The courtyard had emptied, but its weight clung to the stones long after the last noble had filed away. The glow of runes lingered faintly, a ghost of judgment. The air smelled of smoke and ash, though no fire had burned there.
Whispers followed Team Two through the halls. Not whispers hidden in corners, but sharp, loud enough to cut.
"He bent it.""The light itself.""Heresy.""Prophecy.""Power."
Rowan walked stiff, his jaw locked, his fists trembling. Mikel strode steady, but his eyes flicked sharper than usual, measuring every glance. Celina's emerald gaze burned ahead, her cursed wrist hidden beneath her sleeve but pulsing with faint green fire.
And Ernest walked calm, merciless, his silence heavier than every voice.
When they reached the dormitory wing, no one dared follow. The whispers thinned, leaving only the echo of footsteps and the weight of the trial still pressing on their shoulders.
Rowan slammed the door to his chamber so hard the wood splintered faintly at the frame. His blade clattered as he threw it against the wall. He paced, breath ragged, his hands trembling with fury.
He saw it again. The light pouring down, searing into his flesh, into his pride. His knees buckling. His scream tearing through the courtyard. All eyes on him.
His shame roared louder than his fury.
"I almost broke," he whispered, his voice cracking. He slammed his fists against the desk, ink spilling across parchment. "I almost fell in front of them all."
The mirror trial had shown his faltering once. The duel had baited him into near defeat. And now the light — divine light — had bent him near to breaking.
And again, it was Aldery's voice that saved them.
Rowan pressed his hands against his face, nails biting his skin. What am I without him? The thought clawed at him, more vicious than any whisper.
In the adjoining chamber, Mikel knelt on the floor, his palms resting lightly on his knees. His eyes were closed, his breath slow. He had always steadied himself this way. Calm against storm. Anchor against tide.
But the light had pressed.
For the first time, he had felt his anchor strain. His chest had tightened, his vision had blurred, his steadiness pulled thin as thread.
He had held. Yes. He had endured, his body upright, his breath even. But it had not been without cost.
He opened his eyes slowly, steady again, but aware of the truth that lingered. Even stone cracked when pressed too long.
A knock came, hard and unsteady. Rowan entered, his face flushed, his eyes wild.
"You didn't falter," Rowan said sharply. "You stood there like the light was nothing."
Mikel's gaze held his, calm. "It was not nothing."
Rowan's fists clenched. "You— you felt it?"
"Yes."
Rowan's chest heaved. "Then how? How did you not— how did you not scream?"
Mikel's answer was simple. "Because screaming does not help."
Rowan sagged, his pride folding inward. He wanted that steadiness, that quiet. But all he had was fire that burned him from within, leaving only ash behind.
Celina sat alone in her chamber, her sleeve rolled back. The curse pulsed visibly beneath her skin, glowing green lines snaking up her arm. They burned hotter tonight, as though still tasting the divine light.
Her emerald eyes narrowed as she pressed her palm against the marks, trying to will them still. But the curse throbbed harder, mocking her.
The Trial had forced it into the open. The gods' light had not purified it. It had flared, erupted, devoured her control until she stood in flame before all eyes.
And then—
His voice. One word. And the fire froze.
She hated it. Hated that Ernest Aldery could silence even what the gods had cursed her with. Hated that her flame bowed where she could not force it to.
And yet— relief had spread through her chest the moment his voice fell. Relief sharper and more terrifying than the curse itself.
She leaned forward, her hair falling across her face, her lips whispering against her wrist. "How long before he silences me, too?"
Her candle flickered low. She did not snuff it. She let it burn.
Ernest sat at his desk, his lamp steady, his quill sharp. His notebook lay open, page after page filled with neat, merciless words.
He wrote.
Trial of Light. Priests summoned gods' gaze. They meant to expose, to break. I spoke. The light bent.
Rowan screamed. Pride kept him upright. Shame deeper. Crack sharpens.
Mikel steady. Anchor strained. He admits weight. Stone is not unbreakable.
Celina burned. Curse flared. My voice silenced it. Recognition sharper. Fear and relief both. Dangerous bond.
Priests silent. Silence sharpest of all. Hunger grows. Fear grows with it. Nobles whisper prophet, vessel, heretic. It matters not.
He paused. His black eyes lifted to the window. His reflection stared back — pale, calm, merciless.
He dipped his quill again.
Exposure grows too fast. Light was meant to strip me bare. I bent it, but cost is visibility. They see too much. They whisper too loud. Chains tighten.
He closed the book.
Later, as if drawn by the same weight, the four of them gathered in lecture room five. The lamplight burned steady, shadows long across the walls.
Rowan's voice broke first, low, raw. "They all saw me. Saw me stumble. I'll never live it down."
Mikel's calm voice answered. "They saw you stand."
Rowan's fists clenched. "Because of him." His gaze flicked toward Ernest, bitterness raw. "Always because of him."
Celina leaned back, her emerald eyes sharp, her curse faintly glowing at her wrist. "We all bent. Even me. Especially me." Her gaze flicked to Ernest too, unreadable. "And he silenced it all. Again."
Ernest's black eyes met hers. Calm. Merciless. "Yes."
Rowan turned, his pride cracking. "Don't you care what they'll call you now? Prophet? Heretic? Do you even care?"
"No."
The silence that followed pressed harder than the Trial itself.
Celina's lips curved faintly — not a smile, not mockery. Recognition. A bond sharper than words, more dangerous than flame.
Rowan looked away, ashamed. Mikel's calm gaze swept over them all, steadying even now.
And Ernest sat in silence, already thinking three moves ahead.
That night, Ernest returned to his chamber. The lamp flickered. The courtyard lay silver beneath moonlight, the chapel looming dark at its edge.
Across the green, Celina's candle burned steady, her flame defiant. Rowan's lamp flickered faint, pride and shame warring. Mikel's light constant, anchor unbroken.
Ernest's reflection met his gaze in 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 hungered. Light bent. And now my team bends."
His lips curved, thin, sharp.
"They bend, but they do not break. And I will not bend at all. I am the Voice that commands — even in silence."