Morning settled over the family suite like a soft
blanket—quiet, muted, a little too calm for people who'd spent the past week running for their lives.
John took the first breath of real rest he'd felt in days.
The second breath came harder.
Something pressed faintly against his ribs, a tingling hum, like the air itself carried a heartbeat he wasn't meant to hear. The sensation was subtle—light as spider thread—but unmistakable.
He touched the stone wall beside him.
Warm.
Not from sun.
From wards.
The Academy lived.
And it was paying attention.
Doris lay on her side on the far bed, Brian curled in the crook of her arm. Sleep softened her features, smoothing days of fear into
temporary peace. John watched her for a moment, silently cataloguing the exhaustion lines around her mouth, the faint tremor in her hand as she brushed a thumb across Brian's cheek.
She'd spent everything she had to get them here.
Now the walls hummed with the power of a place she'd once fled—and John couldn't tell whether that would save her, or break her again.
He rose quietly.
Dorothy sat at the small table, sharpening her old crow-headed staff with a whetstone despite the fact that there was no blade to
sharpen. Sparks flickered across the runes burned along its length.
"You feel it?" she asked without looking up.
"The wards?" John murmured. "Hard to miss."
"It'll take a day before the hum stops feeling like an itch under the skin," she said. "By then you'll stop noticing. Like background noise."
"And Brian?"
Dorothy paused. "He won't adjust. Not fully. The wards recognize him as… something irregular. They're mapping him."
John stiffened. "Like prey?"
"Like a puzzle," she corrected. "Academy wards love puzzles. They don't understand him yet, so they're tasting his resonance. Cataloguing. Matching patterns."
"Does that hurt him?"
"No," Dorothy said. "But it keeps him from settling fully. Doris felt it too—you noticed how lightly she slept."
John grimaced. "How do we stop it?"
"You don't," Dorothy replied. "You let the wards finish learning him. They're not hostile. Just nosy."
Flint stirred in the other bed, groaning dramatically. "Ugh. Morning. Hate it. Who invented morning?"
"Time," Dorothy said.
"Well, I'd like to file a complaint."
John shook his head, but a hint of a smile crept in.
Doris finally woke with a soft gasp, blinking against the dim light.
Brian lifted his head—just slightly—and let out a confused, tiny noise. His little hand opened and closed as if searching for something.
Doris kissed his forehead. "I know, love. I feel it too."
An hour later, the family sat around the small table eating a simple breakfast delivered by a silent warden: crusty bread, fruit mash, and
warm herbal tea. Brian gurgled sleepily against Doris's shoulder.
John chewed slowly, eyes drifting to the suite door. "What happens today?"
Dorothy folded her hands. "Orientation. Rules. A handful of tests Halvar forgot to mention. And probably someone higher-ranked sniffing around to see whether you're demons wearing skin."
"That wasn't funny," Doris said.
"It wasn't a joke," Dorothy replied.
Flint's eyes widened. "They actually—?"
"No," Dorothy sighed. "But they might as well. Unusual magic makes people stupid."
John grunted. "We've seen that already."
Dorothy tapped her staff idly against her foot. "Expect more of it here."
Brian stirred again.
This time, the air changed.
Not dramatically. Not with flame or wind. But enough that the tea in John's cup shivered, rippling once.
Doris froze.
John's gaze snapped downward.
Brian burrowed against his mother's shoulder and released the tiniest hiccup.
The tea rippled harder.
Dorothy's staff hummed.
Flint whispered, "Please tell me he didn't just cast a spell."
"He didn't," Dorothy said. "Not consciously. But his resonance just… leaked." She frowned. "Hiccups are the enemy of stable magic."
The tea stilled.
John exhaled slowly. "He's a danger when he's awake and a danger when he's asleep."
"He's a baby," Doris snapped. "He's just… too much for this place."
Dorothy softened. "He's not dangerous. Not yet. Just loud."
"Loud enough that the walls know his name before he does," Flint muttered.
John rubbed a hand across his face. "All right. We handle one thing at a time. First orientation."
"Then what?" Doris asked quietly.
"Then we learn how to live here without losing our minds."
Dorothy nodded. "Or our child."
Second bell chimed—three low, two sharp, one long.
A knock followed: two gentle taps and one firm.
Halvar.
John opened the door.
