The bells tolled before sunrise. Not the solemn rhythm of worship, nor the brisk clang of drills—this sound was slower, stretched thin, as though the metal itself felt the exhaustion that had settled over the Academy.
Mist rolled across the courtyard like ghost-breath. The chapel doors yawned open, golden light spilling over the frost-streaked stones. Inside, the priests waited in their white robes, their voices weaving through the smoke-heavy air.
And among the ranks of kneeling heirs, four figures stood still.
Team Two.
Rowan's head bowed just low enough to be respectful, his eyes half-shut. Mikel knelt perfectly straight, breathing measured. Celina's lashes veiled her emerald eyes, her cursed wrist wrapped tightly in white silk.
And Ernest Aldery stood.
He stood as always—calm, merciless, unmoved. The priests never told him to kneel; they had learned the futility of that command after the first attempt.
The younger clergy whispered about him now even during litany. The boy who bent light. The boy who never prays. The boy whose silence is a spell.
The older priests said nothing. Their stillness was its own omen.
As the final chant faded, the eldest priest's pale eyes lifted toward the back of the chapel where Ernest stood. He did not scowl, nor frown, nor speak. He only smiled, lashes white as frost.
And Ernest inclined his head—not in reverence, but acknowledgment. Two predators recognizing each other beneath the mask of prayer.
When the bells ceased, Team Two left together, their footsteps soft against stone. The cold morning swallowed their silence.
In the chamber beneath the chapel, candles hissed as the priests gathered once more. The younger zealots argued in low, urgent voices, faces flushed with fervor.
"His silence is not obedience—it is control. The light bent because of it."
"Then break it," another said. "Force him to speak again. Strip the power from his throat."
A third priest, voice trembling with eagerness, hissed, "He must be provoked. If the Voice commands again, this time the gods will not stay still."
The old priest listened. His white lashes fluttered, slow, deliberate. "No," he said at last. "Not yet. The wolf knows the snare that smells of blood. We must bait it with breath."
"Breath?"
"Through the others."
He stepped closer to the nearest candle, its flame painting gold across his pallid skin. "The Stag's pride. The Gold's flame. The Rane's steadiness. Each leans on him. Pull their threads. Make them doubt the silence they trust. When they tremble, the Voice will speak."
The younger priests bowed their heads. The old one smiled faintly. "Faith is manipulation refined. Go. Whisper where trust sleeps."
That same evening, in the northern wing's common hall, a handful of heirs huddled near the fire. The Hawk's Coil—ambitious sons of proud houses, their laughter brittle with envy.
"He silenced the Trial," one said, voice low. "The priests can't touch him directly."
"Then let us."
The hawk-emblazoned heir smirked. His bruised pride from the duel weeks ago had long since hardened into purpose. "We'll make him act again. And when he does, all will see he commands his companions—not helps them."
"How?"
"Rowan Stag." The smirk widened. "He burns to prove himself. Challenge his honor, and he'll answer. Make him fall before witnesses, and the Voice will save him. Again. And this time, even the priests won't call it faith—they'll call it heresy."
They laughed, soft and sharp.
By midnight, the letters had been written: formal, polite invitations to a "friendly exhibition" of swordsmanship before the faculty. Honor, discipline, etiquette—all wrapped around a trap.
Mikel found the letter first, lying across Rowan's desk when he entered the dormitory. The seal was broken already, the parchment creased from Rowan's clenched hand.
"They're challenging me," Rowan said, voice tight. "A duel before the instructors. I'll accept."
"No," Mikel said simply.
Rowan turned, anger flashing. "You think I'll hide? You think I'll let them whisper I'm afraid?"
"I think," Mikel said, steady as stone, "that they want to see him speak again."
The silence between them deepened. Rowan's jaw worked, pride and shame warring behind his eyes.
Mikel stepped closer. "The priests are not done with us. They will use noble vanity to dig where discipline holds. They'll use you."
Rowan's hands trembled. "Then what do I do?"
"Train," Mikel said. "And wait. We move when he moves."
Rowan looked down at the letter again. The words blurred in the firelight, thin and elegant as poison.
He crushed it in his fist. "Then he'd better move soon."
It began quietly.
