Morning came grey and thin, filtering through the cracks of the caravan yard's shutters as if it wasn't entirely sure it wanted to commit
to the day.
John hadn't truly slept. He'd drifted in and out, jerked awake by phantom footsteps, imagined flickers of fire, the remembered weight of the Paragon's eyes on Brian. Every time he woke, the baby was there: a small, warm weight against Doris's chest, fingers twitching in half-formed dreams.
When the yard bell rang three low, measured strokes, it sounded less like metal on metal and more like a sentence being passed.
Doris opened her eyes.
"Today," she said, voice rough.
"Today," John agreed.
They dressed in the cramped space, moving carefully so as not to jostle Brian too much. Doris wrapped him in fresh cloth, nestling him
against her. When she tightened the last fold, she paused, fingers lingering on the knot.
"We could just… not go," she said softly.
John glanced toward the wagon flap, where early-light shadows stretched across the yard outside. He thought of Paragons slipping
through crowds, of cultists who had already proven they could find them even inside a walled city.
"We made it inside," he said. "That's already stirred up more attention than we can manage on our own. If we run now, we'll spend the rest of our lives waiting for cloaks in the dark."
"We will anyway," Doris murmured.
"Maybe," he said. "But I'd rather do it with stone between them and him. And people like Dorothy and Halvar standing in the gap."
Doris exhaled slowly. "I don't trust them."
"Good," John said. "Then you're less likely to be surprised."
Her lips twitched despite the tension. "You're getting better at this."
"At what?"
"Being a bastard," she said. "You'll need that."
He kissed her forehead. "I have an excellent teacher."
The Academy carriage arrived with the kind of precision that made John's teeth itch.
No creaking wagon or hired cab, this was a closed coach of dark lacquered wood, etched with faintly glowing sigils along its frame. The
horses were powerful greys with braided manes and silver tack. Two uniformed Aether wardens rode ahead, their cloaks clasped with the tower-and-stars badge. Another pair sat behind, crossbows ready but uncocked.
John stood beside Doris and Brian as it rolled into the yard, Dorothy at his shoulder, Flint lingering a pace back.
Gerran hovered near the gate, arms folded, expression somewhere between relief and resentment—like a man watching a patient he'd cared for being taken into someone else's hands.
The carriage door opened with a soft click.
Halvar stepped out.
He wore the same formal blue robes as the night before, though John spotted fresh creases and ink stains on the cuffs now. A long night, then. Good. Someone else had paid in sleep for once.
"Good morning," Halvar said. "I trust the rest of the night was… uneventful?"
"By our recent standards?" Flint said. "Positively dull."
"That won't last," Halvar said dryly. "Best enjoy it."
His gaze settled on Brian. Doris had drawn her cloak up, but Halvar seemed to see through layers of cloth as easily as air. He nodded once, as if to himself.
"Time to move," he said. "Before every minor mage in the outer ring finishes breakfast and decides to 'just happen' to walk past the
caravan quarter."
Doris hesitated. "What about Gerran and the rest? Are they… safe here?"
"As safe as anyone is in Aetherion," Halvar said. "They're under the city's protection now, not just mine. Any cult cell trying to stage another assault here this soon would be foolish. The Paragons are zealots, not idiots."
"That's not as reassuring as you think it is," Flint muttered.
Halvar ignored him. He gestured to the carriage. "Doriane. John. Child. Dorothy. And… you." His eyes flicked to Flint, assessing. "You're coming as well."
Flint blinked. "I am?"
"Unless you prefer to stay here and hope the Paragons don't develop an academic interest in you," Halvar said. "I've read your tactical
notes. They'll need… context, inside the Academy."
Flint's mouth hung open for half a second. "Wait. You mean—I'm going inside the place? Not just dropping them off and running?"
"Yes," Halvar said. "You're too nosy to leave unsupervised. Also, the Academy could use a non-mage who knows how people actually bleed."
Flint glanced at John. "If they try to make me wear robes, I'm biting someone."
"Noted," Halvar said. "Try not to start with the Head Rectrix."
Dorothy snorted quietly.
Gerran approached, jaw tight. "This is where we part, then," he said. "For now."
"For now," John agreed.
Gerran's gaze landed on Brian. "You bring him back to visit when he's old enough to drink," he said. "If the world's still standing."
"I will," John said.
"Try not to let them turn you into something sharp and stupid," Gerran added. "You're better than that steel in your hand."
John swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. "You kept us alive," he said.
"I kept everyone moving," Gerran corrected. "You did the rest." He nodded once to Doris. "Stormborn or not, he's still just a boy to me."
"Thank you," she said quietly.
Dorothy climbed into the carriage first, leaning on the door frame only slightly. Halvar offered a steadying hand to Doris as she stepped up
with Brian. John followed, ducking his head automatically at the low frame. Flint vaulted in after him with less grace than he liked to pretend he had.
