The bells tolled dawn with iron weight, each note lingering too long, as if the Academy itself hesitated. Frost clung to the courtyard stones; breath fogged in the air. Students gathered in muted clumps, their voices sharpened by whispers.
"Team Two—full marks.""The priests are circling.""They'll test them next."
Ernest walked through the murmur, satchel light on his shoulder. He neither slowed nor hurried. Silence parted for him as always. Rowan trailed, jaw tight but shoulders straighter than before. Mikel matched Ernest's pace, steady as ever. Celina walked apart, her emerald gaze forward, golden hair catching the gray light, the curse at her wrist hidden beneath calm steel.
At the terrace, the priests waited. White-robed, pale-faced, their eyes bright as coins. The old one with the lashes white as frost stepped forward. His voice slid soft as a knife drawn slow.
"The gods commend discipline. Yet discipline must be proven again and again. Today, we observe—closer."
The words hung, weighty. Students shifted.
Halvern adjusted his spectacles. "Class C—into lecture hall three. Resonance drill, under priestly eye. No variance."
The hall felt colder. Brass rods lined the benches again, humming faintly before any hand touched them. Priests stood at the back, still as carved stone. Their gaze was heavier than Halvern's instructions.
"Feed the rod," Halvern ordered. "Hold to hum. Neither silence nor scream. One hundred heartbeats."
Ernest drew. Mana rose, obedient, a tide at his command. He laid it thin against the rod. It sang, clear and even, no more, no less. His breath measured, his eyes unblinking.
Rowan's rod wavered; his hands shook. He bit his lip, blood pearling. Still he held. He looked once at Ernest—then steadied.
Mikel's hum was quiet, constant, like his blade. Honest, reliable.
Celina's rod sang higher than all, a bright edge of sound. At fifty beats, the curse struck—her wrist spasmed, her flame shivered. She stilled it, jaw set, rod steady. The hum never broke.
The old priest leaned forward. His lashes made pale shadows on his cheeks. His lips moved, whispering words only the rod seemed to hear. For a moment, Celina's hum spiked, shrill, as if breaking—then she forced it down, crushing the sound into obedience. Sweat shone on her brow. Her flame held.
Ernest felt the Veil hum around him, thick, protective. The priest's gaze slid toward him, seeking cracks. He let the silence inside him deepen. His rod never wavered.
At one hundred, Halvern's staff struck the floor. "Enough."
The rods stilled. Silence pressed heavy.
"Team Two," Halvern said, "acceptable."
The old priest smiled, thin. "Yes. Acceptable. For now."
The yard drills came harder. Instructor Serren barked louder, staff cracking stone. "Blades! Cut clean! No wasted noise!"
Sweat streaked faces. Wood cracked against wood. Rowan's form was tighter; his noise dulled, his pride forged into purpose. Mikel's rhythm was constant, anchor for any who strayed. Celina moved like a flame caged but never smothered.
When Ernest cut, he did so without flourish, his blade writing lines of silence in the air. Serren's staff tapped near his feet once—approval that needed no word.
At the yard's edge, priests watched, silent. Their eyes did not blink often enough.
Evening fell with the weight of whispers. The dining hall buzzed with envy sharpened to rumor.
"Priests tested them.""Celina almost broke—but didn't.""Rowan held. Aldery—he doesn't even flinch.""Mikel—steady as stone."
Rowan sat with his friends, but they no longer laughed at him. They listened. Mikel ate in silence, his calm its own shield. Celina sat apart, candlelight hair untouched by the emptiness around her. Ernest ate without haste, without word. His name walked the tables for him.
Later, in the dormitory corridor, whispers hushed as priests drifted past. Their steps were soundless, their eyes sharp. One paused at Ernest's door, head tilting. For a breath, it seemed he might enter. Then he moved on.
Mikel appeared a moment later. "They'll test again," he said.
"Yes."
"Harder."
"Yes."
Rowan came too, pride tempered now. "I won't falter again," he said.
Ernest met his gaze. "Noise falters. Control does not."
Rowan nodded, jaw set.
Celina's shadow stretched long at the end of the hall. She spoke only once, voice quiet, sharp. "They circle us because they fear us."
Ernest's eyes found hers. "Good."
In his chamber, the lamp burned low. He opened his notebook.
Priests tested resonance. Celina bitten but endured. Veil held.
Rowan—improving. Pride cooling into steel.
Mikel—unchanging anchor.
Celina—curse sharper under priest gaze. Still silent. Still strong.
Priests circling closer. Hunger visible. Must not falter.
He closed the book, went to the window. The courtyard lay below, moonlight silver on stone. Across the green, Celina's candle burned again—steady, unwavering.
His reflection in the glass met his gaze—pale, calm, merciless.
"The forest bent," he whispered. "The nobles bowed. The class bleeds envy. The priests test."
His lips curved, thin as a blade's smile.
"They will learn as all do. I am the Voice that commands—even in silence."