They left the Orientation Chamber with more rules than comfort.
The corridors felt narrower now, as if the stone itself had leaned in to listen.
Halvar walked ahead, hands folded behind his back, his robe whispering softly against the floor. Dorothy kept pace at his shoulder, staff
tapping in a slow, deliberate rhythm. John and Doris followed close behind, Brian cradled against Doris's chest. Flint trailed them, eyes everywhere, like he expected someone to leap from a statue and start a philosophical duel.
"Three people?" Flint asked, breaking the silence. "You said there are three more who need to see him. Why three? Why not… two? Or zero?"
"Because I don't control the world," Halvar replied. "Merely a few of its more irritating rooms."
"That sounded like 'because bureaucracy,'" Flint said.
Halvar did not deny it.
Doris shifted Brian slightly. The baby had fallen asleep again, but his brow twitched now and then, tiny muscles responding to
background hums no one else felt so acutely.
"Who are they?" she asked quietly. "These three people."
Halvar's pace slowed a fraction. "One, you've already met," he said. "Head Rectrix Maevra. She'll want a more private look, without half
the plaza staring. The second is the Church Liaison—Arch-Deacon Serais. The third represents Imperial Security."
Flint groaned. "So: the tower, the temple, and the Crown."
"Precisely," Halvar said. "The three teeth of the Empire."
"And Brian's supposed to what, sit there and… drool at them?" Flint said.
"That would be ideal," Halvar replied. "Silence and drool are underrated survival tools."
John's jaw tightened. "What do they actually want?"
"Reassurance," Halvar said. "Or leverage. Or both. It depends which one you're asking and how honest they're feeling."
Doris's grip on Brian tightened. "I don't want them touching him."
Halvar glanced back. "Maevra won't. The Arch-Deacon might ask. Imperial Security won't care about touch; they'll care about patterns." His eyes softened a fraction. "You can refuse contact. You cannot refuse being
seen."
Doris looked like she wanted to argue with reality itself.
She settled for a stiff nod.
They climbed a wide, side stair that curled around a cylindrical shaft open to the sky. Light poured down from a distant circular
aperture, catching dust motes and ward-lines that spiraled faintly along the inner stone.
Brian stirred.
Doris murmured to him, reassuring nonsense.
John watched the shaft overhead. "What's up there?" he asked.
"Observation dome," Dorothy answered before Halvar could. "Older students use it for star-mapping. Diviners like to pretend fate is
written in dots of light."
Flint eyed the ward-lines. "Is it?"
Dorothy shrugged. "Fate's written in the stupid things people do after ignoring good advice."
"Speaking from experience?" he asked.
"Always," she said.
They stepped off the stair into a broad corridor with tall windows overlooking a central courtyard. Below, students clustered in small
groups under trees, robes of different cuts and colors marking disciplines and seniority. Wards shimmered faintly above the open space like an invisible dome.
Halvar led them past a pair of doors bearing the sigil of three concentric circles.
"Council quarters," Dorothy murmured. "Avoid those unless dragged."
Doris glanced sideways. "You were dragged?"
"Once," Dorothy said. "I was loud."
John tried not to imagine what being loud in front of people like Maevra looked like.
They stopped at a smaller door farther along—dark wood, inlaid with fine silver lines forming a spiral pattern. No plaque. No label.
John stiffened. "Halvar. You said never step into unlabeled towers or rooms."
"This one is labeled," Halvar said. "Just not in letters you read."
"Great," Flint muttered. "Secret exceptions to our terrifying rules. Love that."
Halvar rested his palm on the door.
The silver lines flared once, then faded. The latch clicked.
"This is Maevra's private study," he said. "Not technically unlabeled. Just… selective."
He glanced back at Doris. "You can say no. She'll see you eventually anyway, in a more official space. But here, you'll at least avoid an
audience of twenty senior mages taking notes."
Doris exhaled slowly. "Let's get it over with."
Halvar opened the door.
Maevra's study felt less like an office and more like the inside of a carefully controlled storm.
Papers covered surfaces in stacks and spirals. Bookcases lined the walls, groaning under the weight of leather-bound tomes and glass vessels. A huge circular window overlooked the city, its panes etched with
ward-diagrams that refracted the light into broken patterns.
In the center, a large desk stood beneath hanging globes of suspended water and light that slowly rotated around one another.
Maevra sat behind the desk, quill in hand, writing on a slate that re-wrote itself as she worked. Lines of faint script appeared,
vanished, reordered. She tapped once. Everything froze.
