The Academy was quieter than usual. Not silent — never silent — but the buzz of whispers that usually threaded every corridor had dulled. Fear had thickened it. Students walked quicker, spoke softer, and cast furtive glances toward the chapel where the priests moved like pale shadows.
The Trial of Light loomed. And the night stretched longer for those who bore its weight.
Rowan sat on his bed, his fists clenched, staring at the polished steel of his blade. Candlelight flickered across its edge, but he saw not the shine — only the reflections of his own failures.
The mirrors. His falter. His shame.The duel. His pride. His stumble.
Everywhere, whispers circled him. The Stag bends. The Stag cracks. Without Aldery, he is nothing.
His jaw clenched until his teeth ached.
He had grown sharper, stronger. Every day he pushed harder in the yard, every night he drilled until sweat slicked his arms and pain knifed his muscles. But no matter how much he fought, the shadow lingered. Aldery's silence, Aldery's voice — heavier than all his effort.
He wanted to prove himself. To rise on his own. Yet tomorrow, when divine light fell, would the gods themselves show him broken?
His pride screamed. His fear whispered. And he sat alone, the candle burning low, his hand trembling faintly on the blade.
Mikel knelt on the floor of his chamber, his hands resting loosely on his knees, his breathing slow. His eyes were closed, his expression calm.
But his thoughts were not.
Noise pressed harder than ever. Whispers in halls, envy in dining halls, schemes in corners. Now the priests had twisted even faith into weapon. The Trial of Light was no test — it was trap. And noise this sharp could split even stone.
He breathed deeper, forcing his mind to still. He had always been anchor, steady when others shook. Rowan's pride burned, Celina's curse gnawed, Ernest's silence cut — and it was he who steadied them. He who bore weight without flinch.
But anchors cracked under too much pressure.
For a moment, his calm faltered, and a thought slipped through. What if even I bend tomorrow? What if the light shatters me?
He opened his eyes, steady once more. The thought remained, but it did not rule him. His candle burned steady, unwavering, as the night stretched.
Celina sat at her desk, emerald eyes fixed on her wrist. The curse pulsed faintly beneath her skin, green fire threading veins like vines. It throbbed stronger tonight, as if it, too, knew the Trial of Light was coming.
Her lips tightened. The gods had cursed her for beauty, for potential, for daring to hold power they wished kept chained. Now those same gods, through their priests, would shine light upon her.
What would they show?
Would her flame consume her? Would her curse flare before all eyes, marking her as nothing more than tool, omen, danger?
She closed her eyes, pressing her hand against the cursed veins until the pulse steadied. She hated it. Hated them. Hated how her every step was shadowed by whispers.
Yet her thoughts drifted to Ernest. His voice had silenced her curse once. His gaze had steadied her when fire clawed at her veins. Merciless, cold, unyielding — yet when he commanded, even her flame bowed.
She hated that too. Hated that part of her felt relief in his silence.
Her candle flickered. Her emerald eyes glowed faintly, but she did not look away. She would not burn alone tomorrow.
Ernest sat at his desk, his lamp steady, his notebook open. His quill scratched across the page in sharp, precise strokes.
Rowan burns. Pride sharp, shame deeper. They will strike through him. The light will test his crack.
Mikel steady. Anchor holds. But even stone fears fracture. He will not show it, but the light will press.
Celina's curse thrums louder. Gods will use her flame. Priests will twist it. She will not endure unmarked.
Priests hunger. Trial clothed as faith, dressed as judgment. They mean to strip my silence. To force me to bend before all.
He paused. His black eyes lifted, staring at the reflection of himself in the window. Pale. Calm. Merciless.
I will not bend. If light shines, it bends too. All bends.
He closed the book, his lips curving thin.
Later, in lecture room five, they gathered as they always did. The lamplight burned steady, shadows stretching long against the walls.
Rowan broke first, his voice low, hoarse. "They'll be watching me. Waiting for me to falter again."
Mikel's calm voice answered. "Noise bends."
Rowan's fists clenched. "Noise may bend, but I do too."
Celina leaned back, her emerald eyes sharp, her curse faintly pulsing. "It will not be you alone. They will look at all of us. At me, most of all. The gods cursed me once. They may do worse tomorrow."
Her gaze flicked to Ernest. "And you. You cannot stay silent forever. The priests will force it."
Ernest's black eyes met hers. Calm. Merciless. "Then let them."
The silence that followed was heavier than any words.
Rowan's pride, Mikel's steadiness, Celina's flame, Ernest's silence — all bound tighter, sharper, in the weight of night.
That night, Ernest stood once more at his window.
The courtyard lay pale in moonlight. The chapel loomed, its spire casting long shadows. The chalk circle glowed faint beneath frost.
Across the green, Celina's candle burned steady, her flame defiant. Rowan's lamp flickered, pride and fear warring. Mikel's light constant, anchor unbroken.
Ernest's reflection stared back from the glass. Pale. Calm. Merciless.
"The forest bent. The nobles bowed. The beast knelt. The chain obeyed. The mirrors cracked. The heirs knelt. The priests hunger. And tomorrow, light will fall."
His lips curved, thin, sharp.
"Let it. Light bends too. I am the Voice that commands — even in silence."