The bells tolled flat and hollow, like iron struck without care. The sound carried through the Academy, but few students heard it as they once had. The day felt wrong before it had even begun.
Whispers clung to every corridor, heavier now, like fog that refused to lift. Students no longer spoke of Team Two only in awe or envy—they spoke in warnings.
"They bend chains.""They steady curses.""They argue but never break.""The priests watch them. That means we should not."
Rowan heard the whispers louder than anyone. Each word pressed against his back like a blade. His pride had not yet healed from his duel with Mikel, and every murmur felt like fresh salt on a wound. Yet he walked with Ernest still, his stride uncertain but his place chosen.
Mikel noticed the whispers but gave them no weight. His calm was the same in storm or silence. His gaze swept the hall for danger, his shoulders steady as stone.
Celina ignored the whispers entirely. She had grown too used to carrying chains of her own. Her emerald eyes looked forward, her wrist trembled faintly beneath her sleeve, and she walked with the composure of one who would not bow—not to curses, not to gods, not to rumor.
And Ernest… Ernest walked as always. His silence was heavier than the whispers that surrounded him. The Academy bent around it, as though he carried his own gravity.
The lecture that morning was no lesson at all. Halvern scribbled meaningless symbols on the slate, his voice droning without intent. His eyes slid often to the priests gathered at the back.
The old one with lashes white as frost did not blink. His pale gaze rested not only on Ernest now, but on Rowan, on Mikel, on Celina. He watched them as one, and as four. His faint smile never wavered.
At one point, Halvern called on Rowan. "Explain the principle of channel resonance."
Rowan stammered, his palms damp. He answered halfway correct, halfway noise.
Halvern's spectacles flashed. "Improving," he said curtly. Then, softer: "But still wasteful."
The old priest's smile deepened. The class laughed under their breath. Rowan burned with shame.
Ernest wrote nothing. His quill hovered, then stilled. His black eyes did not move from the priest.
The yard drills came harder. Serren's staff cracked stone more often than usual. Students flinched at every bark, every correction. Team Two moved as one. Rowan pressed too hard, desperate to sharpen. Mikel steadied him. Celina's fire flickered beneath skin, her curse gnawing but controlled. Ernest's blade cut the air with silent precision.
Then came the "accident."
Two students from another team stumbled during their bout. Their blades flew wild, crashing toward Celina. Too fast, too sharp. Not clumsy—aimed.
Rowan saw it first. His shout tore the air. "Celina!"
She turned, her curse flaring green along her arm. But Ernest was faster. His voice cut through the yard, low and merciless.
"Fall."
The blades halted mid-arc, their wielders stumbling, their knees buckling as though struck by unseen weight. Silence crashed over the yard.
Serren's staff slammed the ground. "Enough! Careless! Dangerous!" His eyes burned, but not at Ernest. He glared at the two students, though they only bowed, their faces pale, their excuses thin.
The priests at the yard's edge whispered together. The old one smiled faintly. "Even accidents bend to him," he murmured.
Ernest's black eyes lingered on the two boys. He knew. They had not slipped. They had been sent.
That evening, the dining hall seethed with whispers.
"They tried to cut her.""Aldery stopped it.""His words again.""Even blades obey him."
Rowan sat tight-lipped, shame and fury battling on his face. Mikel ate steadily, unshaken. Celina sat apart, her emerald eyes calm, though her hand trembled faintly beneath the table. Ernest ate in silence. His calm was heavier than the rumor it fed.
The priests dined too, their white robes luminous in the lamplight. The old one raised his cup, pale lashes lowering and lifting. His gaze never left Team Two.
That night, Rowan sought Ernest at the chalk circle. His fists were clenched, his voice raw.
"They tried to kill her."
"Yes," Ernest said.
"And you… you stopped it. With one word."
"Yes."
Rowan's voice cracked. "They'll keep trying. The priests. The others. They'll break us apart."
Ernest's gaze was steady, merciless. "Not if we bend first. Noise breaks. Discipline bends. And bending is how chains survive until they cut."
Rowan swallowed. His breath shook. But he nodded.
In his chamber, Ernest opened his notebook.
Priests escalate. Sabotage disguised as accident. Veil held. Voice revealed more. Dangerous.
Rowan—rage, shame, loyalty hardening. His spine grows beneath weight.
Mikel steady as ever. Anchor unbroken.
Celina—curse flared, but steadied. Recognition of danger deepening.
Priests hungry. They will not wait long.
He closed the book, stood at the window. The courtyard lay silver, the chalk circle pale. Across the green, Celina's candle burned steady, Rowan's lamp still glowed, and Mikel's light never wavered.
His reflection stared back—pale, calm, merciless.
"The forest bent," he whispered. "The nobles bowed. The beast knelt. The chain obeyed. Blades fell, yet I commanded."
His lips curved, thin, sharp.
"They tighten the noose. Let them. I am the Voice that commands—even in silence."