Morning in the Academy tasted different.
John woke to stillness—not the restless hush of a caravan waiting for dawn, not the anxious quiet of a city yard braced for danger. The
silence here was… deliberate. Contained.
Held.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling: smooth stone, pale, etched faintly with geometric patterns that might
have been decoration or might have been wards. The air was cool, with a faint mineral tang. Somewhere in the distance, a bell chimed—clear, precise, three notes in rising sequence.
"First bell," Dorothy's voice drifted from the other room. "Students up. Professors pretending they've been awake for hours."
John turned his head.
Doris sat on the edge of the nearest bed, hair in a messy braid, eyes shadowed but awake. Brian lay in her lap, nursing. The baby's small
fingers flexed rhythmically, curling and uncurling against the fabric of her nightshirt.
"How long?" John asked.
"Since the grey before light," Doris said. "He doesn't care about bells."
"Understandable," John said. "He has more important concerns."
"Like food," Flint mumbled from the other bed, where he lay sprawled on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes. "And the metaphysical
integrity of the world, apparently."
"Go back to sleep," Dorothy called. "You'll miss the fun."
Flint groaned. "That sounds like exactly the opposite of what I want. I want to miss the fun. Remember fun? Before cults and towers and
screaming baby-gods?"
"He's not a god," Doris said sharply.
Flint lifted his arm enough to peek at her. "Did I sound serious?" he asked softly.
Her shoulders eased a fraction. "Don't joke about it."
He rolled onto his side, facing away. "Noted."
John swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, feeling every muscle complain. The floor was cool under his feet. He stretched, joints popping.
Dorothy emerged from the narrow wash alcove, her hair wet and pulled back, a towel slung around her neck. She'd traded her travel-worn cloak for a plain, dark Academy robe that somehow made her look smaller and more solid at the same time.
"Halvar will be by after second bell," she said. "Initial assessment. Orientation. A lecture on why you should feel honoured to be here
despite everything being awful."
"Can we skip that bit?" John asked.
"You can't," she replied. "He likes speeches."
Doris shifted Brian so he could burp. The baby produced a surprisingly impressive sound for someone his size, then sagged bonelessly against her shoulder.
"Why wait until second bell?" she asked. "If we're so dangerous, shouldn't they be poking at us already?"
"They've been poking all night," Dorothy said. "Just not with hands. This wing is layered with passive wards. They've been collecting
readings since you walked through the door."
John scowled. "Without asking."
Dorothy snorted. "You think they'd wait for permission? This place was built on the idea that knowing is more important than manners."
Flint sat up, rubbing his face. "I liked you better when you were just the creepy caravan aunt who showed up at weird times," he said. "This 'I used to work here' version is… worse."
Doris's eyes narrowed. "You used to work here?" she asked.
Dorothy hesitated. "Briefly," she said. "Teaching adjunct. I left."
"Why?" John asked.
Dorothy looked at the door. "Because places like this always think they're the wall between the world and disaster," she said. "But
sometimes they're just better-decorated cracks."
Before he could respond, there was a soft knock.
Three taps.
Measured.
Halvar.
Dorothy gave John a look that said: Remember—eyes open, mouth careful.
John nodded.
Doris shifted Brian into a more protective hold.
Flint muttered, "Showtime," and tried to straighten his hair, failed, and gave up.
Dorothy opened the door.
Halvar stood there, robe immaculate, chain polished. Only the faint redness around his eyes betrayed that he'd spent most of the night reading or arguing with someone.
Beside him stood another figure: a woman in grey healer's robes, belt heavy with small vials, charms, and folded cloths. Her hair was cut short, her expression brisk but not unkind.
"Good morning," Halvar said. "I trust you found the accommodations adequate?"
"We didn't die in our sleep," John said. "So yes."
"High praise," Halvar said dryly. He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, though he did glance around with the absent habit of
someone who categorizes rooms as he enters them. The healer followed, eyes going immediately to Brian.
