The bells tolled heavy, slow, as though even the metal strained under the weight of the morning. Their sound rolled over the Academy spires, settling into stone, into earth, into bone. Students stirred in the dormitories, voices hushed, footsteps careful. The whispers had changed—less like rumor, more like prophecy, spoken with the unease of those who feared their own words might bring what they named.
"They say the priests won't wait much longer.""Gold nearly broke, but she didn't.""Aldery spoke and her fire froze. He steadied her.""They'll test him next. Him or both together."
The corridors carried the talk like veins carry blood. Ernest walked through them in silence, his black eyes steady, his step unhurried. The noise parted as it always did. Faces turned, whispers smothered themselves when his gaze fell near. His calm was heavier than shouting. His silence was sharper than blades.
Outside, frost still clung to the courtyard stones, pale beneath the wan sun. The air was thin, brittle, carrying the cold of the season's edge. Instructors gathered near the terrace, their shoulders stiff, their voices low. The priests were already there—white-robed, pale-faced, drifting like carrion birds. The old one with lashes white as snow stood apart, hands folded, his eyes fixed on Ernest the way a lock fixes on a key.
Halvern called them to the lecture hall, his staff rapping stone. Students obeyed, though their steps carried unease. They had learned: when the priests stood so still, it meant teeth were waiting.
The hall was darker than usual. Curtains were drawn to dim the light from the oculus, so that candles burned in unnatural gloom, their flames long and blue at the edges. The smell of wax and something sharper—iron, faintly bitter—hung in the air.
On the dais stood a new object. An iron chest, its lid etched with runes, its lock black and heavy. Beside it stood two priests, their faces expressionless, their hands folded as though in prayer.
Halvern's voice was dry, brittle. "Today, Class C faces a test of resilience and unity. Not with beasts, not with rods or spheres. With relics. You will approach what should not be touched, and you will prove you can master yourselves."
Murmurs rippled through the benches. Relics. Even the word carried weight. Relics were cursed things, remnants of wars between gods and men, fragments of power that carried echoes of chains or flame. To touch them was to risk more than pain—it was to risk one's will.
The old priest stepped forward, his pale eyes sweeping the room, resting at last on Celina, then on Ernest. His voice was soft, each word deliberate. "A cursed girl. A boy who speaks as if the world listens. Yes… let us see if discipline can bind what gods left broken."
He gestured. The chest opened with a groan, runes flaring faintly, releasing a breath of air that smelled of rust and ash. Inside, on velvet dark as coal, lay a fragment of chain. Old, blackened, its links twisted as if melted, yet they pulsed faintly with red light, like a heart still beating centuries after death.
The students flinched back. Even those too proud to show fear shifted in their seats. The fragment reeked of weight, of hunger.
Halvern's spectacles glinted. "Team Two. Step forward."
Of course. Always them.
Ernest rose, his expression unchanging. Rowan followed, jaw set but unsteady in his breath. Mikel moved steady, no faster or slower than always. Celina stood, her emerald eyes calm though her wrist already trembled faintly beneath her sleeve. They descended to the dais.
The chain pulsed.
"Touch," the old priest said softly.
Rowan went first. His hand hovered, hesitated, then lowered. His fingers brushed iron. He flinched, eyes wide. His breath caught. The chain hissed faintly, light flickering, but he did not pull away. His jaw clenched.
"It burns," he whispered.
"Endure," Ernest said. The word steadied him. Rowan held longer, then pulled away, his hand red, trembling but whole.
Mikel stepped next. His grip was firmer, steadier. The chain pulsed once, then quieted beneath his touch. He released it without word, his face calm.
Celina stepped forward. The curse flared the instant her hand neared. Her wrist shuddered, flame licking her veins. Her teeth clenched. She touched. The chain blazed, red light searing, her emerald eyes narrowing with pain. Her breath came ragged, but she did not cry out.
"Break her," a priest whispered.
Celina gasped, fire crawling up her arm. She wavered—until Ernest spoke.
"Still."
The word cracked through the hall, quiet but absolute. The fire faltered, froze. Celina's hand trembled, but her grip did not release. She forced the flame down, crushed the curse back into silence. When she pulled away, sweat shone along her brow, but her face remained calm.
The chain pulsed brighter now, as though awakened. The priests smiled.
"Now you," the old one said, his lashes white against his skin. His eyes fixed on Ernest. "Let us hear what discipline you carry."
Ernest stepped forward. His hand lowered, steady. He touched iron.
The world convulsed.
Heat surged through his veins, red and black. The chain screamed in silence, its weight pressing into his bones. He felt the echo of gods—chains binding, curses gnawing, power twisted. The fragment clawed at him, hungry, desperate to leash.
The Veil hummed.
Ernest's black eyes narrowed. His breath deepened. His voice slipped out, not loud, not sharp, but low, steady, merciless.
"Kneel."
The chain's light flared. Then dimmed. The weight pressed harder, then cracked. Its pulse slowed, obeying not the gods it remembered but the voice before it. The iron stilled.
The hall was silent.
The priests leaned forward. Their smiles sharpened. "Yes," the old one whispered. "Not just beasts. Not just curses. Chains, too. He commands."
Halvern's staff struck stone. "Enough." His voice was clipped, harder than before. "Team Two—acceptable. Return."
The chain was closed into the chest, its light swallowed. The priests whispered, their eyes never leaving Ernest.
The afternoon drills were a blur of sweat and wood. Students struck harder, eyes darting to Ernest, to Celina, to Team Two. Whispers thickened like smoke.
"They made them touch a relic.""The cursed girl nearly broke.""Aldery… he tamed it.""Not human. Not natural."
Rowan fought cleaner, his blade sharper. Pride no longer wild but forged into focus. Mikel's calm anchored every movement. Celina moved with fire that burned even when hidden, her curse gnawing, her will unyielding. Ernest cut lines of silence into the air, each strike unflinching.
At the yard's edge, the priests watched, their eyes heavy.
Evening brought whispers sharper than knives.
"Team Two touched chains of gods.""Gold endured. Stag did not falter. Rane is stone.""Aldery commands even relics.""The priests know. They will not stop."
Rowan sat straighter, no longer mocked, his face marked with new resolve. Mikel ate in silence, steady as ever. Celina sat apart, her emerald eyes calm, her wrist trembling beneath her sleeve. Ernest ate without word, his silence heavier than all the whispers.
At the far table, the priests dined, their white robes glowing in lamplight. The old one lifted his cup. His eyes never left Ernest.
Night fell thick. The dormitory hushed. Priests' footsteps drifted like ghosts in the corridors. Celina's candle burned late, its flame steady though her hand had trembled.
In his chamber, Ernest lit his lamp low. He opened his notebook.
Priests escalated. Cursed relic. Chain bent.
Rowan—loyalty deepening. Noise dulled, spine forming.
Mikel—unshaken. Anchor constant.
Celina—curse gnawed, but she endured. Recognition deepening.
Priests suspect. Their hunger sharpened. They will not stop.
He closed the book, stood at the window. The courtyard lay silver, the chalk circle pale. Across the green, Celina's candle burned, steady, defiant.
His reflection in the glass stared back—pale, calm, merciless.
"The forest bent," he whispered. "The nobles bowed. The class envies. The beast knelt. The chain obeyed."
His lips curved, thin, sharp.
"And the priests—let them hunger. They will break on me. I am the Voice that commands—even in silence."