The interior smelled faintly of dust, parchment, and some herbal oil John couldn't place. Cushioned benches lined both sides; sigils glowed faintly along the ceiling, their light steady and cool.
The door closed with a soft thud.
Outside, Halvar gave a brief nod to Gerran, then swung himself up onto the extra forward bench rather than riding inside. Through the
narrow coach window, John could see the Master Rector's profile—sharp, thoughtful, already distant.
The driver flicked the reins.
The carriage rolled out of the yard.
The city looked different from carriage height.
Streets funneled around them, filled with early
crowds—vendors setting up stalls, apprentices hauling crates, beggars staking
corners, nobles in bright clothing sweeping past under parasols. The carriage's crest and the wardens' cloaks created a pocket of space around them; people stepped aside almost automatically, a small ripple of respect or wariness widening and closing in their wake.
Brian stirred.
Doris rocked him gently, humming under her breath.
Flint craned his neck to peer out the small window. "Everything's so… tall," he said. "Like the buildings are trying to prove something."
"They are," Dorothy said. "That they belong here more than you do."
"Do you ever say anything comforting?" Flint asked.
"Rarely," Dorothy replied.
The carriage moved inward, up a long, gentle slope. The architecture shifted subtly—less haphazard stacking of stone, more deliberate
design. Wider streets. Cleaner cobbles. Heavier guard presence at intersections.
"Outer ring," Dorothy murmured. "Then civic ring. Then the Aether district."
"How many rings are there?" John asked.
"Too many," she said. "And not enough."
He gave her a look.
"Enough to keep poor people far enough from important decisions," she clarified. "Not enough to keep corruption from tunnelling
through anyway."
"Human nature," Flint said. "And you all thought magic would fix everything."
"No," Dorothy said. "We knew magic would make everything worse in more interesting ways."
The carriage passed under another smaller arch—a checkpoint where wardens saluted their escort and waved them through without inspection. Beyond, the streets widened further, flanked by tall, clean buildings with
banners hanging from their upper levels: guild halls, magistrate courts, barracks.
Government heart.
John note the increased number of runes carved into the paving stones here—subtle, but present. Lines of power moved under this quarter like underground rivers.
Then, as they crested another rise, the Academy came fully into view.
Even prepared, John felt his breath catch.
The Aether Academy was not a single building.
It was a cluster of towers and halls, walls and
bridges, rising from a massive, elevated plateau of stone that looked half natural, half carved. The central tower speared the sky—taller than anything else in the capital—its surface etched with spirals and sigils that caught the light and bent it strangely. Smaller towers ringed it at varying heights, connected by arched walkways that glowed faintly with ward-light.
At the base, a broad staircase led up from a grand plaza,flanked by statues of figures in robes—some human, some less clearly so. Lines of students and staff moved in and out through wide doors framed in dark, polished stone.
Wards pressed against John's skin even from a distance.
Not like the city gate.
This was thicker. Older. The sensation of stepping near an enormous, sleeping animal and feeling its breathing move the air.
Doris stared, eyes wide.
"I hate this place," she murmured.
"You were never even enrolled," Dorothy said softly.
"I came here once," Doris replied. "For three days. That was enough."
John glanced at her. "What happened?"
She shook her head. "Later."
Halvar looked back through the front window as the carriage slowed near the base of the plaza steps. "Welcome," he said, "to the Imperial Aether Academy."
His tone carried both pride and caution.
"Try not to set anything on fire," Flint muttered to Brian.
Brian burped.
"Good start," Flint said.
The carriage doors opened.
Sound poured in—voices layered over one another, footsteps on stone, the distant crack of something explosive (training exercise? argument gone very wrong?). The air held the faint scent of ozone, chalk, and somewhere,
incense.
A line of armored wardens and a few robed figures waited at the foot of the steps.
One of the robed figures stepped forward immediately.
She was tall, with dark skin and hair pulled into intricate braids coiled at the back of her head. Her robes were deep violet trimmed with silver, the fabric so fine it almost seemed to ripple of its own accord. A chain heavier than Halvar's looped across her chest, bearing an emblem of three concentric circles overlaid by the tower-and-stars.
Her gaze was direct enough that John felt momentarily skewered.
"Rector Halvar," she said. "You dragged me out of council for this."
Halvar descended from the front bench and bowed his head slightly. "Head Rectrix Maevra," he said. "I thought you'd be pleased to see proof your alarms are justified."
"I'm pleased when things explode less than
predicted," she said. "Not more." Her eyes moved past him to the carriage interior. "Bring them out."
John stepped down first, out of ingrained habit, scanning the plaza: students pausing to stare, guards maintaining a perimeter, staff
members watching from the shade of the entrance. Then he turned and held a hand
up to Doris.
