Night fell hard over Aetherion.
The city did not sleep, exactly—it simmered. Torches and lanterns spilled gold onto stone streets. Taverns belched laughter and song.
Distant bells chimed the hour; somewhere, a dog barked furiously at nothing.
In the caravan yard, the noise of the city dulled to a constant, low roar—like the sea heard from inland. Wagons were clustered in
rows, wheels blocked, tarps stretched. Horses munched hay or dozed in their stalls. The smell of manure, smoke, and stew blended into something almost comforting.
For the first time in days, no one was moving.
John lay on his back on a pallet inside the wagon, staring up at the wooden slats overhead. His whole body felt paradoxically heavy and restless, as if the moment he closed his eyes the world would choose that
instant to burn.
Doris lay beside him, Brian between them, the baby swaddled tightly and nestled in the crook of her arm. Brian's breathing came in soft, uneven sighs.
"You're not sleeping," Doris whispered.
"Neither are you," John replied.
"I've earned the right to stare at the ceiling," she said. "You, less so."
He huffed a quiet breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "Everything hurts. In a good way."
"Liar," she murmured. "Pain is pain."
"Pain means we're still here," he said. "I'll take it."
She reached across Brian and found his hand in the dark. Their fingers twined.
"Do you think they felt him?" she asked.
"The wards?" John guessed. "Dorothy says yes. Says the city notices everything."
"I meant the Paragons," Doris said softly. "Out there. When we crossed into the city. When he… brushed the wards."
John considered. He imagined cloaked figures on distant hills, pausing mid-step as some echo tugged at them from far away.
"Maybe," he said. "But they didn't follow us through the gate."
"They don't need to," Doris murmured. "They have people inside."
He didn't argue. In every city he'd ever passed through, someone answered to someone else in shadows.
Outside, the yard creaked and settled. A wagon's canvas flapped gently in the wind. Somewhere near the far fence, someone coughed and spat.
John forced his eyes closed.
His body complained loudly at the idea of staying awake, but his mind refused to let go.
He must have drifted anyway, because the next thing he knew his vision was full of fire.
Not real.
Memory.
Stone pillars towering in the dark, singing with low tones that shook the marrow of his bones. A baby crying. Flames coiling upward from the earth, reaching for the sky—
He jerked awake.
The wagon was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the yard lanterns bleeding through the thin fabric of the flap. Doris had shifted closer in her sleep; Brian lay snug between them, mouth open in a tiny O.
John's heart pounded.
He exhaled slowly. "Just a dream," he whispered.
The wagon creaked.
Then—too softly to be wind—he heard it.
A footstep.
Not the shuffling of a tired caravaner. Not the lighter scamper of a boy sneaking between wagons. A deliberate, measured step, weight
distributed for silence instead of speed.
John's hand drifted toward his sword.
He froze.
Another step.
Closer now.
John's muscles tensed. He shifted slowly, careful not to jostle Brian, and slid his legs over the side of the pallet.
Doris stirred. "John?" she murmured.
He touched her shoulder, a light pressure. "Shh."
She blinked, then went still. In the dimness, her eyes sharpened instantly. She listened.
There—a whisper of fabric against wood. The faint clink of metal touching metal. A breath held and released.
Not inside.
Outside.
At the rear of the wagon.
John mouthed one word: Paragons.
Doris's arms tightened around Brian.
John drew his sword in one slow, practiced motion, keeping the blade low to avoid knocking the ceiling.
He did not feel brave.
He felt very, very awake.
The wagon teetered slightly as weight shifted against its rear.
A shadow blocked the slim line of light at the flap's bottom. Fingers touched the canvas, feeling for seams.
John's pulse thundered, but he moved quietly, setting each foot down with care. He positioned himself between the flap and Doris, sword angled to thrust if someone slipped inside.
Outside, another sound—soft, rhythmical—brushed his ears.
Breathing.
The wagon flap quivered.
A knife tip appeared, glinting faintly as it slid under the lower edge of the canvas. It began to cut upward, the fabric parting without a sound.
