Four days before admissions began, the estate was steady—almost boring, if you ignored the part where a political powder keg was being assembled beneath the polished veneer.
It was supposed to be a normal day. Nineteen reports scheduled, seventeen servants in rotation, six attendants managing logistics, and sixteen guards stationed with minimal eye contact and maximum side-eye. Routine.
Alex was at the head of the table, sipping from a ceramic mug filled with hot chocolate that had exactly three marshmallows. No more, no less. Anything else, and the balance of the universe might tilt.
His chair creaked slightly as he leaned back, packet in hand, spoon tapping absentmindedly against the rim. A bowl of coconut ice cream sat nearby, melting as slowly as Alex's patience.
The meeting was already underway.
The official reports were being discussed—guild lobbying, Academy propaganda, the usual seasonal posturing. But Alex wasn't listening to that. Not really. He was flipping through Kael's latest bundle like it was a street gossip tabloid, and honestly? It kind of was.
Tarsa Vell was in the file again. The girl who used to hand out coded candy bar wrappers behind the Academy's east stairwell—equal parts brilliant and unstable, depending on who you asked. Last seen three months ago. Now flagged as "emotionally volatile, potential recruitment asset."
Alex muttered under his breath, "Better a live wildcard than a dead statistic."
There was a brief sidebar about the mermaid researchers from the southern docks. Discretion was the word of the day—again. Officially, they weren't being blocked. Unofficially, every one of their proposals ended up 'lost' or rejected for reasons that couldn't survive a second read.
"We should stop pretending it's a clerical error," Marell said flatly.
Orin didn't even look up. "We've got one paper on mana convergence from that team that's better than half the Academy syllabus. And it's sitting in a crate marked 'civic sanitation.'"
A few guards shifted in their seats, clearly uncomfortable with how normal this all sounded.
What they didn't know—or wouldn't say aloud—was that the protests were building. Quietly. Organized not by slogans, but by scholars. There were whispers of a full-blown revolt being prepped by the mermaid clans—demanding not just policy changes, but structural overhauls. Access to courses, revised evaluation systems, aquatic-form-compatible classrooms.
And behind that? A push for representation. One seat. One voice. Enough to turn a symbolic gesture into real political weight.
If the Academy didn't bend soon, it might break.
Which was exactly what Alex feared—and needed.
"Keep tracking the revolt," he said, voice low. "If the Academy tips toward reform, we don't want to be caught holding onto the past. We need to survive this shift—and if we're clever, we thrive in it. That means positioning ourselves where the new order starts taking shape."
Pallen, meanwhile, had been quietly scribbling down what he called 'the stress index' of a few of the listed male applicants. One of them had been fighting proxy duels for his sister's tuition. Another had been disqualified three times under different policies—all of them reversed later, but only after someone else took the spot.
"These aren't academic hiccups," he said quietly. "These are vetoes disguised as bureaucracy."
Alex didn't bother asking for the clean version of any of it. They'd all learned not to waste time dressing the data up for official presentation. The best intel came half-rumored and badly spelled.
Still, what mattered most now wasn't a sanitized summary. It was the ripple in the admissions structure—rumors about a tier override, last-minute shifts in entrance evaluations, possible curriculum realignments for 'emerging disciplines' that no one had defined.
"Top priority," Alex said, tapping the packet. "Admissions rumors. We follow every change, every shadow edit. If they're trying to tilt the game, I want to know how steep the slope's getting."
"And Kael?" Marell asked.
"We keep him close. He's still our best source. He's also smart enough to sell us out in three languages without breaking stride. So yes—weekly check-ins, discrete favors, and no sudden moves."
Davor finally spoke. "And the... disappearances? The scandals?"
Alex's expression didn't change. "We find the instigators. The ones behind the girls' scandal. The vanishings. I want names. I want profiles. I want their handlers and whatever smug noble is writing their checks."
He stood again, casually this time. "We don't just react. We expose. Quietly, if possible. Publicly, if necessary."
Then, after a beat, he added, "We just have to make sure we don't get steamrolled doing it. If we're going through the fire, we'd better be the ones walking out with the torch."
That's when one of the guards—a younger one, probably regretting opening his mouth the moment the words escaped—murmured, "Why are we even exposing this stuff? Most of it doesn't help us. Some of it barely matters to our side."
Alex didn't raise his voice. Didn't even look up from his melting ice cream.
"Because a lake that doesn't flow starts to rot," he said, tone dry as parchment. "Stagnation breeds parasites. We want a river. Something that moves. Because up top? The seats are taken. The only way through is to cut a new path—and that requires clearance."
No one responded immediately, but the weight of it settled.
Alex sighed and finally turned a page.
"All right, here's what we've got so far. Potential recruits, high potential, questionable packaging."
He gestured toward the open folder.
"Tarsa Vell, as mentioned. Emotionally erratic but showed pre-Academy-level encryption logic. Might've burned her bridges, but she remembered where she hid the matches."
"Dannik Rhest," Pallen added, flipping a smaller slate. "Unstable engineering savant. Created a self-repairing mana skeleton that punched his instructor. The instructor had it coming, but still."
"Miran Thoss," Marell chimed in. "Alchemy division dropout. Developed a low-cost elixir that temporarily enhances perception—but refused to sell it to any House affiliate. Currently working underground. Possibly literally."
Orin nodded, pulling up another name. "Kesse Illan. Apprentice array master, barely seventeen. Rebuilt an entire farm's protective barrier system using scavenged diagrams. Her mentor died in the middle of her certification—no one's replaced him. She's been winging it ever since."
"And we've got Tyen Dravik," Davor added. "Ancient history obsessive. Claims to have found fragments from a pre-Era vault. Most think he's a fraud, but he hasn't asked for money—just access. That alone makes him suspiciously legitimate."
Alex leaned back, coconut ice cream in one hand, flipping through the final page with the other.
"Get more on each. Rumors, maps, contacts. No paper trail. Kael gets first review before we reach out. No point chasing phantoms if we're walking into someone else's bait."
He looked around the room.
"Let's get to work before someone starts doing it better than us. Again."
Just then, a servant entered with a tray of updates and refreshments, posture perfect, demeanor polished. Too polished.
Alex didn't react visibly, but his thoughts sharpened.
There he is. Polite. Predictable. Too damn helpful. Always standing a little too close to the documents he shouldn't care about. Always volunteering for the jobs no one likes—because he's not doing them for me.
He watched from the corner of his eye as the servant placed the tray down, bowed slightly, and backed away just a little too smoothly.
'You're not nearly as invisible as you think,' Alex thought, sipping his hot chocolate. 'But for now, I'll let you believe it. It's always more useful to follow a rat than to scare it back into the walls.'
"Business as usual," Alex muttered aloud, almost to himself.
No applause. No objections.
Just notes, nods, and the low grind of plans moving forward.
And a rat in the room, pretending to serve while taking careful stock of everything that wasn't his.
And far beyond the polished floors, the waves were stirring—dragging change up from the deep.
Revolt was coming. The Academy might reform. Or fracture.
Either way, Alex intended to survive it—and profit from it.