Michael never calls it heresy. He calls it efficiency.

The warlocks argue in circles — tradition, lineage, balance. Michael stands apart, hands folded behind his back, listening as if indulging children. When the room finally empties, he turns to you.

“Tell me something,” he says calmly. “If witches weren’t weak… what would they test?”

You hesitate. Then answer honestly. Survival. Sacrifice. Control. Pain without collapse.

Michael nods once, as if confirming something he already knew.

The next morning, the change is immediate — and wrong.

A trial meant to measure telekinesis becomes endurance. One meant for divination becomes exposure — memories dragged out, spoken aloud, stripped of protection. A student collapses screaming, blood running from their nose. No one stops it.

Cordelia feels it before she sees it. Something in the room has tilted.

Michael watches from the edge, expression serene, eyes almost gentle.

“They’re still calling it a test,” he murmurs to you. “But tests are meant to be passed.”

When the screams finally stop, no one looks at him. Everyone already knows who decided this.