The bells tolled too early, or perhaps Rowan had woken too late. Sleep had been shallow, broken by dreams of splintered blades and laughter sharp as knives. He sat on the edge of his bed, breath tight in his chest, staring at his blistered hands. The wood of Mikel's practice blade had left them raw. The memory of that final, soft touch—Mikel's weapon pressing against his chest like a whisper—burned worse than any wound.
He had yielded. He had spoken the word aloud.
Yield.
Rowan's jaw clenched until his teeth ached. His tutors had told him Stags did not yield. His father had told him scars were proof of nobility. He had believed it once. But in the circle, under the eyes of his peers, under the priests' pale smiles, he had lowered his blade.
And yet—he still lived.
He rose, pulling on his uniform with clumsy haste. The fabric caught on his raw palms; he hissed, angry at himself for making a sound. He forced silence, fastening the last button with care that bordered on violence.
When he stepped into the corridor, the whispers met him at once.
"Rowan Stag lost.""To Rane, of all people.""He yielded.""He bent."
He walked faster, his jaw tight, his fists trembling at his sides.
The courtyard was alive with cold morning light. Students gathered in knots, their laughter brittle. Instructors moved among them, barked orders, scolded sluggish limbs. The priests lingered at the edges, their white robes like wounds against stone. The old one with lashes white as frost glanced toward Rowan once, then let his gaze slide toward Ernest.
Rowan's stomach twisted.
Ernest stood apart, black eyes calm, his silence heavier than every voice in the yard. Mikel stood at his side, his stance as steady as stone. Celina's golden hair caught the sun, her emerald gaze forward, her cursed wrist trembling faintly beneath her sleeve. They looked unshaken, unbroken. Rowan hated and envied them both.
He moved to join them, though shame pressed his shoulders low. Mikel gave him a nod—not pity, not pride, just acknowledgment. Celina's gaze slid over him and moved on, indifferent as always. Ernest looked at him once, black eyes unreadable, then turned away.
The silence stung worse than mockery.
The morning lecture passed in a haze. Halvern's voice droned of resonance equations and mana flow. Chalk squeaked against slate. Rowan's quill scratched, but his notes blurred before his eyes. All he could see was the circle, Mikel's blade against his chest, his own lips forming that cursed word.
Yield.
He remembered Ernest's voice after, calm, merciless: You stood longer. Next time, you will stand longer still.
It should have sounded like comfort. It had sounded like judgment.
The bell rang. Students filed out. Rowan lingered.
"Noise falters," Ernest had said once. "Control does not."
Rowan stared at his blistered palms. He wanted control. He wanted to stand without faltering. But how?
The yard drills came fierce. Serren barked louder than usual, his staff cracking stone. "Blades! Cut clean! No wasted noise!"
Rowan fought harder than before. His breath came ragged, his strikes too heavy, his footing too wide. He drove himself until his arms burned, until his blisters tore and bled. He bit his lip, hiding sound, pressing on.
Mikel faced him once, their blades meeting. Mikel's form was calm, unhurried, every strike clean. Rowan pressed, desperate, reckless. Mikel parried each blow without strain.
"Enough," Mikel said softly. "You bleed more than you learn."
"I don't need your pity!" Rowan snarled, swinging harder.
Mikel's blade met his again, firm, unyielding. "This isn't pity. It's truth."
Rowan froze, chest heaving, his breath loud. Mikel lowered his blade, eyes steady.
"Noise dies when you stop feeding it," he said. "Discipline isn't rage."
Rowan's throat burned. He lowered his blade. He hated that he wanted to believe.
That evening, Rowan could not eat. The dining hall buzzed with whispers, but his ears were deaf to them. He left early, wandering into the courtyard, the cold air burning his lungs.
He found Ernest waiting at the chalk circle. Not training—simply standing, his black eyes watching the white lines as though they were a scripture.
Rowan stopped, shame hot on his face. "I failed."
Ernest did not turn. His voice was calm. "You yielded."
Rowan's fists clenched. "Same thing."
"No." Ernest looked at him now, his gaze merciless. "Failure is noise. Yield is silence. One kills you. The other keeps you alive to fight again."
Rowan shook his head. "I don't want to yield. I want to win."
"Then learn." Ernest's words cut sharp. "Noise presses harder. Discipline presses longer. You stood longer than before. Next time, longer still. Until pride dies and control remains."
Rowan swallowed hard. His chest ached. His shame burned. But beneath it, something else stirred. Hope—or perhaps resolve.
"I'll learn," he whispered. "Even if it breaks me."
Ernest's black eyes narrowed. "It won't. Not if you bend first."
The words lodged in Rowan's chest. Bend first. Yield to learn. Yield to survive. Only then could he stand without faltering.
He bowed his head. For the first time, the act did not taste like shame.
That night, Rowan returned to his chamber. His hands trembled as he unwrapped his palms, the blisters raw and bleeding. He cleaned them, bandaged them, his breath quiet. He sat by the window, staring at the moonlight silvering the courtyard.
Across the green, Celina's candle burned steady, defiant. Mikel's lamp glowed constant, faint but unwavering. Ernest's window was dark, yet Rowan felt his presence as surely as stone feels weight.
Rowan pressed his bandaged hands together. "Noise dies," he whispered. "Control remains."
For the first time, he believed it.
In his chamber, Ernest lit his lamp low and wrote in his notebook.
Rowan's pride cracked. Shame heavy. But he bends. Yield no longer tastes like failure. Progress.
Mikel steady, anchor for Rowan. Truth sharper than pity.
Celina unchanged. Her fire remains silent, but she watches. Recognition grows.
Team Two closer still. Rowan's noise dying. His spine forming. Soon, he will stand without falter.
He closed the book, stood at the window. The courtyard lay silver. He saw Rowan's shadow at his own window, shoulders bent but unbroken.
His reflection stared back—pale, calm, merciless.
"The forest bent," Ernest whispered. "The nobles bowed. The beast knelt. The chain obeyed. The blades crossed. Pride cracks."
His lips curved, thin, sharp.
"And when pride dies, discipline will stand. I am the Voice that commands—even in silence."