The chalk had been redrawn by dawn, its lines sharp again, white as bone against the West Yard stones. Students walked past it quickly, heads lowered, as if the circle itself remembered too much.
Ernest left his dormitory at the bell's third toll. The air was thin and brittle; his breath ghosted as he crossed the courtyard. Servants whispered at the edges of paths, glancing up only when they thought it safe.
"Did you hear?""He didn't even cut him—just made him yield.""Rowan Stag, humiliated, and by a boy who barely raised his voice.""Not barely. Never."
Ernest's expression didn't shift. Whispers were noise. He let them wash against him like river water against stone.
Inside lecture hall three, Magister Halvern arranged quills in perfect alignment, as if the order of tools would save the chaos of students. His spectacles glinted when Ernest entered, the faintest nod—approval not of victory, but of control.
Rowan sat two benches over, shoulders set, jaw tight. His friends tried to wear their laughter from yesterday, but it no longer fit. They kept tugging at it like clothes that had shrunk. Rowan didn't look at Ernest, though his fingers worried the edge of his desk until the skin grew red.
Celina arrived last. Light followed her, though the windows were narrow. She sat with her hands folded, spine straight, emerald eyes forward. She gave no sign she had been there, watching the duel's end. Yet Ernest felt the memory of her words—the faint echo of noise is small—as if the circle had carried them back to him.
Halvern's voice cut the room. "Today: channel shaping. You will form the runic aperture for a fire spark. Controlled size, controlled burn. Anyone who scorches my benches will scrub them until their hands blister."
A murmur of nervous humor. Students bent their heads to their slates.
Ernest sketched the runic array in three precise strokes. He drew mana into the shape—thin, measured, obedient. A bead of fire kindled at the array's heart, no larger than a candleflame. It danced once, twice, then stilled at his command.
Across the hall, Rowan's flame flared too wide, licking the rim of his slate. He cursed under his breath, snapped it closed, tried again. Sweat slicked his forehead.
Celina's flame was different—green shot through with white, sharp enough to sting the eye. At half-strength, the curse bit her wrist; a tremor ran up her arm. She closed her hand against it and held, expression calm. Her flame shrank obediently to size. She released it in silence, as if pain were nothing more than another lesson.
Ernest watched, filing the moment away. She bends beneath pain, but she does not break. Even her leash teaches her discipline.
Halvern's steps echoed between rows. He stopped beside Ernest's desk, looked at the small perfect flame, then down at the boy who held it. "Acceptable." The word was clipped, but the weight of it made others glance sideways.
When the bell released them, Rowan surged to his feet. His voice carried, sharper than he meant: "Aldery."
The room quieted.
"You humiliated me yesterday," Rowan said. His cheeks flushed, his jaw quivered. "But don't think it means anything. I will surpass you. I will crush you in front of them all."
A few whispers flared. Some students leaned forward; others shrank back.
Ernest rose slowly. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't even turn fully to face Rowan. His black eyes slid to him, steady as stone.
"You humiliated yourself," Ernest said. "Noise did that. Learn control, and you might yet stand."
Rowan's lips trembled with a retort that never came. He snapped his mouth shut and stormed out, his friends scrambling to follow.
The silence left behind wasn't simple. It was respect laced with unease.
The afternoon brought sword drills in the yard. Instructor Serren barked commands, his staff snapping against the ground.
"Pairs! Keep your lines!"
Mikel stepped toward Ernest without hesitation. They saluted, blades lifted. Their rhythm was even, strikes measured, parries neat. Serren passed them by with approval.
At the far end of the yard, Rowan clashed with another partner. His swings were fierce, wild, desperate. He shouted with each cut, as though volume could lend him strength. His blade tangled, his form collapsed. His partner caught him once, twice.
"Control!" Serren roared, staff slamming against the stones.
Rowan froze, chest heaving, face burning.
The class watched. Some pitied. Some smirked. Ernest only noted. Wildness makes him weaker with each swing. He will either learn or he will fall. Both outcomes serve me.
Evening fell, shadows lengthening across the academy's towers. Students gathered in the dining hall, voices low, laughter forced. The duel still hung in the air, a story retold at every table.
"Did you see? He didn't even cut him.""He just looked, and Rowan broke.""Too calm. Not natural."
Ernest ate without haste. Bread, meat, water. His silence invited no company. Yet eyes strayed toward him, measuring, whispering. Fear had a taste here, sharp as copper.
Celina sat across the hall. She spoke little, answered questions with nods or short replies. But her composure was different than Ernest's. Where his was sharp, hers was soft steel—unmoving, unbroken, unyielding.
Their eyes met once across the tables. Brief, silent. Recognition. Then both returned to their meals.
Later, in the dormitory corridors, whispers thickened like smoke.
"He's dangerous.""No—he's disciplined. There's a difference.""Discipline can be dangerous.""And Celina—she didn't flinch. Do you think they're—""Don't say it. You'll bring the priests down."
At Ernest's door, Mikel lingered. "You know he'll come at you again," he said quietly.
"Yes."
"He'll bring others."
"Noise collects noise." Ernest pushed his door open. "And noise is small."
Mikel hesitated, then nodded. "Still… I'll stand where I can. Steady."
Ernest inclined his head—acknowledgment enough.
Inside his room, the lamp burned steady. He took out his notebook, quill scratching across the page.
Rowan staggers, but he will not stop. Useful as example, perhaps later as leash.
Class whispers—fear, awe, suspicion. All acceptable.
Celina: endured curse's bite without sound. Strength in silence. Recognition shared again.
Priests watched. Their eyes lingered. Veil held. Must not falter.
He closed the book, leaned against the window. The yard lay below, chalk circle bright again. Across the green, a single candle burned in Celina's chamber, steady and bright.
His reflection met his gaze in the glass—pale, calm, merciless.
"The forest bent," he whispered. "Nobles bowed. The class begins to learn."
His lips curved, thin as a blade's edge.
"And when the priests come closer, they will learn too. I am the Voice that commands—even in silence."