At dusk, long after the bells, when the priests thought the heirs asleep, Team Two slipped into the east courtyard—a narrow, walled garden used for botanical studies and long forgotten by most. The air smelled of frost and iron and the faint sweetness of dormant vines.
Ernest stood before them, cloak unfastened, eyes black against the pale moonlight.
"This," he said softly, "is not combat training."
Rowan frowned. "Then what—"
"Endurance," Ernest said. "Resistance."
He turned his gaze on them one by one. "You bend because you fear. Fear light, fear weakness, fear yourselves. Tonight, you will learn to fear me—and then stop."
Celina's breath caught. Mikel's eyes narrowed faintly. Rowan's fists clenched.
"First," Ernest said, his voice low but absolute, "I will command. You will resist."
The word came sharp as a blade. "Kneel."
Rowan dropped instantly, breath ragged. His muscles locked before his mind caught up. Celina staggered, one knee buckling. Mikel trembled but remained upright, teeth clenched.
Ernest watched in silence. Then, quietly, "Stand."
They rose, gasping. Celina's wrist glowed faintly through her sleeve, green light pulsing with her heartbeat.
Again. "Kneel."
This time Rowan fought it, muscles trembling, sweat beading on his skin. Celina hissed softly through clenched teeth. Mikel stood still, his anchor unbroken.
"Good," Ernest murmured. "Again."
The moon climbed higher as the night deepened, and the garden filled with the soft sounds of struggle—breathing, gasping, the faint scrape of knees against stone.
When Ernest finally ended it, all three were shaking.
Celina's hair clung to her skin, her emerald eyes fierce with exhaustion. "Why?" she demanded. "Why make us fight you?"
Ernest's expression did not change. "Because they will."
Two nights later, they returned. The moon was gone; the world was dark.
Ernest's voice came again, low and merciless. "Kneel."
Rowan faltered but stood. Mikel braced. Celina—Celina closed her eyes. The command pressed into her, heavy, suffocating, the echo of his will filling her mind. Her curse surged, green fire flickering beneath her skin.
She trembled—but she did not bend.
Her eyes opened, bright with flame. "No," she whispered.
Ernest's black eyes flicked toward her. For the first time, something almost like satisfaction curved his mouth.
"Good," he said quietly. "Again."
Celina met his gaze, unflinching. "No."
Her curse flared brighter, burning against the command. And then—it subsided. Her pulse slowed. The fire obeyed her.
Mikel exhaled softly. Rowan stared, wide-eyed.
Ernest inclined his head, slow, deliberate. "You learn."
Celina's lips curved faintly. "You taught."
The silence between them was not cold this time. It was something else—electric, dangerous, almost reverent.
Ernest turned away first. "Enough for tonight."
But as they left, Celina's emerald eyes lingered on him. In their depths, fury and fascination burned side by side.
High above, the old priest watched from the tower window, his pale lashes catching the moonlight. Below, four shadows moved across the frost-lined garden—three trembling, one steady.
He smiled faintly. "He's teaching them silence."
An acolyte beside him hesitated. "Silence?"
"Resistance," the old priest corrected softly. "He teaches them to stand against him. To stand against the Voice itself."
The acolyte shivered. "Then he prepares them for rebellion."
The old man's smile widened, thin and brittle as a blade. "Good. Every rebellion needs its chains first."
He turned from the window. "Let him train. When they learn to resist him, they will have learned to resist anything. Including him."
When the others had gone, Ernest remained alone in the garden. Frost gleamed on the stones like powdered glass. His breath rose in pale ribbons.
He opened his notebook, the pages stiff from cold.
The priests tighten chains. I loosen them.
They make fences. I make walls walk.
Rowan burns less from pride, more from purpose. Mikel steadies faster. Celina defies and does not fall.
Dependence becomes strength when tempered. I teach them to stand so they may not be taken. I teach them to resist me so that none else can.
He paused, his quill hovering over the page.
But resistance once learned cannot be unlearned.
He closed the book slowly.
The chapel loomed in the distance, its spire like a blade piercing the sky. Light flickered faintly behind the high windows. Watching. Always watching.
Ernest's reflection stared back at him from the frost-darkened glass. Pale. Calm. Merciless.
"They cage me with obedience," he murmured. "I forge rebellion from within."
He turned away, his shadow long against the wall.
"The priests believe they close in."
His voice was soft, cold.
"They are only sharpening me."