The bells tolled in brittle morning light. Their echo rang through stone, steady and dutiful, but beneath the sound lingered something else — unease. The students rose, dressed, and filled the corridors with whispers, but the most restless that morning were not the children of noble blood. It was the men and women tasked with shaping them.
The instructors had begun to notice what the students could not: the Academy itself was bending under weight. And it was not the nobles, nor even the tutors, who pressed hardest. It was the priests.
The faculty chamber was an austere hall, its long table carved from oak darkened with centuries of use. Maps of battlefields lined the walls, charts of magical theory, shelves stacked with scrolls. Candles burned in iron holders, but their light seemed swallowed by the shadows that clung stubbornly to the corners.
Halvern stood at the head, spectacles glinting, his hands clasped behind his back. He had come earlier than usual, his notes untouched, chalk dust still on his cuffs. His lips were thin, pressed into a line that betrayed thought he would not speak aloud.
Around him gathered the others. Serren, broad-shouldered, his staff leaning against the wall. The iron-gray-haired woman, Magistra Elenor, who had taught history longer than most nobles' lifespans. A thin man with restless eyes, Magister Darel. Several others, younger, quieter, their voices not yet hardened by years of teaching heirs who were meant to rule.
The door shut with a heavy thud. Silence lingered. Then Halvern spoke.
"The priests press harder every day," he said, his tone clipped. "They command trials without consult, warp our curriculum to suit their hunger. First beasts, then chainbound, then mirrors. What comes next? At this pace, they will break the children before they sharpen them."
Serren's fist slammed against the table. The sound echoed like a war-drum. "They are breaking them! These are heirs, not soldiers. Boys and girls who should be learning discipline, not shackled to cursed relics! It is madness."
Magister Darel shifted uneasily, his fingers drumming against the wood. "You forget yourself, Serren. These are nobles. Heirs to high bloodlines. The world will demand more of them than ordinary men could endure. If they cannot bend under the priests' tests, what will happen when war comes?"
"War is fought with soldiers," Serren snapped. "Not children. Tell me, Darel—what war demands an eight-year-old stand against a chainbound?"
Darel flinched, but held his tongue.
Elenor's voice cut the tension, sharp and measured. "It is not war the priests prepare them for. It is chains. They fear one boy above all. And you know which."
The room fell silent.
Halvern's spectacles flashed as he looked up. "Aldery."
No one spoke at first, but the truth had been named.
Elenor leaned forward, her voice low. "He commands too much. Beasts bend. Chains falter. Illusions shatter. Even the cursed girl steadies when he speaks. That is not ordinary talent. That is not noble discipline. That is… something else."
Serren growled, but softer this time. "Something else may be what we need. The priests whisper of heresy, but if Aldery bends what they cannot, then better he stand with us than against us."
"You risk much by saying that aloud," Darel hissed, his eyes flicking nervously toward the door. "Shielding him is defiance. And defiance is death. Do you think the Academy will survive if we stand against the priests?"
Halvern removed his spectacles, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His voice was quieter now, though no less sharp. "We cannot oppose openly. Not yet. But we can watch. And we can remember. If they overreach — if they drive the boy to act too openly — then their hunger will consume more than just him."
Serren's hand tightened on his staff. "Silence is already betrayal."
The chamber fell heavy with that truth.
After the meeting, Halvern returned to lecture hall three. He laid his chalk on the slate, arranging notes he knew he would not use. His students trickled in, their voices a storm of rumor, their eyes darting to Team Two more than to the front.
He lectured faster than usual, his voice tight, his chalk scratching sharp. He called on Rowan, on Mikel, on Celina, his eyes sliding over Ernest as though ignoring him might keep the priests' gaze from noticing. But when Ernest spoke — just a few words — the hall stilled as it always did.
Halvern's chalk snapped. He did not look at the boy again.
Later, alone in his chamber, he wrote in the margins of an old scroll. Priests hunger. Boy commands. Silence grows heavy. What is my duty? To the Academy, or to the gods who whisper through their servants?
He set the quill down and did not answer.
On the training yard, Serren's voice rose like thunder. He barked orders, slammed his staff against stone until sparks flew. Students struck harder, shouted louder, desperate to prove themselves before his relentless eye.
But his gaze lingered longer now. On Rowan, pride stiff but tempered. On Mikel, steady as stone. On Celina, curse clawing but controlled. And longest of all, on Ernest.
The boy's silence cut through every swing, every strike. His blade wasted no motion. His eyes gave nothing. Serren knew discipline when he saw it, but this was more. This was control that unsettled even him.
When drills ended, Serren stood watching as the students filed away. He muttered to himself, voice low. "What are you, Aldery? And what chain will break first—yours, or theirs?"
That evening, Elenor lingered in the library. She traced old maps with her finger, wars fought by ancestors of the very children she now taught. She whispered to herself as candlelight flickered.
"History repeats. The gods curse beauty. They bind ambition. And now… they fear a boy who commands. Perhaps fear is their truest chain."
She closed the scroll, her emerald eyes—dull now with age—turning toward the shadowed shelves. She thought of Celina's curse, of Ernest's silence, of Rowan's pride and Mikel's steadiness. "They will not all survive," she murmured. "But which ones will bend, and which will break?"
The instructors gathered again two nights later. The candles guttered in their iron holders.
"They were absent today," Elenor said. "The priests. Not one of them watched drills."
"They are preparing something," Serren growled.
Halvern's voice was soft, almost brittle. "Yes. Something that will force the boy's hand. If he commands too openly, they will strike. And if he does not, they will break the others instead."
Silence followed.
Darel whispered, "Then what do we do?"
No one answered.
That night, Ernest stood at his window. The courtyard lay silver in moonlight, the chalk circle faint beneath frost. Across the green, Celina's candle burned steady, Rowan's lamp glowed faint, Mikel's light constant.
In his chamber, Ernest opened his notebook.
Instructors whisper. Halvern uneasy. Serren furious. Elenor doubting. Darel afraid. They see. They know.
They cannot oppose. Not openly. But silence itself betrays them.
Authority bends. Priests press. Cracks widen.
He closed the book. His black eyes met his reflection in the glass — pale, calm, merciless.
"The forest bent. The nobles bowed. The beast knelt. The chain obeyed. The mirrors cracked. Now even instructors whisper."
His lips curved, thin, sharp.
"Authority bends, too. I am the Voice that commands — even in silence."