"Enter," she said, without looking up.
Halvar cleared his throat. "Already have."
"I know," she replied. She finished the last sentence, tapped again, and the words slid into lines and disappeared into the slate's
surface.
She looked up.
Her gaze went first to Brian.
She did not bother with pleasantries.
"How long was his last crying episode?" she asked.
Doris blinked. "I—last night? Maybe… a minute? Less."
"How often?" Maevra asked.
"Every few hours," Doris said, bristling. "He's a baby."
"I am aware of that," Maevra said. "I'm measuring disruption, not parenting." She stood, the violet of her robe catching the
light. "May I feel the room?"
Doris frowned. "What does that mean?"
Maevra stepped out from behind the desk, hands open at her sides. She didn't reach for the baby. Instead, she closed her eyes and took a slow breath.
Wards shifted.
John felt it—a subtle tightening in his skin, as if the air had become a net of very soft threads. Maevra's presence folded into the room's magic; she didn't push, exactly, but she leaned in, awareness extending beyond the physical walls.
Brian twitched.
His tiny fingers curled tighter into Doris's robe.
A faint tremor passed through the hanging globes. One droplet of water detached, drifted sideways, then rejoined its orbit.
Maevra exhaled.
Her eyes opened.
"Wide," she said. "Halvar was correct."
"As always," Halvar said dryly.
Maevra ignored him.
She approached Doris slowly, as one might approach a wild animal. Not out of fear, but respect.
"I won't touch him," she said. "But I need to speak near him."
"Why?" Doris asked.
"Because resonance responds to voice," Maevra said. "I want to see if he reacts to intent."
John's hand brushed the hilt of his sword without thinking. "If he cries—"
"Then my study will wobble, and we'll all be fine," Maevra said. "I don't provoke children for entertainment, John."
"That makes you unique in this building," Dorothy muttered.
Maevra almost smiled.
She focused on Brian.
Her voice became softer, but lost none of its clarity.
"Brian Aetheris," she said. "You are safe."
The words were simple.
But something in them landed with the weight of a pact.
The air eased around John, just a fraction.
Doris's shoulders lowered a hair.
Brian's eyelids fluttered, then settled. No cry. No ripple in the wards.
Maevra watched, measuring.
"Good," she murmured. "He doesn't flare at authority alone. Some Voidborn infants bristle at command tones even without understanding words. He doesn't. That helps."
"Helps with what?" Doris asked.
"With training," Maevra said. "With future negotiations. With not accidentally turning a conversation into a ritual. Words matter, and
how he hears them will matter more."
John frowned. "Negotiate with who?"
Maevra's eyes met his. "With everyone," she said. "The Academy. The Emperor. The Paragons. The world. People will want things from him. How he hears those demands will decide whether he bends, breaks, or burns
them."
Flint winced. "Love that we're talking about politics in front of someone who still can't focus on his own hands."
"That's exactly when it starts," Maevra said. "Not the politics. The shaping." She studied Doris. "You hold him like a shield."
Doris's jaw tightened. "He's my son."
"And you will throw yourself in front of anyone who reaches for him," Maevra said. "Good. Hold on to that. But know this: the tighter you
grip, the more certain some will be that he needs prying loose. That you don't trust them because you know what he can be."
She moved back behind the desk.
"I will not mince this," she said. "The Emperor will want to see him one day. Not today. Not tomorrow. But one day. The more we can say, 'He is stable. He is learning. He is not a weapon waiting to misfire,' the less likely the Emperor is to make disastrous demands."
Doris swallowed. "You're asking us to trust you to make that case."
"I'm telling you I will make it whether you trust me or not," Maevra said. "The question is whether you will work with me to build evidence."
"Evidence of what?" John asked.
"That your son is capable of choosing his own path," Maevra replied. "That he is not a breath away from becoming a cult's perfect door."
Silence stretched.
Doris rocked Brian absently, her eyes bright.
"What do you want from us?" she asked at last.
"For now?" Maevra said. "Honesty. Reports. Restraint. When he starts to tug at water or heat or space, you tell us. You do not hide it in
the hope of sparing him attention."
"And later?" John asked.
Maevra's gaze sharpened. "Later, I will ask something heavier," she said. "But that's a bridge we will burn when we reach it."
Flint coughed. "You mean cross."
Maevra gave him a thin smile. "No. I meant what I said."
Dorothy cleared her throat. "Is this the part where you drop cryptic threats and send us on to the next terrifying person?"
