CHAPTER 372: THEY’D HAVE TO PROVE OTHERWISE

The dean locked the datapad and slid it aside, the soft click of its edge on the desk sounding final."Good. Then we move forward. I’ll adjust the parameters—make it harder for anyone to slip something into the field without revealing themselves—but the rest stays.

The students won’t hear more than the standard briefing. No sense making them flinch at shadows before the test even starts."

Ardis gave a small, deliberate nod. "I’ll be ready."

The dean leaned back in her chair again, some of the weight in her gaze easing, though only by degrees. "We’ll see if they will be."

The words hung between them, carrying more than just the obvious meaning.

Whatever else they said after that softened enough that it seemed meant only for the air in the room.

The low hum of the layered shielding stayed constant, almost like it was listening in, holding their voices inside the space and refusing to let them escape.

By the time Ardis stood, the datapad was already back in the drawer, and the latch was sealed.

The air in the room felt heavier than when she had walked in, a density that came with decisions made and paths chosen.

She took a step toward the door, her hand brushing the back of the chair she had just vacated—then stopped.

She glanced over her shoulder, eyes on the dean again.

"If you want them to walk away breathing," she said after a quiet moment, "then we should talk about something the academy hasn’t done before."

The dean’s eyes narrowed slightly—not in suspicion, but in the way someone focuses when they already sense where the conversation might lead. "Go on."

Ardis stepped back toward the desk, stopping just close enough to be heard without raising her voice. She didn’t sit this time.

"The link itself. We can embed hidden wards directly into the simulation architecture.

Ones that cut the connection instantly at the first sign of divine interference—not just a spike or distortion.

I’m talking about the kind of pattern that doesn’t happen unless something outside is forcing its way in."

The dean’s fingers tapped once against the armrest, slow, measured. "It’s an option. But you know exactly what that signals if anyone’s paying attention."

"That we’re expecting trouble," Ardis said.

"That we’re expecting them," the dean corrected, her tone even but sharper now. "And if they suspect we’re aware, they may not wait for the exam to act.

They might not choose the field as their battleground at all."

Ardis didn’t shift, didn’t let the warning push her back. "If they’re determined, they’ll act no matter what we expect.

The wards would give us a fraction of a second’s warning—and in a fight like that, a fraction can mean the difference between a soul being pulled out and one staying where it belongs."

The dean studied her, gaze steady, assessing more than just the suggestion.

There was an old understanding between them, built from years of quiet, dangerous work—sometimes on opposite sides of the academy’s politics, but always meeting in the same place when it counted.

"You’re not wrong," the dean said finally. "But this means slipping in functions only a handful of people will know exist.

No records, no flags in the system, nothing that could be found later."

"I’ve done it before," Ardis said without hesitation. "And I can do it again."

That earned her the faintest nod. "Then the question isn’t whether you can—it’s whether we should."

The unspoken part hung there. This time, the midterm wasn’t just an exam—it had weight outside the academy, with observers whose interest wasn’t academic.

Postponing would be seen as a weakness. Moving forward unchanged would leave them open.

Moving forward with changes risked telling the wrong people that the academy could see them coming.

The dean’s gaze drifted briefly to the faint shimmer of the office’s shielding field, her thoughts hidden behind that still expression.

"If we lay the wards in quietly," she said at last, "and hide them inside the existing security sweeps, it might pass without notice.

But if they’re as sharp as I believe, they’ll still feel the difference in the current."

Ardis’s voice didn’t rise, but it carried certainty. "Then let them feel it. If they’re testing our defenses, they’re testing the students too.

Better they run into something unexpected than walk through an open gate."

The dean’s eyes stayed on her for another long moment. "You’d make them completely dormant until triggered?"

"Yes. No draw, no visible signature. They’d only wake if the signal matched interference beyond mortal capability. Anything less, and they stay invisible."

The dean’s lips pressed together in thought. "That might work. And if anyone accuses us afterward, we can call it a new anti-overload protocol."

"They’d have to prove otherwise," Ardis said, a faint shrug to her shoulders.

The pause that followed was different now—not tense, but settling into something like agreement.

"All right," the dean said finally. "You’ll work with my systems lead—no one else. You handle the warding; they handle concealment. Complete compartmentalization."

Ardis inclined her head. "Understood."

The dean exhaled softly, but her eyes still held that edge. "The exam stays on schedule. The changes stay off the books.

And if anyone tries to take something from us..." Her mouth curved, not in a smile, but in something far more dangerous. "...they’ll learn we’ve been testing them all along."

No more words were needed. The decision was set. Once it left the room, it wouldn’t be taken back.

The shielding hum continued, the quiet witness to an agreement that would never appear in any official record.

Ardis gave a final nod and turned toward the door. Her steps were quiet, the same as when she entered, but there was a different weight to them now.

When the door closed behind her with a soft click, the silence in the room shifted—no longer the stillness of waiting, but the kind that comes from keeping a blade hidden just out of sight.

The dean stayed in her chair, eyes lingering on the sealed drawer where the datapad rested. She didn’t reach for it again.

Some things were better left untouched until the moment they were needed.

And this, she knew, was going to be one of those moments.