Enough.
John lunged.
He slammed his foot into the flap just as the knife reached knee height, kicking outward with all his weight. The flap burst open; the
blade jerked away.
He followed with his sword, thrusting through the gap in a single smooth motion.
Steel met flesh.
A muffled grunt answered, not quite a scream. John yanked the blade back, ducking sideways as something swiped through the flap where his chest had been an instant earlier.
He shoved fully outside.
The yard lay dimly lit by scattered oil lamps; shadows from wagon frames stretched long and angled. A cool wind gusted, carrying the
distant murmur of the city.
Right behind the wagon, a cloaked figure staggered back, clutching at a wound in their side where John's sword had punched cleanly through.
Their hood fell back.
Not a robed priest.
A young woman. Pale hair scraped into a tight braid. Eyes wild with surprise and hate.
She spat blood and hissed a word John didn't recognize.
Heat flashed.
A gout of fire snapped out from her palm, instinctive and uncontrolled.
John threw himself sideways.
The flame licked across the wagon canvas where he'd been standing, charring cloth in a streak. Doris shouted from inside; Brian wailed in confused terror.
The woman's eyes widened as she realized her mistake.
Not subtle.
Not quiet.
Shouts rose from nearby wagons. "What—?" "Fire!" "Who's there?"
"John!" Flint's voice, from somewhere to the left. "John?"
John surged toward the woman, sword raised.
She lifted her uninjured hand.
Flame flared, this time more focused—a narrow spear of fire.
He dropped low, feeling heat singe the hairs on the back of his neck as it passed overhead. The strike hit the yard fence, charring boards
in an instant.
"Stop her!" someone yelled.
John hit her full on with his shoulder, driving her back into a stack of crates. They toppled, spilling salted fish and roped goods across the mud.
She snarled, driving a knee toward his ribs. Pain burst along his side. He punched her wrist, driving it away from his face just as a
flicker of fire threatened to ignite again.
"Who sent you?" he demanded.
She spat at him in answer.
The spittle sizzled on his cheek.
Magic-tinged.
He slammed her arm against the crate edge until her fingers spasmed and the knife dropped from her grasp.
Footsteps pounded closer. Flint skidded into view, daggers drawn, eyes wide. Two caravan guards followed, half-armed, hauling on belts and buckling straps.
"She's Paragon," John snapped. "Bind her hands."
"On it," Flint said.
Then, from the far side of the yard, a shriek.
Not wordless terror.
Rage.
John's head snapped up.
Another figure stood atop a wagon—hood thrown back, face shadowed by the angle of the lamp. A circle-and-flame brand glowed faintly at his throat.
Paragon sigil.
He flung his arms wide.
Fire climbed around him like a crown.
"Down!" Dorothy's voice split the night like a whip. "Everyone down!"
John threw himself over the woman he'd pinned, not to protect her but to shield himself from the initial blast. Heat washed across his back, searing hot—but not as bad as it could have been.
The fire didn't crash outward.
It spiraled.
Up.
Dorothy's staff rose.
Space twisted.
The fire the Paragon hurled toward the nearest wagons bent—even John's panic-flooded brain registered the impossible angle. Instead of slamming into canvas and wood, the torrent of flame veered at the last instant, scraping along the packed dirt of the yard and spraying up in a curved arc that fizzled against open sky.
Dorothy staggered with the effort, teeth gritted, every muscle in her face tight.
The Paragon on the wagon snarled. "Void-warpers," he spat. "You hide behind tricks."
Flint's eyes darted to John. "He said 'void.' That feels personal."
"Kill him first, talk later," John said.
The Paragon lifted his hands again, but now guards were fully awake and armed. One loosed an arrow; it sliced past the cultist's arm, drawing a line of blood.
He hissed.
Then he saw Brian.
Doris had scrambled out of the wagon, Brian clutched tight, back pressed against the wheel. Her eyes were on John, searching for him in the chaos.
