The rain began before dawn, soft at first, then relentless, beating against the slate roofs until the entire Academy seemed to breathe with it. Sleep fled the dormitory long before the bells called morning.
Rowan sat on the edge of his bed, head bowed, blade across his knees. His palms were raw again, skin split where the hilt rubbed. Each cut stung like memory. Across the narrow hall, he could hear Mikel's slow, deliberate breathing—measured, counted, steady even in exhaustion. Celina's light footsteps passed once, twice, then stopped; the sound of her pacing had become part of the nightly rhythm, like rain itself.
Rowan muttered, "We're training ourselves into ghosts."
He didn't notice Ernest standing in the doorway until the lamplight shifted.
"Ghosts endure," Ernest said quietly.
Rowan looked up. "Do they live?"
Ernest didn't answer. He only said, "Drills after lecture. East courtyard."
Then he was gone.
They trained through rain. The ground turned to slick marble; the air tasted like metal.Mikel moved without complaint, though every motion seemed carved from will rather than muscle.Celina's flame refused to appear; the rain stole it each time it sparked.Rowan slipped twice, cursed, then laughed once, too loudly, the sound brittle.
Ernest watched them, arms folded, cloak soaked through. Water streamed from his hair, down his face, but his expression never changed.
"Again," he said.
Rowan's breath came ragged. "We'll drown out here."
"Then learn to breathe water."
They obeyed, not because they believed him, but because disobedience had become unthinkable.
When he finally dismissed them, none spoke. They simply dispersed like smoke blown by wind, each carrying silence heavier than any armor.
He found his hands shaking when he tried to eat. The bowl rattled against the table; Mikel reached to steady it without looking.
"Stop that," Rowan muttered.
"You're shaking," Mikel said.
"Because I'm cold."
Mikel's calm eyes lifted. "You're afraid."
Rowan slammed the spoon down. "Of what? Him?"
"Yes."
The admission struck harder than a slap. Rowan pushed back from the table, chair scraping. "I'm not afraid of Aldery."
Mikel said nothing. He didn't need to. Silence has a way of proving things words can't.
Rowan left, furious—though even he couldn't tell if the fury was aimed at Ernest or at himself.
That night, Mikel dreamed of commands. Not words, just the sensation—the weight that pressed on the ribs when Ernest spoke.In the dream he tried to stand, but the ground itself told him to kneel. The wind said bend. The air said obey.
He woke sweating, throat raw, the rain still whispering outside.For a long time he sat with his palms flat on the sheets, feeling the pulse of his own heartbeat, counting it until it became steady again.
Anchors don't fight tides, he thought. They survive them.
But for the first time, he wondered how long before the chain rusted through.
The curse had changed. It no longer burned only in her wrist; now it stirred whenever Ernest entered a room, a faint warmth that felt almost alive.It frightened her more than pain ever had.
During lecture she caught herself watching him—the way his eyes didn't blink enough, the stillness that made other students shuffle. She wanted to hate him for it. Instead she felt her pulse quicken. The flame at her wrist flickered beneath the bandage, hidden from sight.
When class ended, he passed her desk without pause, without glance, yet she felt the curse flare hotter, as if to remind her who her body truly listened to.
By midnight, the rain turned violent. The courtyard flooded, the wind clawed at shutters, and sleep abandoned them all.
Rowan was first to break. He burst into the hall, drenched from standing at the window, fury raw. "I'm done obeying rain and words!" he shouted. "If he commands me again, I'll—"
The door opened. Ernest stood there, silent.
Rowan froze, fists trembling. "You knew they'd use us. You let them."
"They needed to learn what happens when obedience becomes instinct," Ernest said. His voice was calm—too calm. "You've learned."
"Have I?" Rowan stepped forward. "Or have you just replaced one master with another?"
Lightning tore the sky open. For an instant, everyone's shadow stretched long across the walls.Celina appeared in the doorway, hair damp, eyes blazing. "Stop it."
Rowan turned on her. "You don't tell me—"
Her curse flared, green light spilling from her sleeve. "I said stop."
The air trembled; papers lifted from desks. Mikel stepped between them, voice low but unyielding. "Enough."
"Move!" Rowan shouted.
"No."
The word was small, but it landed like stone dropped into water. The ripples stilled.
Then Ernest spoke—one word only, quieter than thunder yet heavier than any roar.
"Stand."
They did. Instantly, without thought. Even Celina, fire frozen mid-air.
The storm outside broke something loose in the heavens. Wind tore through the corridor, extinguishing the lamps one by one. In darkness, their breathing filled the space.
When the lightning flashed again, Ernest's face was pale and distant, like a statue carved from certainty.
"Do you see?" he said softly. "This is what obedience costs."
Then he turned and left them with the storm.
They stood for a long time after he was gone, the rain pounding like drums on the roof.Rowan sank to his knees—not in obedience, but exhaustion.Celina leaned against the wall, flame guttering out, tears mixing with rain on her cheeks.Mikel sat between them, head bowed, hands clasped loosely as if in prayer.
No one spoke until the storm began to fade. Then Celina whispered, "He didn't use power this time."
Mikel looked up. "No."
"He didn't have to," Rowan said hoarsely. "We gave it to him."
The words hung there, and none of them could deny it.
In his chamber, Ernest wrote while the wind rattled the shutters.
They tremble between obedience and will. The storm stripped pretenses away.
Rowan still burns, but now the fire questions itself.
Mikel anchors even the breaking.
Celina's flame listens to me too closely. Dangerous symmetry.
I wanted them unchained. Instead, I've forged quieter bonds.
He stopped, ink pooling at the quill's tip.
Outside, thunder rolled across the valley, echoing like an answer he hadn't asked for.
He whispered to the dark, "Perhaps freedom and control are the same word spoken in different tones."
Then he closed the notebook and blew out the lamp.The room remained bright for a heartbeat longer, as if the darkness itself hesitated to obey.