The Grounds gates closed at dawn with a groan that sounded like bones settling. Teams straggled back into the courtyard in uneven clusters—some triumphant, some bruised, some silent with failure. Instructors walked the lines with quills and slates, writing more in the angle of their mouths than in ink. Priests drifted among them like pale birds, eyes too calm, too hungry.
Team Two returned in order. Rowan carried scratches across his arm but no shame in his gait. Mikel bore no mark but the sweat of effort. Celina's face was composed as stone, though her hand twitched once against her sleeve. Ernest walked last, his breath even, his mask unbroken.
Whispers rose at once.
"They broke the horn.""Not a drop of blood spilled.""Gold's fire, Stag's blade, Aldery's—" the voice dropped "—voice."
The old priest with the white lashes stepped into their path. His smile was narrow, his eyes colorless as frost.
"Impressive," he said softly. "Discipline. Silence. No wasted blood."
Halvern inclined his head, not a bow. "Team Two met their objective."
The priest's gaze slid over Rowan, paused at Mikel, lingered on Celina. She held it, unblinking. Then his eyes found Ernest. The Veil hummed, steady, thick. The priest's lips moved. Words Ernest did not hear, or perhaps words too small to matter.
He stepped aside. "Go."
The courtyard exhaled. Students moved again, whispers scattering like leaves.
Lecture hall three was quieter than usual. Halvern set down his ledger. "Marks. Team Two: full credit. Efficiency, control, restraint. Model."
A ripple. Not applause—envy.
Rowan sat straighter. Mikel lowered his head. Celina did not move. Ernest wrote nothing, though the words carved themselves into the air.
"Other teams—" Halvern's tone sharpened "—blew horns, spilled blood, lost composure. Marks docked."
The rivalries that had been wolves with teeth hidden now bared them. Boys glared across rows. Girls whispered into sleeves. Names hissed, promises sworn.
Ernest sat still. He felt their eyes. He let them weigh him. The forest learned. Now the pack begins to bite itself.
In the yard, Serren drove them harder. "Blades! Form! You are not entertainers—you are spines. Again!"
Wood cracked. Sweat stung eyes. Rowan fought with fewer wasted motions now, his blade cleaner, his noise reduced. Mikel kept pace, steady, reliable.
Celina's partner faltered under her gaze, blade slowing. She disarmed him with one cut, clean as breath. The curse bit her hand even in wood drills; she hid it with the calm of stone.
Serren's staff tapped the ground near Ernest once. Approval enough.
Evening fell heavy. The dining hall buzzed with whispers sharpened to points.
"Team Two. Full marks.""Priests watched.""Gold's curse didn't stop her.""Aldery didn't even sweat."
Rowan sat at the far table, his friends quieter now, looking to him not for noise but for direction. Mikel ate without comment, steady as always. Celina sat apart, untouched by the empty chairs near her. Her candlelight hair drew glances she ignored.
Ernest ate in silence. His name walked the room without him.
Later, in the dormitory corridors, voices hushed. The priests were still abroad, their steps soundless, their gazes heavier than footsteps.
Mikel found Ernest at his door. "They'll come closer," he said. "The priests. They'll test."
"Yes," Ernest said.
"Rowan—he listens now. Not enough, but more. He… respects you."
"He respects survival," Ernest said.
"And Celina—" Mikel hesitated, as if afraid of the word. "She follows without looking like she does. That's strength."
Ernest inclined his head. "It is."
Mikel exhaled. "Then we'll stand. When they test."
"You will," Ernest said. "Steady."
In his chamber, Ernest lit the lamp low. He opened his notebook.
Priests circled. Veil held. White lashes priest—interest sharp. Too close.
Rowan—noise dulled, pride tempered. Useful spine forming.
Mikel—anchor without flaw.
Celina—curse gnaws, but silence stronger. Shared recognition deepening.
Class turned teeth inward. Rivalries will bloom. Useful distractions.
He closed the book. Went to the window. The courtyard below lay quiet now, the chalk circle empty, moonlight spilling like silver water.
Across the green, Celina's candle burned again. Steady, unwavering, though her hand had trembled earlier.
Ernest's reflection in the glass met his gaze, pale, calm, merciless.
"The forest bent," he whispered. "The nobles bowed. The class bleeds envy."
His lips curved, thin as a knife's smile.
"And the priests? They watch. They hunger. Let them. I am the Voice that commands—even in silence."