"This is Healer Kaeth," Halvar said. "Body and Aether specialist. She'll be handling the physical aspects of your assessment. I will
handle the… broader implications."
Kaeth inclined her head. "May I?" she asked Doris.
"Everyone keeps asking that," Doris muttered. "What are you actually asking?"
Kaeth's voice was calm, low. "To examine him," she said. "With tools. With spells. Gently. I won't take him from your arms unless
absolutely necessary." Her gaze flicked to Doris's face. "And I will tell you what I find as plainly as I'm allowed."
Doris studied her for a moment.
"Allowed by who?" she asked.
"Protocols," Halvar said. "And superiors."
"Honesty," Kaeth said, a touch of dryness in her tone, "would be so much simpler if it didn't climb chains."
Halvar shot her a brief, wry look. "You'll find the Academy is full of people who believe that."
"And yet here we are," Kaeth replied.
Doris looked between them.
Then at Brian.
Then back.
"Fine," she said. "But if anyone tries to make him cry on purpose, I will show you exactly how much Voidborn strength I inherited."
Kaeth's lips twitched. "Understood."
They moved to the small table. Kaeth laid out a cloth, then carefully set several objects upon it: a crystal rod etched with fine lines; a
small bowl of clear liquid; a metal disc inscribed with concentric circles; a thin sheet of dark glass framed in wood.
Brian watched, eyes unfocused but drawn to the glints and colors.
John hovered behind Doris, close enough that his breath stirred her hair.
Halvar leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching everything with that pale, assessing gaze.
"Let's start with the simplest read," Kaeth said. "Baselines first. Then we risk the interesting things."
"That word doesn't sound safe in this context," Flint murmured.
Kaeth ignored him. She picked up the crystal rod and held it over Brian, not touching him, just letting it hover above his chest. The etched lines along its length caught the ambient wardlight and refracted it in faint
bands.
"Breathe normally," she told Doris. "Don't try to suppress anything. Don't try to help. Just hold him."
Doris swallowed and did as instructed.
Kaeth's eyes narrowed as she watched the rod.
At first, nothing happened.
Then the faintest lines of color appeared inside the crystal—filaments of light threading slowly from one end to the other. Red first. Then blue. Then green. Then a pale gold.
They should have been faint.
They weren't.
They thickened quickly, braiding into a dense cord of shifting hues.
Kaeth's eyebrows climbed. "Well," she said. "He's… busy."
"What does that mean?" John asked.
Kaeth rotated the rod. The colors stayed steady. "Elemental signature," she said. "Every mage has one. Even children. It's like… a taste. Some show a strong streak in one hue. Fire-dominant, water-leaning, that sort of thing. Others display two or three."
"And him?" Doris asked.
Kaeth watched a moment longer. "All four primary elements," she said. "And… something else."
"Space," Dorothy supplied quietly.
Kaeth nodded. "Yes. But not the usual Voidborn spike. Most of your bloodline reads like a single, sharp thread running alongside another element. His…" She frowned, rotating the rod again. "His is woven in. Not added
on."
Halvar pushed off from the wall, coming closer. "Woven how?" he asked.
Kaeth held the rod at an angle so he could see. "See here? The spatial resonance isn't just edging the other strands. It's in them. Fire
that exists in more than one place at once. Water that doesn't quite agree on where down is. Air that… refuses to pick a direction."
"Is that bad?" Flint asked.
Kaeth glanced at him. "It's impossible," she said. "Which usually translates to 'both.'"
Doris tightened her hold on Brian. "Can it hurt him?"
Kaeth shook her head slowly. "Not by existing," she said. "If anything, his body's already adjusting. It's knitting itself around that resonance. The risk will come later, when he starts to use it consciously—or when something tries to use it through him."
"Like the Paragon last night," Dorothy said.
Halvar's mouth thinned. "I'll be speaking to the wardens about how that happened at all," he said. "But yes. Exactly like that."