The Master Rector stood with a stack of tablets under one arm and an expression that suggested he had already yelled at three people today and was prepared to yell at more.
"Good morning," he said briskly. "Orientation. Walk with me."
They gathered their things—mostly nothing—and followed him out into the corridor.
The Academy's inner halls were a maze of pale stone, floating lights, and quiet, deliberate activity. Every archway bore an inscription. Every floor tile hummed faintly with layered enchantments.
Doris clutched Brian close, her shoulders stiff. Flint walked beside her, trying to appear casual despite scanning every doorway as if
an assassin might burst out.
John stayed at the rear, between them and whatever might come from behind.
Halvar moved with quick, long strides, gesturing at things as they walked.
"Residential wing. Warded gardens. Lecture halls east. Refectory south. Restricted towers north."
"Restricted to who?" Flint asked.
"Everyone," Halvar said. "Including some faculty."
Dorothy chuckled.
"The Academy is compartmentalized for a reason," Halvar continued. "No one person should understand the entire structure. Knowledge is power. Power is dangerous. Therefore, knowledge should be irritatingly
difficult to acquire."
"That sounds like something written on the wall of a very boring tavern," Flint muttered.
"It's written in every ruling document for the last four hundred years," Halvar replied.
They descended a wide stairwell, passing students in blue and grey robes. Some paused to stare at Brian; others whispered behind hands; a few looked with frank curiosity—and more than one with thinly veiled fear.
The attention made Doris's hands clench.
Halvar noticed. "Ignore them," he said. "Students gossip. Professors gossip. Even the statues probably gossip. It's useless to worry who's talking."
"So we should just pretend they aren't staring at our son because he might be a walking disaster?" Flint said.
"Yes," Halvar said simply.
They reached a long hall lined with glass cases. Inside each case stood an artifact—stones carved with spirals, old tablets, ceremonial blades with runes that hurt the eyes to look at.
"This," Halvar said, "is the Hall of Foundations. We bring new students here to remind them that the Academy existed before they did, and will exist after they leave."
Doris frowned. "Cheerful."
"Academia is built on existential dread," Halvar said. "It encourages discipline."
Flint snorted.
Halvar gestured toward a wide doorway at the end of the hall. "Inside is the Orientation Chamber. We will start with—"
Brian whimpered.
Softly.
Barely a sound.
But the wards overhead pulsed.
A ripple of faint blue shimmered across the ceiling.
Students gasped.
Halvar's eyes widened. "Well," he said softly. "That's… unusual."
Doris tightened her hold. "It's an accident."
"I know," Halvar said. "The wards don't."
Dorothy stepped forward, staff glowing faintly. "Calm, little one," she murmured. "Breathe."
Brian stilled.
The wards settled.
Halvar exhaled. "Inside," he said. "Quickly."
The Orientation Chamber was a circular room with tiered seats and a central platform. Sigils spiraled across the floor like a giant celestial map.
Faint light shone from crystal orbs overhead.
It was empty, quiet—meant for lectures, debates, and examinations.
Halvar led them to the center.
"Stand there," he said. "The platform is shielded. Minimal external resonance. It will help."
Doris hesitated, but stepped forward.
They gathered in a small cluster.
Halvar set down his tablets.
"Welcome officially to the Aether Academy," he said. "Whether you view that as blessing, curse, or necessary compromise, we'll
determine soon enough."
Flint raised a hand. "Are there snacks in this orientation?"
"No," Halvar said.
"Then this is a terrible place already."
Halvar ignored him.
He clasped his hands behind his back.
"We will cover three things today. First, what the Academy is. Second, what it requires. Third, what you must never, under any
circumstances, do here."
Doris murmured, "This sounds ominous."
"It's meant to," Halvar said.
He turned to the group as a whole.
"The Academy is the Empire's primary center of magical research and training. It exists to understand and control the forces that govern reality. In the eyes of the Crown, nothing matters more than preventing catastrophic magical events."
John's jaw tightened. "Like the Paragons?"
"Or the Voidborn," Halvar said bluntly.
Doris flinched.
Halvar continued. "The Academy's purpose is to keep the world from tearing itself apart. To do that, we study what might tear it apart."
Flint muttered, "This place is built like a fire brigade that also creates fires."
Halvar arched a brow. "If we wanted fire, we would simply promote more pyromancers."
Dorothy snorted.
