Julian's fingers were cold. Even through the fine leather of his gloves.
He didn't just hold Ren's chin; he inspected him, tilting his head from side to side like a jeweler examining a curious, low-grade stone. The smirk on his face was sharp, dancing with a playful cruelty that made Ren's stomach twist into knots.
"Master?" Ren's voice cracked. He didn't pull away—he didn't dare.
To pull away from a High Socialite was an act of defiance, and Ren had spent eighteen years learning that defiance was a luxury for people with full bellies and noble titles.
"A bit slow on the uptake, aren't you?" Julian laughed, the sound bright and artificial.
He finally let go, but he didn't move back. He stayed deep within Ren's personal space, his emerald green eyes scanning the black scorch marks on Ren's grey uniform.
"Cian usually burns through Grounds like dry kindling. The last one lasted forty seconds before he started screaming about his blood boiling. And yet here you are… looking remarkably put together."
Ren kept his eyes lowered, focusing on the silver embroidery on Julian's boots. "I... I was just following orders, sir."
"Orders," Julian mused, tapping a gloved finger against his lip.
"How quaint. Tell me, Ren, did it taste like ozone? His magic, I mean. Most say it tastes like being struck by lightning."
Ren hesitated. He remembered the vacuum. He remembered the silver thread and the cool, soothing hum that had replaced the fire.
"It was just... loud, sir."
Julian's eyes narrowed slightly, the smugness flickering for a fraction of a second.
Before he could press further, the air in the room shifted.
The temperature dropped. The air itself became heavy and dense.
The third figure, who had been standing in the shadows of the doorway, finally stepped into the light.
If Cian was a sun and Julian was a serpent, this boy was a mountain.
He was broader than the other two, his shoulders blocking out the light from the hallway. He wore a dark, sleeveless tunic that revealed arms corded with muscle and scarred with strange, jagged lines that looked like they had been etched by acid. He didn't wear gold or silk. He wore leather and iron.
This was Kaelen, "Kael" for short, Thorne. The heir to the Thorne duchy—the kingdom's 'shield and weapon'. In the history of the academy, no Thorne had ever been a scholar, they were weapons.
A family that produced only knights.
Kael didn't speak. He didn't even look at Julian. He walked straight toward Ren. Each footfall sounded like a hammer blow.
Ren felt the "Void" in his chest react again, but this time it wasn't a hunger—it was a warning. Kael's mana wasn't white or green; it was a dark, suffocating charcoal grey that seemed to distort the light around him.
Ren's breath hitched as Kael stopped inches away. The sheer physical presence of the boy was overwhelming. Kael reached out, his hand massive and calloused.
Ren flinched, closing his eyes, expecting a blow.
Instead, Kael's hand hovered just above Ren's shoulder. He didn't touch him. He seemed to be sensing something. After a long, tense silence, Kael let his hand drop.
"Stable," Kael grunted. His voice was deep, like stones grinding together. It was the first time he had spoken, and the sound made Ren's skin crawl.
"Stable? He's more than stable, Kael." Julian said, strolling over to lean against the headless statue.
"He's a miracle. Or a very talented liar. Cian's resonance is gone. Completely drained. Do you have any idea what that means for our… little arrangement?"
Kael didn't answer. He simply turned and walked toward a heavy iron door at the far end of the chamber, his silence more intimidating than Julian's chatter.
"Don't mind him," Julian whispered, leaning down toward Ren's ear.
"He doesn't like people very much. He prefers things he can break. You'd do well to stay out of his reach when he's… hungry."
Ren swallowed hard. "Sir, if the grounding is finished, may I return to the scholarship dorms? I have evening lectures and—"
"Lectures?" Julian interrupted, laughing as if Ren had told a hilarious joke.
"Oh, little bird. You aren't going back to that damp basement. Didn't anybody tell you? You are a personal attendant now. Which means you belong to the North Tower. Which means," Julian's smile turned razor-sharp, "you belong to us."
Julian stood up straight and snapped his fingers.
Two silent servants in grey livery appeared in the doorway.
They weren't scholarship students; they were "Bound-Silents," magically lobotomized workers who served the High Houses.
