The bells tolled slow, but not heavy. Their sound was almost light, too even, as if they were mocking the unease that ran like current through the Academy halls. Students stirred with more care than usual, glancing often at doors, at windows, at the white-robed priests that now haunted even the smallest corridors.
Team Two's name lingered on every tongue.
"They are favored.""No—watched.""Chains bent, curses silenced, beasts knelt. It cannot last."
Ernest walked through the murmur, his black eyes calm, his step unhurried. Rowan fell in behind him, his jaw tight, his shoulders set. Mikel trailed, as constant as a shadow. Celina walked apart, as she always did, her emerald gaze unblinking, the curse burning faint beneath her sleeve.
They no longer moved as four scattered heirs. They moved as a shape, and the Academy saw it. The priests saw it too—and that was why today felt wrong.
Lecture hall three was too bright. Every window was thrown open to let in pale light, so sharp it cast long, thin shadows. At the dais stood Magister Halvern, his spectacles reflecting sun so strongly his eyes could not be read. Beside him, the old priest with lashes white as frost waited, his hands folded, his pale smile fixed.
Halvern's voice cracked the air like chalk against slate. "Discipline is not unity alone. Unity must endure temptation. Today, you will be tested against each other."
A murmur swept the benches. Students leaned closer, eyes gleaming with hunger. Rivalries had long awaited such a stage.
Halvern raised his staff. "Pairs will duel. Blade against blade. Control against control. Not strength. Not rage. Discipline. Those who yield wisely will pass. Those who break will be marked."
The old priest's pale eyes swept the room, lingering on Ernest, on Celina. His voice was soft. "Chains bend when struck from within. Let us see who bends, who breaks."
The first duels passed quickly. Nobles clashed with loud pride, their blades striking too hard, their breath wasted in shouts. Halvern's staff struck often, reprimanding wasted noise, wasted motion.
Then: "Rowan Stag. Mikel Rane."
Rowan stiffened. His eyes flicked to Ernest, as if seeking command. Ernest gave none.
Mikel rose without hesitation. His expression was calm, steady. Rowan swallowed and followed him into the circle.
"Begin," Halvern said.
Rowan struck first, loud, eager, his blade cutting air with force. Mikel met it clean, steady, without waste. Again Rowan pressed, his jaw clenched, his pride trying to sharpen itself into discipline. Again Mikel parried, his blade smooth as breath, his footing unbroken.
Noise met stone.
Rowan's strikes grew ragged, his breath louder. Mikel remained calm, his blade moving with patience. At last, Rowan faltered. His guard broke. Mikel's blade touched his chest, light as a breath.
"Yield," Mikel said softly.
Rowan froze, shame burning his face. His jaw clenched. For a heartbeat, he considered defiance. Then his blade lowered. "Yield."
Halvern's staff struck once. "Rane—acceptable. Stag—improving, but pride still wastes."
Rowan bowed stiffly and returned to his bench. His eyes did not meet Mikel's, nor Ernest's.
More duels passed. Sweat slicked brows, blades clattered. Students whispered at every match, their eyes darting toward Team Two. The priests watched, their smiles patient.
At last: "Celina Gold. Ernest Aldery."
The hall stilled. Whispers sharpened like knives.
Celina rose, her emerald gaze calm, her face unreadable. Ernest stood, his step unhurried, his mask flawless. Together they stepped into the circle.
Halvern raised his staff. "Begin."
Celina moved first. Her blade cut fast, sharp, precise. No wasted motion, no sound. The curse trembled faintly at her wrist, but she held it in silence.
Ernest parried with ease. His blade moved in arcs of silence, each strike minimal, each guard perfect. Their blades rang once, twice, then fell into a rhythm too clean for noise.
The hall watched, breath held.
Celina pressed harder. Flame flickered faintly beneath her skin, though no fire escaped. Her strikes grew sharper, her emerald eyes burning. Ernest met them all, his black gaze calm, merciless.
Their blades locked. For a moment, they stood close, eyes locked. Her breath sharp. His steady. The curse burned. The Veil hummed.
The old priest leaned forward. "Yes," he whispered. "Break one with the other."
Celina's wrist trembled. The curse flared, green fire licking her veins. Her blade wavered—only for an instant. Ernest's voice cut through, low, sharp.
"Still."
Her flame froze. Her wrist steadied. She pressed again, sharper, stronger, but without break. Ernest parried, his silence unbroken.
At last, Halvern struck his staff. "Enough. Gold—acceptable. Aldery—acceptable."
They lowered their blades. Celina's eyes lingered on him for one heartbeat longer than needed. Recognition again. Dangerous, undeniable.
The hall exhaled. Whispers rushed like floodwater.
"They fought—did you see?""No noise. No waste. Fire and silence.""He steadied her again. Even against him.""They are… together. Dangerous."
The priests whispered to one another. The old one smiled thinly.
That evening, the dining hall buzzed louder than ever. Rowan sat stiff, shame heavy on his face. He ate little. Mikel ate as always, calm, steady, though his eyes lingered on Rowan. Celina sat apart, her face unreadable, though her emerald gaze flicked once toward Ernest.
Whispers swirled. "Team Two fights itself.""No—they sharpen each other.""They are becoming more than heirs. They are becoming a blade."
The priests dined too, their eyes pale, their smiles thin.
Later, in lecture room five, the four gathered. The lamp burned steady on the table. The air was heavy.
Rowan broke first. "I lost." His voice was raw, thick. "Mikel stood like stone, and I—" His fists clenched. "I was noise again."
Mikel shook his head. "You stood longer than before. You yielded before pride killed you. That is progress."
Rowan swallowed hard. "Progress isn't enough." He looked at Ernest. "You told me noise falters. You were right. I faltered."
"You stood longer," Ernest said calmly. "Next time, you will stand longer still. Discipline is not won in one day."
Rowan breathed, slow, unsteady, but he nodded. "Then I'll keep standing. Until noise dies."
Mikel placed a hand on his shoulder, steady. Rowan didn't shrug it off.
Celina leaned back, her emerald eyes sharp. "And what of us?" she asked softly. "Blade against blade. Fire against silence. Even then, you steadied me."
Ernest met her gaze. Calm. Merciless. "Everything bends."
Her lips curved faintly. "Perhaps. But not forever."
The lamp flickered. The silence grew thick. Four sat in its glow, bound tighter than before—not by oaths, not by blood, but by trials that bent them toward one another.
That night, Ernest wrote in his notebook.
Rowan faltered, but yielded. Pride cooling. Noise dying.
Mikel steady, as stone. Trust unbroken.
Celina pressed hard. Curse flared. I steadied her again. Dangerous bond.
Team Two grows tighter. Priests see. They will try to break it.
He closed the book. At the window, the courtyard lay silver. Celina's candle burned, steady. Rowan's lamp was dim, but not dark. Mikel's glow remained constant.
His reflection stared back—pale, calm, merciless.
"The forest bent," he whispered. "The nobles bowed. The beast knelt. The chain obeyed. The blades crossed. And still—we did not break."
His lips curved, thin, sharp.
"Let them try. I am the Voice that commands—even in silence."