Halvar turned to Doris. "Your son's arrival has triggered three low-level alarms and one moderate alarm."
Doris's face blanched. "Moderate?"
"Only because his resonance is wide, not because it's dangerous," Halvar said quickly. "But moderate alarms attract attention. And
attention attracts politics."
John crossed his arms. "You're saying someone will try to use him."
"I'm saying many will try," Halvar said. "That is why I need you to understand the rules before anyone else gets ideas."
He lifted one tablet and tapped it with two fingers. A projection appeared—light lines rising like a holograph.
"Rule one," he said. "Do not let Brian interact with Academy artifacts."
"What counts as artifact?" Flint asked.
Halvar gestured around. "Everything."
Flint groaned.
"Rule two," Halvar continued. "Do not use magic inside the residential wing. Even if you're capable. Especially if you're capable."
Doris shook her head. "I wasn't planning to."
"Good," Halvar said. "You're one of the few Voidborn descendants who understand restraint."
Doris stiffened, but said nothing.
"Rule three," Halvar said. "If he resonates strongly—crying, hiccuping, or sensing something unseen—you must call a warden."
"Why?" John demanded. "So they can poke him with more crystals?"
"So he doesn't accidentally open a door that hasn't been opened in two centuries," Halvar said.
Silence.
Doris's arms tightened around Brian.
Halvar's tone softened. "He's not dangerous, Doriane. But he is loud. And the Academy has many… sensitive places."
"What do you mean?" Doris whispered.
Dorothy answered instead. "Old experiments. Old prisons. Old… mistakes."
Halvar didn't deny it.
"Rule four," he said, "and this is the one that truly matters: trust no invitation you receive from any professor without clearing it
through me or the Head Rectrix."
"Why not?" John asked.
Halvar met his eyes.
"Because the Academy," he said quietly, "is full of brilliant people with terrible judgement."
John grimaced. "Honest."
"Yes," Halvar said. "And necessary."
He tapped the tablet again.
"Now for what you must never do."
Flint's eyes widened. "How many things?"
"Five," Halvar said.
Dorothy muttered, "I thought there were only three."
"They added two last year," Halvar said.
"Because of that incident?" Dorothy asked.
"Yes."
"What incident?" Doris asked, alarmed.
Flint immediately said, "Please don't tell us."
Halvar ignored the question.
"Number one," he said. "Never go into a tower that isn't labeled."
"Why would a tower have no label?" Doris asked.
"Because it doesn't want one," Halvar replied.
Flint blinked. "The tower decides?"
"Number two," Halvar continued. "Never step into a room where you hear whispering but see no one."
"Is this a magical whispering or a ghost whispering?" Flint asked.
"Yes," Halvar said.
John muttered under his breath, "Perfect."
"Number three," Halvar said, "never break a line of chalk drawn around an object."
"Why not?" Doris asked.
"Because we don't draw chalk unless something inside wants to leave," Halvar said.
Silence.
Flint whispered, "I want to go home."
Halvar tapped his last tablet.
"Number four," he said. "Never, under any circumstances, let Brian near the Central Spire."
Doris's breath hitched. "Why the Spire?"
Halvar hesitated.
"It listens," he said softly.
Dorothy swore under her breath. "Still?"
"Yes," Halvar said. "More so lately."
"And number five," Halvar said. "Never use the word 'breach' inside Academy walls."
Doris froze.
John stiffened.
Flint whispered, "Why?"
Halvar's eyes darkened.
"Because that word," he said, "wakes things."
The room fell silent.
The wards hummed softly above them.
Brian whimpered.
Doris rocked him gently.
John swallowed hard.
Halvar closed the tablet. "Orientation complete," he said. "Now follow me. There are three more people who must meet him before the day ends."
Doris stared at him. "Why?"
"Because the world," Halvar said, "is shifting. And your son—whether you like it or not—is standing in the center of that shift."
John set his hand on Doris's back.
"We're not leaving him alone with anyone," he said firmly.
Halvar nodded. "No one expects you to."
They gathered their things.
Halvar led them toward the next chamber.
And as they walked, the wards whispered faintly overhead—soft as breathing, sharp as prophecy, aware of the tiny life now moving beneath them.
Brian Aetheris.
Breach-born, some might call him.
But here, in these walls, he was still only a child.
A child carrying the weight of a world that had begun, just barely, to stir.