She accepted it, descending carefully with Brian held close.
Maevra's eyes narrowed.
Whatever she'd expected, it wasn't the sight of a dirty, travel-worn woman with tangled hair and a hollow-eyed newborn instead of some
glowing prophecy-child.
"Name," Maevra said.
"Doris," she replied automatically, then winced. "Doriane. Doriane Aetheris."
A flicker of recognition moved across Maevra's features. "Ah," she said. "The runaway."
Doris's mouth tightened. "I prefer 'survivor.'"
Maevra's lips quirked. "We'll see which proves more accurate."
Her gaze shifted to John.
"And you?"
"John," he said.
"Family name?" she pressed.
"Never did much for me," he said. "You can write 'Caravan Sword' if the forms complain."
Maevra's eyes assessed him with the same intensity she'd given Doris. "You know how to fight."
"I know how to lose people when I don't," he said.
She inclined her head—just a fraction, but it felt like acknowledgment.
Her attention dropped to Brian.
"And this," she said, "is the noise in my wards."
Doris's arms tightened around the baby. "This is our son," she said firmly. "Brian."
Maevra studied the child's face.
Brian, sensing the weight of so many eyes, woke properly and blinked up at her. For a heartbeat, the quiet between them felt too sharp. Then his mouth wobbled.
He started to cry.
Soft at first. Then louder.
Maevra did not flinch. She simply raised a hand.
Not in threat.
In measurement.
Wards stirred.
John felt them—layer upon layer of invisible nets responding to the child's voice. Not choking, not binding, but tasting. Cataloguing.
Maevra's expression changed. It didn't become softer, exactly, but something like professional wonder flickered there.
"By the Core," she said quietly. "He's… wide."
Dorothy stepped up beside them. "Resonant in all directions," she said. "Not just a single element."
Maevra nodded. "Heat. Shift. Flow. Lift. And something that tastes like—" She cut herself off.
"Voidborn Aether," Doris supplied sharply.
Maevra's gaze flicked to her. "Yes."
Brian's crying eased as Doris rocked him, murmuring. The wards calmed—if "calm" was the right word for something that felt like a
massive, invisible web settling back into place after a plucked strand stopped vibrating.
Around the plaza, onlookers whispered.
"Voidborn?"
"A baby?"
"Is that what set off the outer wards?"
Maevra's voice sliced through the murmurs. "Enough."
Silence fell, rippling outward.
She turned to Halvar. "You were right to bring them straight here," she said. "And you were right to call me." She looked again at Brian.
"Anything this loud cannot be left to drift on city streets."
Doris bristled. "We didn't 'drift.' We survived."
Maevra met her anger with cool, assessing eyes. "The two are not mutually exclusive."
"We didn't come to be caged," John said.
Maevra's gaze moved to him, weighing his words. "You came because the world outside these walls started hunting your child," she said. "You came because this is the one place left where wards are thick enough to make Paragons think twice before throwing fire. You came because you had no better options."
John ground his teeth but did not disagree.
Maevra's tone softened by a hair. "This is not a prison," she said. "Not unless you force our hand."
"Reassuring," Flint muttered.
"Who is this?" Maevra asked.
"Flint," Halvar said. "A non-mage with an irritating talent for observation. I thought we could use one."
Maevra gave Flint a brief, sharp look. "If you cause trouble, I will personally assign you to the first-year dormitories," she said.
Flint blanched. "I'll be good."
"See that you are," Maevra said.
She turned back to the group as a whole.
"Under emergency mandate," she said, voice now carrying that formal, weighty cadence John associated with officers reading out orders, "you are granted provisional shelter within the Aether Academy. You will be housed in a secure family suite under watch. The child—Brian Aetheris, recorded—will
be assessed under controlled conditions. No one outside designated faculty will interact with him unsupervised. In return, you will answer questions truthfully, report any unusual phenomena, and refrain from attempting to flee the premises."
"And if we do try?" John asked, because someone had to.
Maevra's gaze did not waver. "Then we assume your intent has aligned with the cult that wants him," she said. "And we respond accordingly."
Doris's hand found John's, fingers threading tightly.
"Is there any part of this that is actually optional?" she asked, voice brittle.
Maevra's expression shifted—not softer, not harder, but more honest. "The timing," she said. "You could have waited to come. Tried your luck elsewhere. You didn't. You walked here. That choice matters."
"Will you treat him as a weapon?" Doris pressed.
Maevra's eyes dropped briefly to Brian, then rose again.
"We will treat him as a child carrying catastrophic potential," she said. "We will try to keep him alive long enough to decide for himself whether he wants to be weapon, shield, or something else entirely."
It was not the answer Doris wanted.
But it was the only honest one anyone had given them since the storm.