"Yes," Maevra said. "More or less." She sat again. "Halvar will take you to the Church Liaison next. Do not let him put hands or relics
directly on the child. He will ask. Decline politely."
"Politely?" Flint said. "What if we prefer angry yelling?"
"Then you'll lose ground," Maevra said. "Serais feeds on conflict. Don't feed him."
John nodded slowly. "Understood."
Maevra's eyes met Brian's one last time. For the briefest heartbeat, something like regret flickered there.
Then she turned back to her work.
"You may go," she said. "Try not to cause structural damage before midday."
The Church Liaison's office smelled like old incense and paper.
John had never spent much time with priests. Frontier chapels were small, practical places—half shrine, half supply depot—where faith
meant surviving the winter and not angering whatever lived in the woods.
This room was different.
It was lined with shelves of bound scripture and theological commentary. A simple wooden altar stood against one wall, bearing a shallow bowl of still water and a silver symbol combining a sun, a tower, and a
stylized flame.
Arch-Deacon Serais stood before the altar, his back to the door, robe of white and gold edged with red bands. His hair was silver at the
temples, his beard neatly trimmed. When Halvar coughed, he turned.
His eyes were dark and warm and far too sharp.
"Rector Halvar," he said. "You brought them quickly."
"I prefer to get unpleasant necessities done early," Halvar replied.
Serais's gaze moved over the group and landed on Brian. "Is this the child?"
Doris's arms tightened. "He has a name," she said.
Serais inclined his head. "Then I would hear it."
"Brian," John said. "Just Brian."
Serais's lips curved in a small smile. "A good, solid name. No crowns in it. No storms. I approve."
He stepped closer, hands visible and empty.
"I will not touch him without your permission," he said. "Nor will I attempt any binding rituals. I am here to observe, not to claim."
Flint whispered, "The fact that he had to say that out loud is terrifying."
Serais's mouth twitched. "The fact that I meant it should reassure you somewhat."
"It reassures me that you know what we're worried about," John said.
Serais nodded. "You should be. Cults claim. Empires command. Churches… negotiate."
Dorothy snorted. "Sometimes with knives."
"Only rarely," Serais said mildly. "And only when negotiating with people who bring knives first." He turned his attention back
to Brian. "May I speak?"
Doris hesitated, then nodded once. "Words only."
"That is all I require," Serais said.
He sat on a low stool near them, bringing his eyes level with the baby's face.
"Brian," he said softly. "You don't know me. You won't remember this. That's all right. I just need you to hear something."
His tone changed—not louder, not commanding, just… different. It carried the cadence of someone used to speaking in echoing halls, but now contained, wrapped in quiet.
"You are not a prophecy," Serais said. "You are not a punishment. You are not a reward. You are a child."
Doris stared at him, eyes suddenly sheen-bright.
John swallowed hard.
Serais continued. "The faiths will call you many things, if they learn what you are. A sign. A test. A warning. Some will want to crown you. Some will want to burn you. Some will want to lock you in a room and pray until you change shape."
He smiled faintly.
"They are all wrong."
Brian blinked slowly, gaze unfocused.
Serais nodded as if he'd answered.
"Our path," he said, "is to hold the line between fear and worship. To insist that the world is not made of monsters and messiahs, but of people."
He looked up at John and Doris.
"The Church will not claim him," he said. "Not while I hold this office."
Doris's breath shuddered. "And when you no longer do?"
Serais's smile turned wry. "Then I hope I've written enough rules that whoever follows me will find it annoyingly difficult to try."
Halvar made a small noise that could have been agreement.
John frowned. "If you're not here to claim or bind, what do you actually intend?"
Serais tilted his head.
"To watch," he said simply. "To listen. To ensure the Academy doesn't forget that this child has a soul while it studies his power."
Dorothy studied him. "You don't seem panicked. Most priests hearing 'Voidborn' and feeling ward tremors would be foaming by now."
"Oh, I'm very concerned," Serais said lightly. "I'm just… old. Panic and I parted ways a long time ago."
Flint scratched his cheek. "Do you believe he's… from your god?"
Serais smiled. "I believe the world is full of echoes," he said. "Some louder than others. My concern is not where he came from. It's what people will do to him because of what they believe about that."
"And what do you believe?" Doris asked.
Serais looked back at Brian.
"I believe he will suffer," he said softly. "And I believe some of that suffering will be because of choices we make—or fail to make—around him. I would prefer to minimize that portion, at least."