The Paragon's gaze fixed on the bundle in her arms.
His whole posture changed.
Not wild rage now.
Reverence.
"So small," he murmured. "So loud."
Dorothy barked a word John didn't understand.
Space buckled between the Paragon and the wagon—an invisible wall snapping into existence.
He threw himself forward anyway.
And hit it.
Hard.
The space shield shuddered, its edges rippling like water under strain.
Dorothy's knees nearly gave out.
John saw her stagger, staff slipping.
He left the wounded woman pinned beneath him and hurled himself toward Doris and Brian.
"John—!" Doris cried.
He reached them just as the Paragon pressed both hands flush against the invisible barrier, fingers splayed, eyes burning.
"Child of breach," the cultist whispered. "Hear me."
Brian screamed.
The sound sliced through John like a knife made of sound and fear. It wasn't just volume—it was resonance, a vibration that made his teeth ache and the air itself quiver.
The space wall cracked.
Not visually.
But John felt it fracture, like something delicate and intricate had just been struck by a hammer.
Dorothy gasped, coughing, staff shaking. "He's using a call," she choked. "He's not trying to burn. He's trying to speak through the wards."
"To what?" Flint shouted, shoving a guard into position beside him.
"To the First Flame," Doris whispered, horror in her voice.
The Paragon smiled—a wide, ecstatic expression. "To what waits between the breaths of the world," he said. "To what answered your ancestor once. To what will answer again, little echo."
Brian's scream became a raw, continuous wail.
Heat pulsed outward from him—not enough to burn, but enough that John felt sweat bead instantly along his neck and spine. The lamp nearest them flickered, flame bending toward the child.
"Doris!" John yelled. "Hold him—"
"I am!" she cried, tears in her eyes.
A hairline fracture shimmered across the invisible barrier.
Dorothy swore in a language John had never heard from her before. "I can't hold both him and this—"
"Then don't," another voice cut in.
A voice John didn't recognize.
Calm.
Commanding.
Cold.
Everyone turned.
A figure stood in the open archway of the yard gate—a man in deep blue robes edged with silver. He wore no armor. No visible weapons. His hair was iron-grey and cropped close. A fine chain looped from his collar to a disc over his chest bearing the stylized emblem of a tower circled by seven stars.
Academy.
His eyes, though—piercing pale, almost colorless—took in the entire scene in one pass. Dorothy. The Paragon atop the wagon. The bound one beneath spilled crates. John. Doris. Brian.
"Stop that," the man said mildly, looking at the cultist.
Then he flicked his fingers.
Air snapped.
The Paragon flew backward, ripped from the invisible barrieras if yanked by a giant unseen hand. He slammed into the opposite wagon so hard the wood cracked. He slid down, limp, breath knocked from him.
The barrier dissolved.
The oppressive pressure lifted.
Brian's scream cut off mid-wail, choking into ragged, hiccuping sobs. Doris hugged him tight, whispering, "Shh, shh, it's all right, it's all right," even though nothing felt all right.
John spun toward the newcomer, sword half-raised before he remembered himself and forced the blade down.
The man in blue stepped fully into the yard. He moved with controlled precision, every gesture economical.
"Contain them," he said, nodding toward the two Paragons. "Alive, if possible."
Several yard guards and two of Sarv's lingering highwaytroopers surged forward to obey, binding wrists, checking pulses, kicking
knives out of reach. Flint added his own quick loops of rope, double-knotting as if expecting the cultists to slip normal restraints easily.
The man's gaze settled on Dorothy.
"Dorothy Varlen," he said. "I thought you preferred dry libraries to screaming babies and cultists."
Dorothy stared at him, panting. "Master Rector Halvar," she managed. "I thought you preferred cushioned chairs to midnight visits to caravan yards."
He raised an eyebrow. "I do. And yet." He glanced at the scorched wagon canvas, the half-melted fence boards, the trembling child in Doris's arms. "The wards reported a disturbance. I came personally."
He stepped closer to Doris and John.
