The bells tolled soft that morning, too soft. Their voices didn't carry the same weight of iron on stone, but something thinner, stretched like a thread on the edge of snapping. Students stirred as always, pulling on uniforms, whispering in dormitories, but there was a shift in the air.
The priests had gone quiet.
For days they had haunted every corridor. White robes gliding through shadow, pale faces gleaming against torchlight, their eyes fixed on Ernest as if trying to peel him apart without blade or flame. They whispered during lectures, hummed during drills, smiled faintly when curses flared or pride cracked. But now—they drifted less.
Now, they gathered.
Silence hung heavier than whispers had. Even the youngest students noticed it. They moved more quickly through corridors, eager to reach class. Nobles spoke lower, voices sharp with unease. Some pretended not to care. But every glance, every hushed word, betrayed the same fear: something was being prepared.
Ernest walked through it as if nothing had changed. His black eyes were calm, his step unhurried, his silence heavier than the new hush that filled the halls. Rowan walked beside him, shoulders stiff, jaw tight, pride still raw from his duel yet forged into something harder. He heard the whispers louder than Ernest did, but he no longer flinched from them.
Mikel followed, as steady as always. His stride never quickened or slowed, his presence anchoring them like a stone in water. Celina walked apart, her emerald eyes forward, her beauty dangerous, her cursed wrist trembling faintly beneath her sleeve. She did not glance at the others, but the air between them bent subtly, as though she belonged to their shape whether she willed it or not.
The students parted for them. Not just because they feared Ernest's silence, but because they feared what the priests' silence meant.
Lecture hall three smelled of chalk and wax. Halvern stood at the dais, chalk clutched too tightly in his hand, his spectacles flashing in the pale light. His voice droned, sharper than usual, as if speed could hide unease.
The priests sat at the back. Not one, not two, but seven. Their robes glowed white in the dim hall, their faces pale, their lashes lowered. The old one with lashes white as frost did not blink. He watched not just Ernest now, but Rowan, Mikel, Celina—his gaze moving among them like a chain circling wrists.
Halvern called on Rowan once. "Explain the principle of resonance in shared mana flow."
Rowan stammered, his answer halfway correct, halfway noise. His palms dampened, his throat thick.
"Improving," Halvern muttered, though his voice was clipped, uneasy. "But still wasteful."
Laughter rippled faintly through the benches. Rowan's jaw tightened.
The old priest's smile deepened. He had heard the noise in Rowan's voice.
Mikel answered his question next with steady calm. Halvern nodded curtly. Celina spoke sharp and clear, her curse trembling faintly as she described flame's discipline over runes. The priests leaned forward, their pale eyes gleaming.
Then Ernest spoke. His voice was low, calm, merciless.
"Chains obey command. All things do."
The hall stilled.
Halvern's chalk cracked against the slate. He turned too quickly, muttering, "Enough. Next question."
The priests whispered softly to one another. The old one's lashes lowered, lifted.
The yard drills burned hotter. Serren barked until his voice rasped, his staff cracking stone. Students swung harder, struck louder, sweat slicking their brows. Pride flared, fear sharpened, whispers rose even above the clash of wood.
Rowan fought harder than before, his strikes sharper, his breath harsher, his pride forcing his arms to move even when pain screamed in his blistered palms. Mikel steadied him, intercepting when Rowan pressed too far. Celina's blade moved with silent fire, her emerald eyes calm even as her curse clawed. Ernest's movements were flawless, his silence heavier than all the noise around him.
At the yard's edge, the priests stood. They whispered little. They only watched.
One student stumbled during his drill, cutting too close to Rowan. Mikel's blade intercepted. The boy paled, muttered apology, and fled.
Rowan watched him go, his jaw tight. "That wasn't clumsiness."
"No," Ernest said.
The priests smiled faintly.
That evening, the dining hall seethed. Nobles clustered in corners, voices sharp, laughter forced. Some eyed Team Two with envy, others with fear. None approached too closely.
Rowan's appetite was gone, though he forced himself to eat. Mikel ate calmly, his pace unchanging. Celina brushed away every gaze with her silence. Ernest ate with the same calm as always, his black eyes giving nothing.
At the far table, the priests dined too. They did not speak. They only watched. Their silence was sharper than any rumor.
Beneath the chapel, in a chamber older than stone itself, candles burned low in iron bowls. The air was thick with incense and ash. Chains hung from the walls, black and cold, not binding, but waiting.
The priests knelt in a circle. Their white robes glowed faint in the half-light. Their voices hummed low, steady, a sound that filled the chamber like heartbeat.
The old priest raised his head. His pale lashes framed eyes that gleamed faintly with unnatural light.
"The boy commands what should not bend," he whispered. "Beasts. Chains. Curses. He speaks, and the world listens."
A younger priest shifted. "Perhaps it is illusion. Mana twisted rare—"
The old one's smile curved thin. "Illusion does not steady a chainbound. Illusion does not silence cursed flame. This is command."
The circle stirred.
Another voice asked, "Then what is he? Prophet? Vessel? Heretic?"
The old priest's lashes lowered, lifted. "Does it matter? Chains bow to him. Curses bend. That is heresy enough."
Whispers rippled through the circle.
"The cursed girl is his weakness," one murmured. "When her flame breaks, he steadies her. He cannot resist."
"Strike her," another agreed.
Rowan's name was spoken.
"Pride bends too quickly. Shame gnaws. Press him harder, and he will stumble. A stumble spreads cracks."
"And Rane?"
The old one's pale lashes fluttered faintly. "Stone cracks, given time. Anchors can be cut away. He steadies, but steadiness alone will not hold when we strike."
The priests fell silent, waiting. The old one raised his hand. Chains rattled faintly on the walls.
"Another trial," he whispered. "Not of beasts. Not of relics. Of themselves. We will pit them against mirrors and lies. We will test them against their own shadows. Unity bends. Silence shatters. And when it does, we will see what voice he commands then."
The chamber throbbed with hunger. Their whispers rose again, low and steady, until the sound pressed like weight against stone.
That night, Ernest stood at his window. The courtyard lay pale, the chalk circle faint in moonlight. Celina's candle burned steady across the green, Rowan's lamp glowed faint, Mikel's light constant.
Ernest's reflection stared back at him—pale, calm, merciless.
"They move in silence now," he whispered. "Not testing. Plotting. The noose tightens."
His lips curved, thin, sharp.
"Let them weave. Chains they set will bend first. I am the Voice that commands—even in silence."