The Academy's bells tolled dawn with slow weight, each note heavy enough to hang in the bones. The West Wing stirred in uneven rhythm—boots hitting stone, laughter too high, voices made confident only by company. In three days, those same voices would be swallowed by trees.
Ernest laced his uniform without hurry. The fabric carried the faint smell of ash from the training yard. He closed his trunk with a soft click and slid his notebook into the hidden panel. Outside, frost feathered the glass; when he breathed against it, the fog vanished at once, as if even the cold deferred.
The corridor was louder than usual. Boys clustered at junctions, trading guesses.
"Teams are set.""Halvern's in charge of theirs—gods help them.""Gold and Aldery together? Cursed and cold. The priests will hover."
No one said it where he could hear. But the silence that followed him always said it for them.
Lecture hall three smelled faintly of wet chalk and ink. Magister Halvern stood with a row of brass spheres set on a tray, each the size of a fist, etched with faint runes. He touched one; it hummed like a struck bell, the sound small but sharp.
"Resonance," he said. "These are tuned to excess. Your task: feed them until they sing, but stop before they crack. Precision, not pride. Those who cannot tell the difference will clean shards."
He set one on each desk. The class bent over them.
Ernest laid a fingertip on the brass, drew. The sphere shivered, tone rising like breath before a shout. He narrowed the thread, held it, felt the edge where sound might turn to scream. He let it hover there—obedient, perfect—and then he starved it until it sighed into silence.
Across, Rowan fed his too greedily. The hum swelled, wobbled; the sphere split with a neat pop, shards leaping like startled insects. The class flinched. Halvern's eyes cut to him.
"Again," he said. Another sphere rolled across the desk.
Rowan swallowed and began again, slower.
Celina's sphere sang a high note, clear, almost beautiful. At half-strength, her hand trembled; the curse gnawed. She stilled it by force of will, brought the hum back down to silence. Ernest watched the way pain wrote itself on her wrist and was erased by her jaw. She turns torment into discipline. Even chains sharpen her.
The bell dismissed them. The spheres sat quiet, some whole, some cracked. Ernest rose. Students leaned to whisper.
"Rowan broke two.""Aldery didn't flinch.""Gold—did you hear hers? Like glass singing."
The words followed Ernest into the yard.
Sword drills drew sweat from stone. Instructor Serren paced like a shadow with a staff. "Cut clean. Don't chase. Stance, then strike."
Ernest and Mikel paired, rhythm steady. Their wooden blades met and parted with no wasted sound.
Rowan fought two benches away, form tighter than before, jaw clenched. He held his blade too high, but when corrected, he lowered it without retort. Noise had dulled to effort. Ernest marked the change. Noise can be taught to shape. Useful, if it holds.
At dismissal, Serren called, "Grounds preparation. Pack your trunks light. What you carry, you carry."
The yard buzzed. Boys asked one another what to bring. Flint. Rope. Dried meat. Bandages. The priests would supply what they wanted them to have, which meant not enough.
Rowan approached Ernest at the edge of the yard. He didn't bring his friends. "Lecture room five again?" he asked, voice rough.
"Yes," Ernest said.
Celina arrived without being asked. Mikel trailed with steady steps.
Lecture room five smelled of chalk dust and oil. The map lay spread across the table, ink lines sharp in lamplight. Ernest touched the west ridge with one finger.
"We move here first," he said. "Above the choke. If teams scatter, they will funnel into it. We avoid it. Rowan—flank left. Draw eyes. Mikel—rear, steady. Celina—fire only when signal given. I call."
Rowan frowned. "And if they force us?"
"Then you break," Ernest said. "You run noise into noise. We cut in behind. Your pride will earn scars, not graves."
Rowan's jaw worked. Then he nodded. "Understood."
Celina's gaze lingered on Ernest. "You think like a commander."
"I think like a survivor," he said.
"Same thing, if you live long enough."
The silence that followed was agreement, though no one admitted it.
Night spread its dark wings. The dormitory whispered, voices soft, as if the Grounds already listened.
"Wolves.""Goblins.""Aberrants—they said so. What kind?""Doesn't matter. If you bleed, you fail."
In his chamber, Ernest lit a single lamp. He opened his notebook.
Rowan—noise thinning. May yet be shaped. Trust with limits.
Mikel—anchor. Honest blade. Keep steady.
Celina—curse bites, but she does not yield. Fire is discipline, not display.
Priests will watch. Veil must hold. Their gaze sharper in the Grounds.
He closed the book, went to the window. Below, the chalk circle glowed faint, white in the moonlight. Across the green, Celina's candle burned steady. Rowan's room was dark. Mikel's glowed with quiet persistence.
The Academy slept uneasily, the Grounds waiting with patient teeth.
Ernest's reflection met his gaze in the glass. Pale, calm, merciless.
"The forest bent," he whispered. "The nobles bowed. Class C begins to learn."
His lips curved, thin as a blade.
"In two days, the Grounds will kneel. I am the Voice that commands—even in silence."