Garrett smiled.

  It was not a good smile. It tugged at the corners of his mouth like a bad habit—practiced, rigid, the expression of a man who had decided that panic would simply have to wait its turn.

  “Shall we begin with Lavender Vales?” he said, already gesturing down the nearest path.

  It was the closest dormitory. It housed the youngest students. It had the highest staff-to-child ratio, the most housemasters on hand, and—critically—the lowest likelihood of anything accidentally setting itself on fire.

  If something went wrong, there would at least be adults everywhere to catch it.

  Hawthorne inclined his head. Lockwood stepped forward without comment.

  Garrett let them go first.

  Only when the inspectors were several paces ahead did he lean sharply toward Ermin, his voice dropping low and tight.

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  Ermin blinked. “What kind of problem, sir? Because I feel like we’ve already exceeded the quota.”

  Garrett didn’t look at him. His smile stayed fixed, eyes tracking the inspectors’ backs.

  “We didn’t prepare the dormitories.”

  Ermin stopped walking.

  Just—stopped.

  For a heartbeat, his face went completely blank.

  “…We totally—”

  “The classrooms. The grounds. The records. The halls.” Garrett’s voice barely shifted, controlled to the point of strain. “We planned every inch of the school.”

  His jaw tightened.

  “We did not plan where the students live.”

  Ermin stared at him.

  Then, very slowly, he dragged a hand down his face.

  “Here’s a question,” he said carefully. “Why didn’t you just say no yesterday?”

  Garrett’s smile twitched.

  “Because,” he said flatly, “I am not suicidal.”

  Ermin frowned. “They’re inspectors. Not executioners.”

  “They’re authorized,” Garrett said tightly. “And once the Registry files a notice, the knights are required to respond.”

  “Elderwatch—”

  “Is three days away,” Garrett cut in. “Knights are stationed in every city. If we refuse, they won’t wait for permission. They secure the site.”

  He finally looked at Ermin.

  “So if we stonewall the Registry,” Ermin said slowly, “the school doesn’t get investigated.”

  “It gets raided,” Garrett said.

  Silence stretched between them, filled only by the measured sound of footsteps ahead.

  Ermin exhaled. “And once knights are inside—”

  “—there is no pretending,” Garrett finished. “No explanations. No discretion. No time.”

  They were nearing the Lavender Vales fence now. Garrett forced his shoulders to loosen, his posture to settle back into something resembling calm.

  “So no,” he said quietly. “I could not say no. Because if I had, Elkington would already be over.”

  Ermin glanced toward the dormitory—lavender fields rolling gently in the light, cheerful stone walls, bright windows, children’s curtains fluttering faintly in the breeze.

  “…Alright,” he said at last. “Then we improvise.”

  Garrett swallowed.

  “Yes,” he said. “We always do.”

  Ahead of them, Lockwood paused at the entrance and turned back.

  “Headmaster?” she said. “You’re coming?”

  Garrett’s smile snapped fully back into place.

  “Of course,” he replied, stepping forward. “Right behind you.”

  Lavender Vales sat closest to the academy grounds, open and visible, surrounded not by forest but by wide, gently sloping fields of purple. Lavender bushes stretched in neat rows, fragrant and calming, the scent clinging to the air like a lullaby.

  The house itself was large and broad, built low and solid. Two storeys only. No balconies. No sharp drops. Nothing a child could fall from.

  Garrett relaxed by a fraction.

  The inspectors barely crossed the threshold before chaos erupted.

  “ARE YOU A KING?”

  “DO YOU DIE IF YOU DRINK INK?”

  “CAN I HAVE YOUR HAT?”

  A child screamed, “STRANGER ALERT!”

  Lockwood flinched.

  Another child pointed proudly at the wall, which was covered in bright chalk drawings—dragons, mostly. Many dragons.

  Hawthorne stopped short.

  “…Why are these walls painted with dragons?”

  A small child beamed up at him. “That’s Reid!”

  Garrett squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Truely everywhere.”

  They tried to continue the inspection.

  Then Hawthorne noticed the footsteps.

  Tiny ones.

  Dozens of them.

  He slowed. Turned.

