The bells tolled with a weight that felt heavier than iron. Their echo rolled along the Academy walls and settled into the marrow of every boy and girl who stirred from their beds. Morning came bright, yet there was a haze clinging to the air—a thickness that made each breath taste of waiting. Whispers were quicker now, sharper, like blades drawn without sheaths. Rumor had grown teeth, and the priests had taught it how to bite.
Ernest dressed with steady hands, pulling the dark uniform over his shoulders and fastening the Aldery crest at his throat. The silver thread glimmered faintly in the morning light, but his eyes, cold as polished stone, gave back nothing. He sat for a moment on the edge of his bed, listening. The dormitory hummed with the half-silence of boys pretending not to talk. Every sentence carried his name.
"They say he spoke and the beast obeyed.""No hound kneels without collar or chain.""Then what leash does Aldery hold?"
Ernest rose, collected his satchel, and left without a word. The corridor hushed as he walked, students shifting against walls as though his silence were more dangerous than any roar.
The courtyard was alive already, filled with the shuffle of boots and the glint of weapons meant for training, not killing. But the air was wrong. Instructors walked in stiff lines, their jaws tight. The priests were everywhere—white-robed, pale-faced, gliding between groups with smiles too soft, too polished. Their presence pressed like chains against shoulders.
The old priest with the lashes white as snow stood at the terrace. His eyes—colorless, unblinking—swept over the gathered students until they came to rest on Ernest. The gaze did not move, even when Halvern raised his staff to bark orders.
"Lecture hall three. All of you. Now."
The hall was colder than any morning before. Candles burned with blue edges, their wax running thin and fast. The oculus light made the dust look like ash. At the dais stood Magister Halvern, his hands clasped behind his back. To his right, two priests lingered. To his left, the old one waited, his lashes pale, his smile faint.
"Today," Halvern said, his voice dry as chalk, "discipline will be tested further. Not with beasts. With yourselves."
Students exchanged uneasy glances.
The old priest raised a hand, his tone low, silken. "A curse. A burden carried. Discipline is not merely power in calm waters—it is power in storm. Today, we see who commands when storm rises."
His eyes turned to Celina.
She sat in her bench, posture perfect, hands folded upon her desk. Her emerald eyes did not waver, but beneath her sleeve, the faint tremor of the curse was there. The priests had chosen their test, and everyone knew it.
"Gold," Halvern said. "Step forward."
She rose without flinch, her steps measured, her face calm. Whispers rippled through the benches. Cursed girl. Beauty doomed. How long until it breaks her?
Celina stopped at the dais. The priests began to chant. Low, humming, words older than the stones of the hall. The curse at her wrist flared, green fire licking her veins. Her jaw tightened. Sweat glistened along her temple, but she did not move.
"Channel," the old priest commanded.
Celina raised her hand. Flame burst forth—too bright, too wild, green shot with white. The curse clawed at her arm, her shoulders. The fire spread wider than she meant, licking the dais, searing the air. The students gasped, some shrinking back.
"Control," Halvern snapped, though his voice carried less authority now than the priests' chant.
Celina's teeth clenched. She drew breath, forced the flame inward. It wavered, sputtered, but shrank, obeying her will. The curse gnawed harder. Her hand shook.
"Break her," one priest whispered.
"Hold," said another.
Ernest rose. His chair scraped stone. Black eyes fixed on Celina. He did not raise his hand. He did not move closer. He spoke, his voice soft but sharp, cutting through chant and flame.
"Still."
The word struck like iron in water. The flame froze, trembling but contained. Celina gasped, her wrist shuddering. For a heartbeat, she faltered—but she caught herself, and her will clamped down like a jaw. The fire shrank again, pressed into her palm until only a bead of green light hovered, trembling but whole.
Silence filled the hall.
The old priest's smile widened. His lashes lowered and rose again. "Impressive," he murmured. "She bends but does not break. Yet… not alone." His pale eyes slid to Ernest. "Words carry weight in places they should not."
Halvern struck his staff, breaking the silence. "Enough. Celina Gold—acceptable. Return."
She lowered her hand, flame gone. Her face was calm, her breath measured, though her wrist trembled faintly beneath her sleeve. She walked back to her bench, every step steady. She did not look at Ernest, but when she sat, her gaze flicked toward him for the barest heartbeat. Recognition. Gratitude. And something more dangerous: understanding.
The afternoon drills in the yard carried the tension of the hall. Students struck harder, shouted louder, their forms breaking under the weight of nerves. Serren barked, his staff slamming the ground. "Control! Not frenzy! You will not bleed to please the priests."
Rowan fought with tight focus, his noise dulled, his blade truer. Mikel moved with patient steadiness, each strike clean, each guard unbroken. Celina cut her partner's blade from his hand in one move, calm even with the curse gnawing. Ernest's strikes were sharp, minimal, unerring.
At the yard's edge, the priests watched. The old one's gaze clung to Ernest, as if peeling layers away. His smile never wavered.
That evening, the dining hall roared with whispers.
"Celina almost broke—""Yet she didn't.""Aldery spoke. She steadied.""They test them through her curse now.""The priests know. They see."
Rowan sat straighter, his face marked by a new seriousness. Mikel ate in silence, steady, unshaken. Celina sat as always, apart yet unbent, emerald eyes calm. Ernest ate without word. Whispers circled him like wolves, but none dared step closer.
The priests dined too, their white robes glowing in lamplight. The old one lifted his cup, eyes never leaving Ernest.
Night deepened. The dormitory fell to uneasy silence. In the corridor, footsteps of priests drifted, soft as ghosts. Candles burned late in Celina's chamber, the flame stubborn, defiant.
In his own, Ernest lit a lamp low. He opened his notebook.
Priests pressed curse. Celina bent, endured. My word steadied her. Dangerous. Visible.
Rowan—pride dull, spine forming. Useful ally if shaped.
Mikel—anchor unshaken. Trust without question.
Celina—curse gnaws deeper. Yet silence holds. Recognition grows.
Priests circle tighter. They suspect. Their hunger sharp.
He closed the book, stood at the window. The courtyard below lay silver in moonlight, the chalk circle pale as bone. Across the green, Celina's candle still burned, flame unyielding.
His reflection stared back—pale, calm, merciless.
"The forest bent," he whispered. "The nobles bowed. The class envies. The beast knelt. The priests press."
His lips curved, thin, sharp, a blade hidden in a smile.
"They will press until their own chains bind them. I am the Voice that commands—even in silence."