Kaeth set the rod down and picked up the metal disc. "We'll check his internal reserves next. Mana pool. Life force. That sort of thing."
John frowned. "You can see that?"
"Not see," Kaeth said. "Infer. This amplifies what my senses already touch." She held the disc gently, then placed it lightly against
Brian's tiny sternum.
The concentric circles etched into the metal flickered, faint lights chasing each other around the rings.
Inner circle: soft blue.
Second: green.
Third: red.
Outer: a pale, pulsing white.
Kaeth watched, lips moving silently as she counted.
Then she exhaled. "He has no right," she said.
"What?" Doris demanded.
"He has no right," Kaeth repeated, tone almost offended, "to have a mana pool that deep at four days old. Babies should have a thimble. He has… a small cistern." She tapped one circle that glowed more brightly. "And his life force is equally stubborn."
"Stubborn?" John asked.
Kaeth nodded. "Resilient. Thick. He could burn through more magic than most adults his age—as he grows—and still live. That doesn't mean he'd be unchanged." Her expression sobered. "Every push has a price. But his price will be… deferred."
"Deferred to when?" Doris asked.
"Later," Kaeth said. "When he taps into more exotic channels. When you push his limits. Or when circumstances do."
"Circumstances like cultists trying to talk to primordial fires through him?" Flint said.
Kaeth gave him an exasperated look. "Yes. Those would be circumstances."
Halvar cleared his throat. "Record it," he said. "All of it. With as few embellishments as possible."
Kaeth smirked faintly. "I only embellish when I'm bored."
"And?" he asked.
"I'm not bored," she said.
She lifted the disc away. The lights faded.
"Last test," she said. "For now. No force, I promise."
She picked up the thin sheet of dark glass.
"This is a resonance pane," she said. "It shows pattern, not power. The way a mind and its magic lean. I don't usually use it on
infants; their patterns are still… mushy. But in this case, the Head Rectrix will ask, so we might as well know first."
She held the pane above Brian's head.
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then faint lines began to spiderweb across the glass—tiny, intricate strokes of silver-white light. They branched, intersected, curved, formed loops.
John leaned closer, squinting.
They looked almost like…
"Letters?" he said.
But not in any script he recognized.
Kaeth frowned. "No. Not letters. Structures. Ritual traces. His mind is… pre-disposed to link forms."
"Spell forms," Dorothy murmured.
Halvar's expression tightened. "Pattern-recognition bias," he said. "Like some savants. Only the patterns weren't taught. They're… inherited."
"Is that dangerous?" Doris asked, her voice small now.
"Anything can be dangerous," Kaeth said. "Especially intelligence. Especially in magic. But it also means he'll learn quickly. Or break quickly, if pushed wrong." Her gaze sharpened on Halvar. "Carefully."
"Of course," he said.
Doris looked between them. "You say that," she said quietly, "but I need more than words. How do you actually intend to keep him from breaking?"
Halvar met her gaze. "By controlling his environment," he said. "By introducing knowledge in layers, not floods. By watching his responses. By limiting external strain as much as possible."
"And when the Paragons force external strain?" John asked.
"Then we respond," Halvar said simply.
"With what?" Flint demanded. "Essays?"
Halvar gave him a thin smile. "Fire," he said. "And rules. Both burn, in their own ways."
Kaeth lowered the pane. The lines within it faded slowly, like echoes reluctant to let go.
"That's enough for today," she said. "His system's already humming. More would tip it into something we don't want."
Doris held Brian closer, almost sagging with relief. "Thank you," she said. "For stopping there."
Kaeth inclined her head. "I meant what I said. I study. I mend. I don't sharpen. Others will want to push." Her eyes flicked to Halvar. "You know who I mean."
"I do," he said. "And I'll keep most of them away. For now."
"Most," Doris repeated.
"I can't keep the Emperor's eyes blind, Doriane," Halvar said quietly. "All I can do is narrow their window."