  Thirty children stared up at him.

  Silent. Unblinking.

  Marching after him in perfect, deeply unsettling formation.

  “…Why,” Hawthorne asked carefully, “are they following me?”

  A brave little girl stepped forward, clutching a plush dragon to her chest.

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  “You look like someone who gives snacks.”

  “I do not,” Hawthorne said firmly.

  Every child’s face collapsed at once.

  The sound of collective heartbreak rippled through the hall.

  “…I do not,” Hawthorne repeated.

  Lips trembled. One sniffled. Another clutched their stomach dramatically, as if betrayed by the world itself.

  Hawthorne sighed in defeat and reached into his coat.

  “…Take the mints. Don’t tell anyone.”

  The children swarmed him like grateful puppies.

  From down the hall, a matron’s voice rose in panic.

  “NO—HE’S NEW, STOP WEAPONIZING THE EYES—!”

  Garrett seized the moment.

  He gently but decisively herded the inspectors onward, before permanent emotional damage—or adoption paperwork—could occur.

  After lingering in Lavender Vales just long enough for Ermin to quietly alert the other housemasters, they moved on.

  Oak Crest lay beyond a dense stand of old oaks.

  The trees were ancient—thick trunks, wide roots breaking the earth like knuckles. The path between them was narrow, worn smooth by repetition rather than time. Every step felt measured. Disciplined.

  The house itself was solid stone. Symmetrical. Imposing. Built to last and to intimidate.

  The students were worse.

  They stood too straight. Moved too precisely. Their heads turned in unison as the inspectors entered, feet aligned, hands clasped behind their backs like soldiers awaiting inspection.

  Hawthorne frowned.

  “Why is your posture identical?” He asked.

  “…We stretch,” an Oak replied, without hesitation.

  Lockwood wrote it down.

  Hawthorne gestured toward a bag resting neatly by the wall. “What’s in that bag?”

  “That’s—” someone started.

  Every Oak Crest student broke into a visible sweat as Hawthorne stepped closer and bent to lift it.

  He grunted.

  “It’s heavy,” he said, surprised.

  “It’s not,” they replied. In perfect agreement.

  Hawthorne tried again.

  This time with a scream.

  An Oak stepped forward and lifted the bag with two fingers.

  Hawthorne stared.

  “I drink milk,” the student explained, tone earnest. Completely normal.

  “You should work out more,” Lockwood said, glancing at Hawthorne with a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

  Then they moved on.

  The common room greeted them with a massive banner hung proudly above the fireplace:

  IF YOU DON’T BLEED, DO YOU EVEN TRAIN?

  Hawthorne stopped dead.

  “WHAT,” he said.

  Gretel, lounging on a couch with her boots on the armrest, answered crisply, “Motivation, sir.”

  Lockwood wrote that down too.

  Garrett did not wait for questions. He moved them along.

  Quickly.

  Maple Glade was next.

  The house lay beyond red-leafed trees, their branches arching overhead like a vaulted ceiling. The paths were carpeted in fallen leaves that never quite looked swept—not from neglect, but because someone had decided the disorder was aesthetically correct.

  Inside, shelves lined every wall.

  Too many books.

  Too neat.

  Lockwood stopped almost immediately.

  “This shelf says Forbidden Lore. Do Not Touch,” she observed.

  Sophie Marrowick, the housemaster, smiled with practiced calm. “Because students kept reading ahead and spoiling the curriculum.”

  Lockwood considered that. Then nodded seriously.

  Her finger moved to another shelf. “Why does your fun shelf contain Advanced Calculus?”

  A student answered without hesitation. “That’s the beginner level.”

  “Oh,” Lockwood said, and wrote that down too.

  Her gaze drifted to the center of the room, where several chairs lay overturned, one leg snapped clean through.

  “And why are the chairs overturned?”

  A Maple student straightened. “Philosophy debate got heated.”

  Hawthorne glanced up. “So you fought?”

  “With words,” the student replied earnestly.

  Another student, sitting nearby and nursing a nosebleed with a handkerchief, added, “Mostly words.”

  There was a pause.

  Lockwood closed her notebook.

