The bells tolled in the gray of morning. Not sharp, not bright — hollow. Their echo crawled through stone and lingered as though reluctant to fade. Students paused in corridors, turning their heads as if listening to something more than sound.
For weeks, the priests had been silent. That silence had hung over the Academy like a storm that never broke. Now, the storm was stirring.
Beneath the chapel, the earth was older than the Academy, older than the city above it. Stone walls curved into a wide, low chamber. Iron bowls burned with incense that smoked heavy as tar. Chains hung from the ceiling and walls, some etched with sigils too faded to read, others rusted black but humming faintly with power.
The priests knelt in a circle, their white robes luminous against the gloom. Their voices rose in a low hum, steady, like a heartbeat too slow to belong to man.
The old priest with lashes white as frost raised both hands. His pale eyes gleamed faintly in the candlelight.
"He has revealed himself," he whispered. "No beast. No relic. No mirror. Flesh of noble blood bent at his word. What is bent must be bound. What is bound must be judged. The gods demand no more silence."
The circle shifted. Whispers broke from hum.
A young priest, his face sharp with zeal, leaned forward. "Then he is heresy. A child who speaks as gods do. He must be destroyed, utterly. Bind him in chains, silence his tongue, break his body before he roots deeper."
A second priest, older but not yet white-lashed, hissed. "Destroyed? Heir of Aldery blood? His family would burn us alive. The high houses would rebel. No, he cannot be slain — not yet."
A third priest, eyes shadowed, murmured, "Not heresy. Prophecy. Perhaps vessel. The gods curse, but they also choose. If he bends even flesh and blood, perhaps he is meant to bear their voice. Perhaps he is theirs."
The first snarled. "Blasphemy. To claim the gods' tongue lies in mortal flesh is corruption."
The third's smile was thin. "Or truth."
The hum deepened again, whispers sharp, voices rising in discord.
The old priest's lashes lowered, then lifted. His smile curved thin. "Heretic. Prophet. Vessel. It does not matter. What matters is proof. The gods do not whisper for nothing. The boy bends. He must be made to bend in sight of all. Only then can judgment fall."
"How?" one priest asked, voice taut.
"Beasts failed," said another."Chains cracked," hissed a third."Mirrors shattered," spat a fourth.
The old one spread his pale hands. "Light. Not beast. Not relic. Not illusion. The gods' light. We will summon it. Cast it on the heirs. Cast it on him. If he is vessel, he will shine. If heretic, he will burn. If prophet, he will command. No matter which, all will see."
The chamber trembled faintly, as if the earth itself heard. The chains rattled once, soft as breath.
The priests began to chant:
"Light to burn.Light to bind.Light to reveal."
Smoke rose higher, twisting into pale chains. In its curl, faint shapes flickered: a stag broken, a girl aflame with beauty and curse, a stone split down its center, a pale boy with black eyes and lips parted in silence.
The old priest's lashes fluttered. His whisper curved through the chamber. "We will use their cracks. Stag's pride. Gold's curse. Rane's steadiness. Through them, the Voice will be forced to shout. And when he does… chains will fall."
The hum deepened again until it was no longer sound but weight pressing into every stone.
That evening, the instructors gathered in their chamber. The air smelled of ink, steel polish, and faint ash from the chapel above. Candles flickered low, as though struggling to stay lit.
Halvern held the parchment in trembling fingers. His voice was clipped, but strained. "The priests have declared it. The Trial of Light. Tomorrow, the heirs will stand in divine illumination. Those pure will shine. Those false will falter."
Serren's fist slammed the table. His staff clattered against stone. "Divine illumination? It is no trial. It is execution dressed as judgment!"
Elenor's voice was calm, but her eyes were sharp. "Or revelation. If Aldery burns, he was heretic. If he shines, he is prophet. Either way, he is no ordinary child. Perhaps it is best the world sees."
Serren growled. "Best? To throw children beneath divine fire? To gamble their flesh for priestly games?"
Halvern's spectacles glinted, his voice low. "It does not matter what we think. The trial will come. Our duty is to watch, to remember. If the priests reach too far, history will remember our silence as betrayal."
The chamber fell quiet. The candles guttered low.
By dawn, the Academy knew. Whispers spread faster than fire.
"A new trial.""The Trial of Light.""The gods themselves will judge.""Aldery will burn.""Or shine brighter than all."
In the dining hall, nobles clustered in corners, their cloaks drawn close. Some whispered with awe, eyes wide with hope.
"If he shines, then he is chosen. Imagine what that means — to ally with him then."
Others scoffed, their envy sharpened. "If he burns, he will take the Gold girl with him. Her curse will swallow her, and his silence will be ash."
Rowan felt the whispers claw at him, his pride roaring, his shame gnawing. He clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened.
Mikel listened, calm, his eyes steady, though he marked each word.
Celina sat apart, her emerald eyes cool, though her cursed wrist pulsed faintly as though aware of what was coming.
Ernest ate in silence, his black eyes merciless. He gave no answer, but he heard every voice.
The Academy gathered in the great courtyard. Hundreds of students stood in rows, instructors stiff at the sides, their faces pale.
At the far end, the priests stood in white. The old one stepped forward. His lashes were white as frost, his pale eyes gleaming faintly in the weak winter sun.
"Children of noble blood," he said softly, but his voice carried to every ear. "You have bent beasts. You have stood in chains. You have faced lies. Yet the gods demand more. They demand proof of faith."
He raised one hand, pale as bone.
"Tomorrow, you will stand in light. The gods' light shall fall on you all. What is pure shall shine. What is false shall falter. What is chosen shall be revealed."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Some nobles' faces blanched, others flushed with feverish anticipation.
The old priest's eyes swept slowly across the courtyard. They lingered on Ernest.
"The Trial of Light will begin at dawn."
The priests turned as one, their robes whispering against stone. The silence they left behind was heavier than their words.
Ernest's ReflectionThat night, Ernest sat at his desk. The lamp burned low, shadows long across the chamber. His quill scratched softly.
Trial of Light. Trap clothed as judgment. They will force me to bend or burn before all eyes.
They whisper prophet, vessel, heretic. It matters little. They hunger only for proof.
Rowan burns with pride and shame. Celina's curse thrums as if waiting. Mikel steady, anchor unshaken. The priests will twist them all.
Instructors whisper. They know silence is betrayal. But silence remains.
He closed the book and stood at the window.
The courtyard lay silver in moonlight, the chalk circle glowing faintly beneath frost. Across the green, Celina's candle burned steady. Rowan's lamp flickered faint. Mikel's light constant.
His 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 now they summon light."
His lips curved, thin, sharp.
"Let them. Even light bends. I am the Voice that commands — even in silence."