"May I?" he asked.
Doris tightened her hold on Brian. "No," she said.
Halvar did not look offended.
"May I look?" he amended. "From here."
Doris hesitated, then shifted slightly so he could see Brian's face.
The baby's sobs had quieted to miserable little gasps. His skin glowed faintly with residual heat; wisps of damp hair clung to his forehead. His eyes, when they cracked open, were unfocused but dark as wet stone.
Halvar's expression did not change much.
But his eyes sharpened.
"Ah," he said softly. "Yes. I see."
John felt his grip on his sword hilt tighten again. "What do you see?"
Halvar looked at him. "A child who made half our perimeter wards sit up and sing," he said. "In a manner of speaking. You must be the
father."
John nodded once. "John."
"John what?" Halvar asked.
"Just John," he said. "These days."
"Everyone has a family name," Halvar said mildly.
"Some of us ran from them," John answered.
Halvar inclined his head, accepting that. His gaze moved to Doris. For the first time, something like recognition flickered there.
"Doriane Aetheris," he said quietly. "It has been some years."
Doris's shoulders stiffened. "I go by Doris now."
"In a caravan yard, perhaps," Halvar said. "In Academy records, you never stopped being what you were born."
"I tried," she said bitterly.
"I know," he replied.
They held each other's gaze for a lingering stretch.
John glanced between them, tension building in his chest. "You know her."
"Yes," Halvar said. "She was almost a student once. And almost an object of… elevated interest." He looked at Brian again. "It seems
your line does not like staying quiet."
Doris's jaw clenched. "We didn't call them. They came hunting us."
"Of course they did," Halvar said. "The Paragons have been sniffing at old wounds for decades. We simply managed to keep them from prying anything truly dangerous open. So far." His gaze hardened. "This—" He gestured lightly toward Brian. "—is new."
"We're aware," John said.
Halvar studied him for a long moment, assessing. "You held the first assailant," he noted. "Well enough to keep her from torching the wagon."
"Seemed important," John said.
"Where did you train?" Halvar asked.
"Frontier legions," John said. "Then off-books work for caravans."
"A soldier and a Voidborn," Halvar murmured. "And this." His eyes flicked to Brian. "No wonder the world is noisy this week."
Dorothy cleared her throat. "Halvar. This child is being hunted by cultists who believe he can unseal something none of us want unsealed. They attacked inside Aetherion's walls. That's a breach."
"Yes," Halvar said. "Trust me, the irony is not lost on me. The city will not be pleased."
"Neither am I," Gerran said, hurrying over at last, face ashen. "I bring my people inside these walls to keep them alive, and we get
attacked in our sleep?"
Halvar gave him a brief nod. "Your concerns are noted, Caravan Master. The wardens will sweep for infiltrators after we remove these specimens." He glanced at the Paragons being tied to a wagon wheel. "We'll want to ask them questions. Briefly. Before the Emperor's inquisitors claim them."
"Questions won't help if more are already moving," Dorothy said. "We need to get them"—she nodded at Doris, John, and Brian—"somewhere with stronger protections. Before the Paragons escalate."
Halvar's gaze went distant for a heartbeat, running calculations only he could see.
"Yes," he said at last. "We do."
He straightened, robe settling.
"In fact," he said, "this is… accelerated, but perhaps useful. The Academy has already issued a provisional summons."
Doris blinked. "Already?"
Halvar nodded. "It arrived three days ago. Addressed to you and any offspring. The wards registered a Voidborn-adjacent signature approaching the capital weeks back. The bureaucracy moved with its usual
speed."
John stared. "Weeks?"
"We monitor bloodlines of interest," Halvar said matter-of-factly. "Some threads are never fully cut, no matter how far they try to wander." His eyes softened just a fraction. "You didn't truly think you could outrun your heritage forever, did you, Doriane?"
Doris looked away.
"We came because we had no choice," she said. "Not because we wanted your summons."