  “…Academic passion,” she said at last.

  Garrett exhaled and moved them along before anyone could cite someone into a duel.

  The path to Cedar Grove smelled like soil and sap.

  The house sat deeper in the trees, half-swallowed by green—ivy crawling over stone, wooden beams darkened by age and moisture. Students worked everywhere, sanding planks, trimming branches, hanging bundles of drying herbs from lines strung between posts.

  One student held a plant upside-down, shaking it gently.

  “Tell me your secrets.”

  “Gentle,” another whispered. “Gerald is sensitive.”

  Lockwood slowed. Then, very carefully, backed away.

  They reached the mushroom corner.

  “Are these edible?” Hawthorne asked, pointing at a log thick with fungi of every shape and color.

  “Some,” a Cedar student answered without looking up, brushing spores into a small jar.

  “Which ones?”

  “…We don’t know yet.”

  Hawthorne visibly panicked.

  Then his boot crunched on something.

  He froze. Looked down.

  A neat ring of small wooden sticks circled a patch of soil, each marker carved with careful, precise letters.

  “What is this?” he asked slowly.

  A Cedar glanced over. “The grave.”

  Lockwood stiffened. “Grave… of what?”

  The student considered this, genuinely thoughtful. “Our herbs. And the failed compost experiments.”

  Hawthorne swallowed. “…They didn’t die, did they?”

  “Oh,” the student said calmly. “They died painfully.”

  Garrett exhaled. Big time.

  “Gardening education,” he said brightly. “Very… experiential.”

  Lockwood stared at the disturbed soil one second longer than necessary, eyes tracking the overturned log, the spores in the air, the student still whispering encouragement to Gerald.

  Then she wrote it down.

  They left Cedar Grove behind to the sound of Hawthorne muttering something about regulatory nightmares and Lockwood quietly scrubbing her fingers with a handkerchief.

  The path to Birch Haven changed immediately.

  The air felt… flatter. Cleaner. The trees thinned into pale trunks and orderly spacing, white bark catching the light. No undergrowth. No hanging vines. No whispering leaves.

  The house itself was modest, pale stone and light wood, windows evenly spaced, curtains identical. No banners. No slogans. No inspirational bloodshed.

  Garrett felt his shoulders loosen for the first time all day.

  Birch Haven was normal.

  Uncomfortably so.

  They stepped inside.

  No shouting. No running. No chaos. Just the soft sound of pages turning.

  Lockwood slowed.

  “…Why is this hallway so silent?” she whispered.

  A Birch, passing with a stack of books, leaned closer and whispered back, perfectly polite,

  “You’re being loud.”

  Lockwood nearly died on the spot.

  She straightened, cleared her throat, and continued walking with a dignity that suggested she would be thinking about that moment for the rest of her career.

  The common room was immaculate. Students sat at tables, writing. Reading. Organizing notes. A clock ticked. Someone adjusted it when it drifted half a second off.

  Lockwood moved along the shelves. Labeled. Indexed. Cross-referenced. Even the bookmarks were consistent.

  Hawthorne gestured to a corkboard covered in schedules.

  “Are these… daily routines?”

  “Yes, sir,” a Birch replied. “Hourly.”

  “And this column?”

  “Contingencies.”

  “…For what?”

  The student considered. “Disruptions.”

  Lockwood made a small, thoughtful noise and wrote something down that Garrett very much did not want to read later.

  They passed a practice room where two Birches were rehearsing conversation.

  “No, smile less,” one said gently. “That looks suspicious.”

  “I thought enthusiasm was good.”

  “Moderation,” the other replied. “Always moderation.”

  Lockwood stopped walking.

  “…Are you being taught how to socialize?”

  “Yes,” they said in unison.

  “…Why?”

  “Some people are bad at it.”

  Garrett bit the inside of his cheek.

  Lockwood stared.

  Then—slowly—she nodded.

  “Practical.”

  As they exited Birch Haven, Lockwood closed her notebook with a decisive snap.

  “…Competent,” she said.

  Hawthorne hummed. “Disturbingly so.”

  Garrett smiled.

  Birch Haven, at least, would not be the reason the school burned down.