"Show Student 4092 to the servant's quarters," Julian commanded. "And see that he is dressed properly. That scholarship grey is giving me a headache."
Ren was led away, his mind a whirlwind of terror. He was marched down a series of cold, obsidian corridors, deeper into the heart of the North Tower. The opulence of the main hall faded, replaced by a stark, brutalist architecture. This part of the tower was designed for one thing: containment.
They reached a door that was barely five feet tall. One of the servants pushed it open, gesturing for Ren to enter.
The room was a cell.
It was narrow, with a single stone slab for a bed and a small, high window that was barred with enchanted iron. There were no books, no slate, nothing but a small wooden trunk and a washbasin.
"Your new home," the servant muttered—the first words Ren had heard one of them speak. The door slammed shut, and Ren heard the heavy clatter of a bolt sliding into place.
He was a prisoner.
Ren sat down on the cold stone slab, his head in his hands. His life as a scholarship student had been miserable, but it had been his misery. Now, he was a "Ground"—a human lightning rod and trash can for three of the most powerful and dangerous boys in the world.
He thought of the silver thread. He thought of the way the Prince's magic had felt—not like a burden, but like food.
"What am I?" he whispered to the empty room.
He stood up and walked to the washbasin.
The water was cold and clear. He splashed his face, trying to wash away the scent of ozone and Julian's sandalwood perfume. As he looked into the small, cracked mirror above the basin, he froze.
His eyes.
Normally a dull, unremarkable brown, they were flickering. Deep within the pupils, a faint, silver light was swirling, like a galaxy trapped in a jar. It lasted for only a second before fading back to brown, but Ren had seen it.
And then, he saw the second thing.
In the reflection of the room behind him, on the stone wall above his bed, there was a mark. Like somebody had scratched it into the obsidian with something sharp.
It was a small, crudely drawn symbol of a golden loom symbol. And beneath it, a single word in the High Script:
RUN.
He had heard stories of the 'weavers' in whispers. The Nobles are called the 'users'. They consume magic to display status.
But the legend spoke of the "Weavers"—a forgotten bloodline that didn't just use magic, they authored it. They saw the world as a giant tapestry, and they could pull, cut, or re-weave the threads of reality.
The Golden Loom was their sigil.
It represents the ability to create something from nothing. To the current government (The High-Sovereign Council), the Loom is a heretical symbol. If you can weave your own magic, you don't need "Status," and the entire social hierarchy of the Academy collapses.
It was a symbol that shouldn't be carved on a wall.
Ren spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. The wall was empty. He turned back to the mirror, but the reflection showed nothing but the bare stone.
Suddenly, there was a hum. It wasn't the violent roar of Cian's magic or the heavy thrum of Kael's. This was a soft and sounded like it was coming from the walls.
A small panel in the floor slid open, and a tray of food appeared—rich meats, white bread, and a glass of deep red juice. It was a feast compared to the watery gruel of the scholarship dorms.
But beside the plate lay a small, black velvet box.
Ren approached it tentatively. His fingers trembled as he opened the lid.
Inside was a collar.
It was made of black iron, inlaid with a single, glowing sapphire that pulsed with the exact same rhythm as Cian's heart.
Ren almost sobbed.
It was a bonding lead.
If he put it on, he would be magically tied to the Prince. His life force would be tethered to Cian's. If Cian died, Ren died. If Cian moved, Ren would feel the pull.
Ren stared at the collar, the warning on the wall still echoing in his mind.
Run.
He knew what he had seen. He already had his plate full with the 'three'. Could there be a fourth problem?
As he reached out to touch the iron, the silver thread he'd seen and felt before in his chest, gave a sudden, sharp pull. It didn't want him to run.
It wanted the sapphire.
It wanted the magic inside the stone.
It wanted the connection. He couldn't understand what was happening.
The hunger was back. And this time, it was stronger than his fear.
Outside in the hallway, he heard the sound of heavy boots approaching his door. Not the rhythmic step of a guard. These were the slow, deliberate footsteps of someone who owned the air he breathed.
The bolt on the door began to slide back.
The door creaked open and standing there was a cleaned up and fully dressed Cian.