The bells tolled in gray light, their voices thin, brittle, like glass struck too sharply. The Academy stirred, but not in the restless chatter of normal mornings. Whispers were subdued, glances sharper, laughter forced. The priests had begun to linger longer, to drift through halls with their soft-footed silence. Even when they spoke, no one admitted to hearing their words.
Ernest moved through the corridor with the same steady stride as ever. Students parted, some from fear, others from the instinct to give space to a blade unsheathed. Rowan walked beside him, his face still bearing the shame of the duel, but his eyes more focused now, quieter. Mikel followed, unhurried, the calm anchor that steadied them all. Celina moved alone, as always, yet her presence was sharper now—her emerald eyes cutting through whispers, her cursed wrist trembling faintly but hidden beneath grace.
Together they crossed the courtyard. The frost had thawed, leaving the stones slick, pale. The priests stood on the terrace, their white robes gleaming against the dark stone. The old one with lashes white as frost did not blink as the four passed. His pale gaze clung to them, heavy as chains.
Lecture hall three was crowded not with books or rods or brass spheres, but with silence. Halvern stood at the dais, chalk in hand, though he had not written yet. Behind him, the priests waited, their faces calm, their smiles faint. The old one stepped forward, his lashes pale, his lips curving thin.
"Unity," he said softly, "is dangerous. Four shadows moving as one cast longer dark than four scattered. Such dark must be broken, or it will swallow."
His gaze swept the hall, resting at last on Ernest, on Celina, then shifting to Rowan and Mikel. "The gods watch when men grow too close to command what is theirs. They send us to remind."
Halvern cleared his throat. "Today—debate. Nobles must command not only blade and mana, but word. You will be judged on clarity, restraint, persuasion."
The priest's smile sharpened. "And on division. Unity must fracture to be tested."
Whispers spread. Students glanced at Team Two, their eyes gleaming. For the first time, the Academy was invited to bite openly.
The debate began with lesser heirs. Words were flung like stones, pride clashing with pride, noise louder than reason. Halvern struck his staff often, silencing excess. The priests whispered, smiling faintly at every outburst.
Then: "Team Two."
Rowan stiffened. Mikel's jaw tightened, though his face remained calm. Celina's expression did not change, but her eyes narrowed faintly. Ernest rose without hesitation, his silence heavier than the whispers that rushed to fill it.
They stepped to the dais.
"The topic," Halvern said, "is order. Is it born from unity or from fear? Gold and Stag will argue unity. Aldery and Rane, fear."
The hall stilled. The trap was clear.
Celina's emerald eyes flicked to Ernest. For once, there was something uncertain there. Rowan swallowed hard, sweat prickling his brow.
The old priest leaned forward, lashes pale against his skin. "Yes," he whispered. "Break them from within."
Rowan spoke first. His voice wavered, but he pressed on. "Unity strengthens. Alone, a blade breaks. Together, blades form shields. Teamwork preserves order."
Mikel countered, steady, calm. "Unity without fear is noise. Men obey because they must, not because they wish. Fear binds more tightly than friendship."
The hall murmured.
Celina's turn. Her voice was clear, sharp, her beauty dangerous even in silence. "Fear crumbles when chains loosen. Unity binds without leash. Discipline grows stronger when shared, not imposed."
Ernest stepped forward. His voice was low, calm, merciless. "Unity falters. Fear endures. Men betray allies when ambition calls. But the man who fears—he obeys even when alone. Fear bends kings, priests, even gods."
The room stilled.
Halvern's staff struck the floor. "Enough."
The priests whispered. The old one's smile deepened. "Even against one another, they sharpen. Unity and fear. Yet the boy of silence speaks with gods' weight. He believes fear commands even divinity. Dangerous."
Ernest's gaze did not waver. The Veil hummed, steady, unbroken.
That evening, the dining hall swelled with rumor.
"Team Two debated each other.""They did not break.""They sharpened one another.""Aldery spoke of fear binding gods.""Priests smiled."
Rowan sat stiff, his pride still raw, but his eyes sharper now. Mikel ate without hurry, his calm steadying even Rowan's unease. Celina sat apart, her emerald eyes unreadable, though once they flicked toward Ernest with a glint that was neither scorn nor praise, but recognition.
The priests dined as well, their white robes glowing. The old one raised his cup, his pale eyes never leaving Ernest.
That night, the dormitory lay quiet. Rowan lay awake, whispering Ernest's words in his head. Fear binds tighter than unity. He hated it, yet he knew it was true.
Mikel wrote a letter home, steady strokes of quill, his candle burning long.
Celina sat by her window, her hand trembling faintly, curse gnawing, her emerald eyes burning against the night. She whispered something to herself, but no one heard.
In his chamber, Ernest lit his lamp low. He opened his notebook.
Priests escalated. Debate. Attempted fracture. We did not break.
Rowan—shame still heavy, but words steadier. Unity is noise he clings to. Will bend to discipline with time.
Mikel—anchor, even in debate. Truth steadies him.
Celina—spoke of unity. Still defies chains. Yet she sharpened under pressure.
I spoke of fear. Priests listened. They hunger. They suspect more.
He closed the book, stood at the window. The courtyard lay silver, the chalk circle pale as bone. Across the green, Celina's candle burned steady, Rowan's lamp dim but alive, Mikel's glow 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. Words clashed, yet we did not break."
His lips curved, thin, sharp.
"Let the priests whisper. Let them plot. I am the Voice that commands—even in silence."