John tensed at the mention. "The Emperor knows already?"
"Not yet," Halvar said. "But soon. The Head Rectrix will send a preliminary report. Mage anomalies of this scale do not stay buried."
Flint rubbed his temples. "So we've moved from 'hunted by cultists' to 'interesting to the most powerful man in the Empire.' Great. Love this for us."
Dorothy sighed. "We were always walking toward that."
Doris closed her eyes briefly. "I hated the Court," she breathed.
John blinked. "You were at court?"
"Shortly," she said. "Too shortly. It smelled like perfume and fear."
Halvar's mouth twitched. "Accurate."
John looked at him. "What else?" he asked. "You didn't drag us here just to wave crystals over his head."
"No," Halvar said. "I dragged you here because you're a problem I would rather have inside my walls than loose in the city. And
because Maevra insists we handle this properly." He straightened. "Orientation."
Flint groaned. "Do we get a pamphlet?"
"You get rules," Halvar said. "Listen."
They did.
"Rule one," he said. "Do not take the child beyond the inner Academy grounds without escort. That includes city streets, outer walls, or clever attempts to sneak him into markets. The wards are tuned to him now; if he crosses certain thresholds, every alarm I have will scream, and you will find yourself under more scrutiny than you enjoy."
"Define 'escort,'" John said.
"Myself," Halvar said. "Dorothy. A designated senior warden. Or, if Maevra ever trusts her enough in this context, the Head Rectrix
herself."
"Not a random professor who wants to show him shiny things," Dorothy added.
"Exactly," Halvar said.
"Rule two," he continued. "Report any unusual phenomena immediately. That includes: spontaneous temperature changes; objects floating; sounds no one else hears; dreams that leave physical marks; or any instance in which he appears to affect the wards without crying."
Flint raised a hand. "You forgot leaking walls."
"You joke," Halvar said, "but yes. If walls leak blood or water or sand that shouldn't be there, report that too."
"Has that… happened before?" John asked carefully.
Halvar's expression went distant. "Once," he said. "We'd like it not to happen again."
"Reassuring," Flint muttered.
"Rule three," Halvar said. "You may move freely within this residential hall and the attached gardens. You may visit the refectory at designated hours. You may attend certain open lectures if you wish." He looked at John. "The more you understand what we do here, the less likely you are to misinterpret every spell as a threat."
"Every spell is a threat," John said.
Halvar smiled faintly. "Good. Keep that healthy paranoia. Just don't stab anyone because they levitated a book near your child."
"I make no promises," John replied.
"Rule four," Halvar said. "You are not to attempt to train him yourselves."
That landed like a stone.
Doris bristled. "He is my son," she said. "My blood. My inheritance. If anyone knows what he is—"
"You know a ghost of what he is," Halvar cut in, sharper now. "You know Voidborn tales and half-finished rituals. You ran from your training, Doriane, because you saw what it did to people who thought blood was enough. Do you want that on him?"
She flinched.
John stepped slightly forward. "Careful," he said softly.
Halvar held his gaze, then sighed. "I don't say this to cut you," he said, voice gentler. "I say it because I have watched too many parents—and mentors—try to shape power in their own image. It breaks more often than it binds. Let us map his limits first. Then you can help us protect them."
Doris's jaw worked.
Finally, she nodded once. "All right," she said. "But if I think you're hurting him for curiosity's sake—"
"You'll threaten me," Halvar said. "I expect nothing less."
Flint raised a hand again. "What about me?"
Halvar looked faintly amused. "You, Flint, are to keep doing what you've been doing," he said. "Watch. Write. Notice. Maevra will likely
want to see your tactical notes on caravan attacks. You'll be given a visitor's band. Don't lose it. The wards bite those who wander where they shouldn't."
"Noted," Flint said. "In very large letters."
Dorothy stepped away from the wall. "And me?"