There was a quiet sincerity in his voice that John found himself wanting to trust despite every survival instinct screaming don't.
Serais straightened.
"There is one thing I must ask," he said. "A promise."
John's hand tightened on Doris's shoulder. "Promises are heavy here."
"Yes," Serais said. "Which is why I choose my request carefully." He folded his hands. "If, in the years to come, he wishes to speak to me—without Academy eyes, without Imperial ears—you will allow it."
Doris's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"Because he will need spaces that are not this tower and not the Court," Serais said. "Places where his words are not weighed as weapons or treated as omens. I would like to offer him that, when he's old enough to know what he wants."
"He might not trust you," John said.
Serais nodded. "Then he will not come. And that will be that."
Doris studied him for a long moment.
"We don't promise him to you," she said. "We promise not to bar doors he wants open."
"A very Voidborn way to phrase it," Serais murmured. "Yes. That will do."
He rose.
"Thank you for indulging an old man's need to talk to the future," he said.
"We didn't exactly have a choice," Flint muttered.
"You had more than you think," Serais said. "You chose not to run. That's… something."
Halvar cleared his throat. "We're due with Imperial Security."
Serais's expression cooled slightly. "Don't let them measure him like a troop count," he said. "They'll try."
"We know," Halvar sighed.
Serais stepped back toward his altar.
"And Rector?" he added.
"Yes?" Halvar said.
"Do not underestimate how often the word you forbade—" he glanced meaningfully at the ceiling "—crosses their minds," Serais said. "They like cracks. They like leverage."
"We're aware," Halvar said. "We are attempting to keep this one from becoming either."
Serais nodded.
"Then we are, for now, on the same side."
The Imperial Security representative did not have a shrine.
He had a map.
The office near the inner wall was spare and angular, its walls lined with shelves holding scrolls and small carved models of forts and
cities. A large map of the Empire sprawled across one entire wall, covered in pins and strings, some of them faintly glowing.
The man standing before it wore simple dark clothing with only a small badge at his chest to mark his authority: three overlapping shields.
He turned as they entered.
He was younger than John expected—maybe a decade older than John himself. Dark hair pulled back, sharp features, eyes that missed nothing.
"Rector Halvar," he said. "Head Rectrix Maevra's message reached us an hour ago. Efficient."
"I dislike surprises," Halvar said. "Especially when they involve cults and possible world-ending anomalies."
The man smiled thinly. "Then we share a temperament. Officer Ren Kaltan. Imperial Security, Special Threats branch."
Flint whispered, "Special Threats. That's not ominous at all."
Ren's gaze snapped to him. "And you are?"
"Flint," he said. "Not a threat. Just annoying."
"True," Dorothy murmured.
Ren's attention shifted to Brian.
The flicker of curiosity there was clinical. Not cruel. Not warm. Measuring.
"So," Ren said. "This is the child that made your perimeter wards panic."
"'Panic' is an exaggeration," Halvar said.
"Is it?" Ren replied. "From where I stand, we have cults screaming about a 'new breach' and a baby who makes reality twitch. Forgive me for taking an interest."
Doris's eyes flashed. "You don't get to call him that."
Ren blinked. "Call him what?"
"That word," John said calmly. "The one we were told not to speak."
Ren's brows rose. "They taught you that rule already?"
"Yes," Dorothy said. "We listened."
"Good," Ren said. "Then I won't say it. Officially."
He stepped closer, hands behind his back.
"I'm not a mage," he said. "Not in any useful sense. I can feel a ward if it slaps me in the face, and I can tell when a room has seen
violence. That's about it. My job is simpler than Halvar's."
"Simple sounds nice," Flint said.
Ren's gaze was steady. "I decide whether something is a threat to the Empire," he said. "Then I decide what to do about it."
Doris hugged Brian tighter. "He's four days old."
Ren nodded. "That makes my job interesting."
John's jaw clenched. "Get to your point."
Ren gave him a faint, respectful nod. "You were soldiers once," he said. "You understand classification. Assets. Risks. The Empire
cannot ignore anomalies of this scale. The Paragons certainly won't. If we pretend he doesn't exist, we lose initiative."
"We're not pretending," John said. "We're breathing. There's a difference."
"I'm not here to drag him to a laboratory," Ren said. "I'm here to make a record. To establish that Imperial Security is aware of his existence and of the measures being taken by the Academy to contain and develop his abilities."
"Contain," Doris repeated, bitterness in the word.
