The Academy whispered, but not with the same venom as before. There was fear now. Awe. Hunger. Ernest Aldery had bent the Trial of Light, and nothing the priests said could wash that from memory.
But for Team Two, the storm was not in the halls. It was in themselves.
Rowan's chamber was wreckage. His blade had dented the wall where he hurled it. A chair lay broken. Ink stained the floor where he had knocked the table aside.
He paced like a caged animal, his hands trembling, his chest heaving. The words whispered around him all day still clawed at his ears.
The Stag bends. The Stag cracks. Without Aldery, he is nothing.
He slammed his fist into the wall until his knuckles bled. "I'm heir!" he snarled to the empty room. "I'm heir of Stag! I don't bend!"
But he remembered the light. His knees buckling. His scream tearing from his throat.
He remembered Ernest, calm, merciless, speaking a single word — and the light itself bowing.
Rowan sank onto the bed, pressing his bloody fist to his forehead. His pride roared, but beneath it shame gnawed until he thought it would devour him whole.
In his own chamber, Mikel sat cross-legged, his breathing slow, his eyes closed. His body ached faintly from the trial, but his calm was unbroken.
Yet even calm could not erase memory.
The light pressing. The weight clawing. His chest tightening, his vision blurring. For the first time, he had felt the anchor strain.
He had not faltered, but he had known how close he came.
And in that moment, he had looked to Ernest.
He opened his eyes slowly, exhaling. He did not regret it. It was not shame to admit the truth. But it was dangerous — because now he knew even anchors could lean.
Celina stood before her mirror, her emerald eyes fixed on her wrist. The curse pulsed faint green, fire threading her veins. It had been worse since the trial. The gods' light had not purged it — it had fed it.
Her hand trembled as she raised her sleeve, watching the glow crawl higher along her arm. She remembered the fire licking her throat, the burn that had nearly consumed her.
And then she remembered his voice.
One word. And her flame froze.
She pressed her palm to her chest, hatred twisting with dread. It should be mine to master. Mine. And yet he silenced it without effort.
She hated him for it. Hated the relief it had given her. Relief sharper and more terrifying than the curse itself.
Her lips parted, whispering into the empty chamber. "How long before he silences me too?"
They gathered, as they always did. The room was dim, lamplight stretching shadows long across the walls. The silence pressed heavy until Rowan broke it.
"I hate this," he snapped, slamming his fists against the table. "Every time I fall, it's him. Every time I stumble, he saves me. Without him, I'd already be nothing."
Mikel's voice was calm. "You are not nothing."
"I am!" Rowan shouted, his pride cracking. "I screamed before them all! I bent, I nearly broke, and he—" His voice faltered, shame choking him. "He didn't."
The silence deepened.
Mikel exhaled slowly. "I looked to him too."
Rowan froze, eyes wide. "You? You never bend."
Mikel's gaze was steady. "Even anchors strain. The light pressed harder than anything I have known. If it lasted longer, I might have cracked. I steadied because he stood unbroken."
Rowan stared, his chest heaving. Even Mikel — calm, steady Mikel — had leaned on Ernest.
Celina's voice cut in, sharp and low. "And me."
They turned. Her emerald eyes glowed faintly in the lamplight, her curse pulsing under her sleeve.
"The light fed the curse. It burned through me, brighter, sharper, until I thought it would consume me whole." Her gaze fixed on Ernest. "And then you silenced it."
Her lips curved bitterly. "You silenced the very thing the gods gave me. My curse, my flame, my shame — and you froze it like it was nothing."
Rowan flinched. Mikel's jaw tightened faintly.
Celina leaned forward, her voice a whisper but sharper than any blade. "I should hate you for it. And I do. But I also know I'd be ash now if you hadn't spoken. So tell me, Ernest Aldery — is that salvation, or is that another chain?"
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Ernest closed his notebook, his quill resting still. His black eyes swept over them all.
"You lean because you are weak," he said.
Rowan recoiled, shame burning in his face. Mikel did not move, though his hand clenched faintly. Celina's emerald eyes narrowed, her curse pulsing hotter.
Ernest's voice was calm, merciless. "Pride bends. Stone strains. Fire burns. All of you bend. And so you lean."
He paused, his lips curving thin. "I do not bend. That is why you lean."
The words cut deeper than any blade. Truth, merciless and unyielding.
Rowan's pride cracked. Mikel's calm was tested. Celina's flame pulsed with fury and something darker.
And Ernest sat silent, their dependence wrapped around him like chain.
That night, Ernest wrote longer than ever. Pages filled with sharp, merciless strokes.
Rowan admits shame. Pride bends. He leans.
Mikel admits strain. Anchor cracks. He leans.
Celina admits fire. Curse bows. She leans.
All bend. All lean. On me.
This is strength. This is danger. Chains bind both ways. Their dependence sharpens my shadow. But if I fall, they fall. And if they fall, I am left exposed.
He paused. His black eyes lifted to the window, his reflection staring back — pale, calm, merciless.
They bend. I do not. They lean. I remain. This is order. This is necessity.
He closed the book.
Outside, Celina's candle burned steady, Rowan's lamp flickered faint, Mikel's light constant.
"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 they bend to me."
His lips curved, thin, sharp.
"Dependence is chain. And chains, too, bend."