Halvar's expression softened. "You continue to be yourself," he said. "Annoying, insightful, borderline insubordinate. You have more
experience with this family than any of us. You're part of this now, whether you like it or not."
"I never like it," Dorothy said. "But I do it anyway."
"Good," Halvar said. "That's usually how the important work gets done."
Kaeth began packing up her instruments with precise, economical movements. "He's stable," she said. "For now. No immediate physical concerns beyond the usual newborn fragility. Feed him, keep him warm, let him
sleep. Try not to take him into any more fire-fights this week."
"No promises," Flint said.
John elbowed him lightly.
Kaeth slung her satchel over her shoulder. "I'll check on him again tomorrow," she said. "If anything feels wrong before then—anything—you send for me. Not halflings with herbs. Me."
Doris's voice was very small. "Thank you."
Kaeth gave her a brief nod. Then she slipped out, leaving a faint scent of herbs behind her.
Halvar lingered by the door.
"One more thing," he said.
"Of course there is," Flint sighed.
Halvar ignored him. "The Paragons we captured," he said. "One died on the way to the cells. The other bit through a capsule in her molar before the inquisitors arrived."
Doris closed her eyes. "Burn-poison?"
"Something like," Halvar said. "Very efficient. We recovered only scraps of memory with the tools we're permitted to use on citizens." His
tone suggested he could imagine less permitted tools. "But we did extract a phrase you should know."
John's throat tightened. "What phrase?"
Halvar's gaze moved to Brian.
"They called him," he said quietly, "the breach-born."
Silence fell—a heavy, suffocating thing.
"Breach," Dorothy repeated. "As in… dimensional."
"As in what happens if the seals start to fail," Halvar said. "As in what your ancestors accidentally made when they broke the Aether Core and patched it badly."
Doris's hand shook where it rested on Brian's back.
"They think he's the key," she whispered.
"Yes," Halvar said. "Or the crack. Or the wedge. Cult theology is rarely precise. But they're convinced he changes the equation."
Flint rubbed his face. "And we're in a tower full of mages who also love equations."
Halvar's eyes were tired. "We are not cultists," he said. "We're very likely insufferable, but we are not them. Our goal is to keep the world from tearing itself apart, not help it along so we can dance in the ashes."
"That's what you tell yourselves," Doris said. There was no heat in it—just exhaustion.
"It's what some of us die for," Halvar replied.
He opened the door.
"Rest," he said. "Eat. Learn the shape of this place. You'll need to know where its cracks are."
He left.
The door shut.
The quiet that followed was thick.
Flint let out a long, low breath. "Well," he said.
"Breach-born. That's… cheerful."
Dorothy sank into a chair, rubbing her eyes. "Names have power," she said. "If they spread that one too far, it will stick."
"Then we don't use it," John said flatly. "He's Brian. That's all."
Doris nodded fiercely. "Brian. Not breach. Not key. Not crack."
She shifted him carefully. He sighed, eyelids fluttering as he drifted deeper into sleep, unaware of the labels gathering around him like stormclouds.
John watched his son's face.
Small.
Soft.
Human.
"We hold that line," he said quietly. "No matter what they call him outside these walls."
Dorothy looked at him over steepled fingers. "Lines are hard to hold," she said. "Especially when the ground moves."
"Then we plant our feet deeper," John replied.
Flint snorted. "Definitely getting better at this bastard thing," he said.
John gave him a faint smile.
Outside the suite, the Academy hummed.
Students moved through halls, trading rumors about a Voidborn child. Professors sharpened questions. Administrators drafted reports
for the Emperor.
Deep in the inner tower, Maevra stood before a large, crystalline construct, watching lines of light trace across its surface.
"How awake are we?" she asked the device softly, as if it could answer.
The lights pulsed once.
Far beneath, in places no tower reached, something shifted.
Breach-born, the cultists had named him.
Brian, his parents insisted.
For now, both were true.
Only time—and choices—would decide which name history remembered.