"And yet here you are," Halvar said. "And here they are." He nodded at the bound Paragons. "Breaking law, order, and my sleep cycle."
John stepped half an inch in front of Doris and Brian. "What happens now?"
Halvar considered him.
"Now," he said, "you come with me to the Academy under formal warded escort. We seal this yard against further intrusion. We
interrogate the cultists, if their minds haven't been set to burn out at the wrong question. We notify the appropriate offices that a high-risk, high-potential subject has arrived."
"We're not subjects," John said.
"You will be," Halvar replied, not unkindly. "Of study. Of protection. Of regulation. That is the price of power in Aetherion. Especially for one like him."
"We don't want him turned into a weapon," Doris said sharply.
Halvar met her gaze. "Neither do I. Weapons break. Symbols corrode. If this boy is what he feels like, his very existence will tug at the seams of the world. We need him alive. We need him sane. And we need him taught. What he does after that… will be his choice more than yours or mine."
John thought of stone pillars singing.
Of Paragons calling across wards.
Of Brian's scream cracking space.
"And if we say no?" he asked quietly.
Halvar didn't hesitate. "Then the Emperor's agents will come instead. More loudly. With less patience. I suspect you'd like to avoid that."
Doris let out a slow, shuddering breath. "You always did know how to make an option sound like mercy."
Halvar's lips curved into a thin almost-smile. "You'll find the Academy and the Empire agree on one thing: better a Voidborn under watch than under cult knives."
Silence stretched.
Then John nodded.
"We'll go," he said. "But on one condition."
Halvar raised a brow. "You're not currently in a strong bargaining position, John-Just-John."
"I'm not bargaining," John said. "I'm stating a fact. Wherever he goes"—he nodded at Brian—"we go. His mother. His father. You can write whatever you like in your records. You can call us attendants, liabilities, footnotes. I don't care. But we're not handing him off like cargo and walking away."
Doris's hand tightened on his arm.
Halvar regarded him for a long moment. Then he inclined his head.
"Reasonable," he said. "It will be… unorthodox. But not impossible. We have family quarters for some faculty. We can improvise something similar for a probational case."
Dorothy exhaled, some tension easing from her shoulders. "Then it's settled."
"For now," Halvar said. "I'll send a carriage and ward detail at first light. Until then, we'll leave a watcher on your gate and prayer that none of the Paragons' friends were close enough to see this little exchange."
Flint muttered, "Comforting."
Halvar glanced at him. "You must be Flint. I've read some of your notes."
Flint blinked. "You… what?"
"We can discuss them later," Halvar said. "Preferably over tea. Or something stronger." He turned away, robe swirling faintly. "Try to get some sleep," he added over his shoulder. "Tomorrow will be… busy."
With that, he strode from the yard, two Academy aides appearing as if from nowhere to follow him, already murmuring about wards, reports, and containment protocols.
The bound Paragons were hauled toward a side gate under heavy guard.
Silence settled in the yard in the aftermath of shouting and fire.
Dorothy limped over to John and Doris. Up close, she looked drained, lines cutting deeper around her eyes.
"You all right?" she asked.
"No," Doris said honestly. "But we're alive."
Brian hiccupped, then sagged against her, utterly spent.
John slid his sword back into its sheath with a slow, deliberate motion. His hands shook.
"We're going into a cage," he said.
Dorothy nodded. "A cage with thicker bars. And fewer holes."
"Can we trust them?" he asked.
Dorothy looked toward the distant towers of the Academy, barely visible past rooftops and ward lights.
"Trust?" she said. "No. But we can use them. And they can use us. That's how this will work."
Doris brushed her thumb over Brian's brow.
"Then we learn their rules," she whispered. "And we learn how to break them if we have to."
Somewhere beyond the walls, Paragons moved in shadows, adjusting plans.
In the heart of the city, the Academy stirred.
And in a caravan yard that still smelled faintly of smoke and fear, a newborn Voidborn finally cried himself to sleep.
The first night in Aetherion had drawn blood.
The next day would draw lines.