She exhaled, a long, slow surrender.
"Fine," she whispered. "But we stay with him."
Maevra nodded. "Halvar has already cleared the arrangements." She gestured toward the wide doors. "Come. The more we argue in
public, the faster rumors grow."
Dorothy murmured, "Wise as ever."
Maevra's mouth quirked. "Flattery from you is suspicious."
They climbed the steps.
As they crossed the threshold, John felt a deeper layer of wards engage.
These weren't the broad city nets.
These were finer.
Sharper.
Threads brushed across his skin, tasting his limited magic, his scars, the metal at his hip. Something traced the faint echo of Brian's
earlier cry and recoiled, then settled, like a beast deciding—for now—not to bite.
Inside, the entry hall vaulted high above their heads, its ceiling painted with scenes of stars and abstract shapes that might have been
constellations or spell diagrams. Marble floors reflected wardlight. Students in robes of various colors moved through, stepping aside instinctively when they saw Maevra's chain and Halvar's badge.
Whispers followed them.
"Is that—?"
"A baby?"
"Voidborn, they said—"
Flint leaned close to John. "We're going to be a story before we even put our bags down."
John grunted. "Let them talk. Talking is better than stabbing."
"Usually," Flint said.
Maevra led them down a side corridor, away from the bustle. The air cooled as they moved deeper, footsteps echoing off stone. Doors lined the hall, marked with plaques and sigils John didn't understand.
Finally, she stopped at a thick oak door banded with dull silver. The frame around it shimmered faintly with layered enchantments.
Family quarters, John guessed.
Maevra placed her palm against a sigil plate beside the door. Runes flared briefly, then faded. The latch clicked.
"Your suite," she said. "Two sleeping chambers, common room, washing cell. Warded from intrusion both mundane and magical. You may come and go within designated parts of the Academy, but until we understand the full… range of his resonance, we ask that you notify the ward office before leaving these halls with him."
Doris's voice was hoarse. "And if we refuse?"
Maevra's gaze remained level. "Then at some point, he will have an uncontrolled episode in a public space, and everyone will suffer. You
included. Help us avoid that."
Doris closed her eyes briefly. "Fine."
Maevra nodded once. "Rest. Orientation and initial assessment will begin tomorrow after first bell. Halvar, Dorothy—you'll brief them further."
Halvar inclined his head. Dorothy merely sighed.
Maevra turned to go, then paused.
"Oh," she added. "One more thing."
They all looked at her.
"You are not prisoners," she said. "But you are not ordinary residents either. People here will be curious. Some will be afraid. Some will try to use you—for status, for research, for politics. Remember that they are all human, even when they act like vultures."
Her gaze lingered on Brian.
"And remember," she said quietly, "that he is human first. Voidborn second. The world tends to mix those up."
For the first time, something unmistakably weary crossed her features.
Then she left.
The door closed behind them with a soft, final sound.
John exhaled.
The suite was simple but solid: stone walls softened by woven rugs, a low hearth, narrow beds with clean linen. A small table with four
chairs. A recessed alcove with a basin and pipes.
Doris sank slowly onto one of the beds, Brian in her arms.
"He's shaking," she whispered.
John touched the back of the baby's head; sure enough, faint tremors ran through his tiny body. Not from cold—something else.
"Too much noise," Dorothy said gently. "These walls hum. He feels it. It'll take time for his senses to… find a baseline."
"Can we help?" John asked.
"Yes," Dorothy said. "Be here. Be predictable. Your presence is a… constant. He'll anchor to you as much as to any ward."
Flint dropped into a chair, rubbing his face. "So, let me summarize," he said. "We are in a maze of towers full of people who want to study us, helped by some of those people and hunted by others outside, all while the baby might accidentally shout loud enough for reality to crack."
"Accurate," Dorothy said.
"Good," Flint said. "Just wanted to make sure I hadn't misunderstood anything."
John moved to sit beside Doris, arm sliding around her shoulders.
Brian's cries had faded to tiny, exhausted whimpers.
John watched his son's face.
"So," he said softly. "Welcome to school, I suppose."
Doris let out a ragged laugh that was almost a sob. "He's four days old."
"Then he'll be top of the class," Flint said.
"Statistically."
Dorothy smiled faintly. "Don't encourage him."
Outside their warded walls, the Academy adjusted.
Report pages multiplied. Rumors twined through corridors. Some eyes turned toward the new family suite with curiosity. Others with
hunger. A few with fear.
And somewhere high in the central tower, in a chamber lined with crystal and star-metal, a device tuned to the world's deeper tremors flickered once.
As if in recognition.
As if something sleeping beneath the world had rolled in its slumber.
Inside the simple stone room, Brian finally slept.
And for the first time since his birth, there was no sky above him.
Only painted stars.