance, thoughtful. Idris recalibrated formation lines with methodical focus.

Elion stood beside me.

“You adjust too quickly,” he said quietly.

I didn’t look at him. “Is that bad?”

“It’s interesting.”

The word landed heavier than it should have.

“People who adapt fast,” he continued, “usually learned early that they had to.”

I turned then, careful. “You speak like that’s experience.”

His gaze flickered—not away, but inward.

“Maybe,” he said.

The whistle blew, ending the break.

As we returned to formation, I felt it again.

The shape of attention.

Not hostile. Not curious.

Intent.

By the time training ended, my muscles burned and the academy no longer felt like a place I could disappear inside.

I had been placed.

Seen.

And whatever game this was, I had just been written into its center.

That night, alone again, I loosened the bindings at my chest and let myself breathe fully for the first time all day.

I stared at the ceiling.

This was no longer just about survival.

It was about control.

And control, I was learning, was never given freely.