Ren held her gaze. "It's an ugly word, I know," he said. "But consider the alternative: rumors feeding upward into the Court without a
coherent report to counter them. Panic. Overreaction. Orders from people who
have never stood near an active ward in their life."
"You're telling us you're the reasonable one," Flint said skeptically.
Ren's mouth twitched. "In this arena? Often, yes."
Halvar rubbed his brow. "Ren is annoying, but he has prevented worse decisions than most would believe."
Ren inclned his head at the compliment.
"Our interests align for now," he said. "I don't want a child turned into a symbol any more than you do. Symbols are unpredictable.
Tools are controllable, but they break. People… can be persuaded."
"You keep using words that make me want to hit you," John said.
Ren met his gaze calmly. "You may. If it helps. But afterwards, I'll still file my report, and your son will still exist."
Doris shifted her weight. "What exactly goes into this report?"
Ren lifted a small slate. "His existence. His apparent Voidborn heritage. The fact that he triggered ward fluctuations on arrival. The
fact that the Academy has taken him under protective custody with parental presence. That the Church Liaison has met him and declined to claim him as an asset. That the Head Rectrix considers him high potential but manageable."
Flint snorted. "Manageable."
"Everything is manageable," Ren said. "Until it isn't. My recommendation will be that the Emperor allow the Academy to proceed with
controlled study and training under standing oversight from my branch."
"And if the Emperor says no?" Doris asked.
Ren's gaze cooled. "Then the conversation moves out of this tower," he said. "And becomes much less pleasant for all of us."
Silence stretched.
Finally, John exhaled slowly. "What do you want from us, right now?"
Ren considered.
"Honesty," he said. "If this place fails to protect you, I need to know. If the Academy tries to push him beyond what you believe is safe, I need to know. If the Paragons make contact again—directly or indirectly—I
definitely need to know."
"Why?" Flint asked. "So you can swoop in with crossbows and policy?"
"Yes," Ren said simply. "Exactly that."
Dorothy studied him. "What's your private opinion?" she asked. "About him."
Ren looked at Brian.
"I've seen what happens when power appears in the wrong place," he said. "Villages burned because someone panicked. Provinces
destabilized because someone wanted a weapon they didn't understand. Cults
forming around children who glowed in the dark."
He paused.
"This is not the wrong place," he said. "This is the least bad place. Walls. Wards. People who know what happens when magic misbehaves."
"And if the walls crack?" John asked.
Ren's eyes were very steady.
"Then," he said quietly, "every soldier, mage, and priest in this city will bleed to keep the rest of the Empire from following."
Flint swallowed. "That's the most comforting horrifying thing I've ever heard."
Ren tucked the slate away.
"For now, I file a report that says: situation contained, monitoring ongoing," he said. "That buys us time."
"How much time?" Doris asked.
Ren glanced at Halvar. "Depends how loud he gets," he said. "And how quickly the Paragons move."
Halvar sighed. "Too true."
Ren stepped back.
"I'm not your enemy," he said. "Not today. I might become your problem later. If I do, it will only be because the alternatives are worse."
"That's not as reassuring as you think," John said.
Ren nodded. "It wasn't meant to be. It was meant to be honest."
He gestured toward the door. "That's all I needed. You can go. Try not to give me anything new to write about this week."
They left the office.
The door closed quietly behind them.
For a moment, none of them spoke.
Then Flint let out a low whistle.
"So," he said. "We've now met the tower, the temple, and the throne's sharp stick. All of them say some variation of 'we don't want to hurt him, but we will if we have to.'"
Doris's face was pale, anger and fear warring in her eyes.
John slipped his arm around her shoulders.
"We knew this wouldn't be simple," he said.
"I didn't think it would be this crowded," she
whispered.
Dorothy rested both hands on her staff.
"Good news," she said.
Doris turned to her. "What possible good news did you hear in any of that?"
"We're not alone in the fight anymore," Dorothy said. "Scary as they are, all three of them have something to lose if the Paragons get what they want. They'll act. We can use that."
"And the bad news?" Flint asked.
Dorothy smiled faintly.
"We're standing," she said, "right in the middle of all their plans."
Brian stirred, letting out a small, fretful noise.
The wards above them hummed in response, a quiet, constant pressure.
Inside the walls of Aetherion, three powers had now laid eyes on the child.
None of them fully understood him.
All of them, in their own ways, had begun to plan around him.
And the world around Brian—tower, temple, and throne—pulled its knots one notch tighter