The first thing John learned about living inside the Academy was that time moved differently here.
Days didn't feel like days. They felt like intervals between bells, between ward pulses, between people in robes knocking on the door with questions dressed as kindness.
By late afternoon, the suite walls had begun to feel close.
Brian had finally settled into a deep, slack-mouthed sleep, cheeks flushed, his tiny hand pressed against Doris's collarbone like he was making sure she stayed.
Dorothy watched him with a healer's eye and an aunt's worry. "He's taking in a lot," she said quietly. "But he's adjusting faster than I
expected."
"Faster is good?" Flint asked from the table, where he'd spread a borrowed map of the Academy grounds and was doodling little skulls on certain towers.
"Faster means he's not buckling under the wards," Dorothy said. "It also means he'll start responding to them sooner. Curiosity and
sensitivity usually arrive together."
"So he'll start poking reality before he can sit up," Flint muttered. "Excellent."
Doris stroked Brian's hair. "He needs air," she murmured.
John glanced at her. "We're inside a tower full of it."
"Not this," she said. "Real air. Sky, even if it's filtered through wards. If he's going to adapt to this place, it shouldn't only be stone and corridors."
"Halvar did say the attached gardens are safe," Dorothy admitted. "Warded, but gently. Meant for rest, not experiments."
Flint perked up. "A garden? With plants? That don't whisper? I volunteer."
John hesitated. "You think it's wise to take him out already?"
"No," Dorothy said. "But keeping him in this room forever isn't wise either. The wards will feel like a cage. Gardens are… softer."
Doris met John's gaze. "We go together," she said. "We don't leave the path. We come back if anything feels wrong."
He weighed that, then nodded. "All right. Let's try it."
The garden lay three floors up and one wing over, accessible only from the residential corridor—another layer of protection. The approach was calmer than their earlier trips: no Deep Weave echo, no unlabeled doors.
Just plain stone, lanterns, and a single arched doorway where the air smelled faintly of soil instead of dust.
A warden stood by the arch, spear butt resting on the floor, eyes alert but not hostile. She wore the Academy badge over simple chain, her hair braided to keep it away from spell flicker.
"Family garden?" she asked as they approached.
"Yes," Dorothy said. "Varlen escorting the Aetheris family under Halvar's mandate."
The warden's gaze flicked to Brian, wrapped securely against Doris's chest. A flicker of recognition showed—rumors were clearly moving faster than anyone liked.
"You know the rules?" the warden asked.
"No spells. No experiments. No ritual chalk," Dorothy said.
"No attempts to climb the outer wall," Flint added helpfully.
The warden actually smiled at that. "Good enough. If anything feels… wrong, shout. The wards here listen, but I'd rather not test their reflexes."
Doris's arms tightened slightly around Brian. "We'll be careful."
The warden stepped aside. "Enjoy the quiet while it lasts."
They passed under the arch.
The world changed.
John had expected a small courtyard, maybe a few potted trees. Instead, they stepped into a long, sloping terrace garden that wrapped
around part of the tower complex like a hanging cloak of green.
Stone paths wound between beds of herbs, flowering shrubs, and small fruit trees trained along latticework. Benches nestled in shaded
alcoves. Wards shimmered high overhead—a faint, translucent dome barely visible unless you looked directly at it, catching light in soft patterns.
The air was cooler here, but alive. Bees hummed. Leaves rustled. Somewhere, water trickled over stone.
Brian's fingers flexed against Doris's robe.
He made a sound that wasn't quite a cry, not quite a laugh—more a startled, breathy noise that made Doris's chest hitch.
"He feels it," she whispered.
"Of course he does," Dorothy said. "Plants hum differently than stone. Less rigid. More… forgiving."
Flint took a long, exaggerated sniff. "No burning wards. No chanting. No haunted metal lumps. I might actually like this place."
John let the tension bleed from his shoulders, just a little.
It wasn't the open sky of the plains, but it was the closest thing he'd seen inside the capital. Above the ward dome, the real sky showed—small, distant, pale blue between towers. But it was there.
"What is this?" he asked quietly.
"Recovery garden," Dorothy said. "Originally planted for students who burned out during training. Later expanded for faculty with frayed
minds. Eventually someone remembered that families exist too."
"So this is where they put the broken ones," Flint said.
"Or the ones they want to keep from breaking," Dorothy replied.
Doris walked slowly down the main path, one hand supporting Brian, the other brushing lightly against leaves as she passed. Each touch sent a faint shimmer through the plant, like it exhaled.
John noticed. "You're doing that on purpose?"
"No," she said. "They're reacting on their own. Old habit. Voidborn training included attunement gardens. Plants anchored us when the world bent too much."
Flint frowned. "Why plants?"
"Because they're stubborn," Dorothy said. "They grow where they can. They adapt. They don't argue. They either live or they don't. Mages complicate everything; roots don't."
John filed that away.
They found an empty bench beneath a small tree whose leaves were narrow and silver-green, shimmering faintly along the edges.
Doris sat with a soft sigh, adjusting Brian so he lay across her lap. His eyes blinked open—dark, unfocused, but wide.
He stared at the leaves.
The leaves, very softly, seemed to shimmer brighter.
"You see that too, right?" Flint whispered.
"See what?" John asked.
"Exactly what you see," Dorothy said. "Don't panic. The tree's attuning. That variety was bred to respond to gentle Aether activity. It
glows when someone with an open channel sits under it."
"And if someone with a wild channel sits under it?" Flint asked.
"It glows more," Dorothy said simply.
The silver-green leaves fluttered—no wind, no visible touch. Just a quiet quiver that matched Brian's slow, exploratory blinking.
Doris smiled despite herself. "He likes it."
"He likes that it isn't stone humming at him," Dorothy said. "This is… quieter. Friendlier."
John sat beside them, close enough that his knee brushed Doris's. Flint perched at the far end of the bench, ostensibly to keep watch, though his gaze kept drifting back to the peacefully weird tree.
For a few minutes, nobody spoke.
The world shrank to the sound of water, the whisper of leaves, Brian's soft breath.
John felt something in his chest loosen.
He'd lived his life in motion—on roads, in camps, on walls facing screaming things in the dark. Stillness had always felt like a trap.
Here, stillness felt fragile. Temporary. But real.
"This isn't so bad," Flint said quietly. "For a tower full of people who like poking reality."
Doris's fingers traced small circles on Brian's back. "If this was all it was," she said, "I could almost forget."
"Forget what?" John asked.
Her eyes were on the leaves, but her mind had gone somewhere else.
"That I swore I'd never come back," she said. "That I ran from these walls once. That I made a life for us so far away the Academy would
be a story, not a threat."
"You did," John said. "You gave him a different beginning."
Doris swallowed. "And now he's here anyway."
"Because nowhere else was strong enough," John said. "You weren't wrong to leave. You're not wrong to be back. Both can be true."
"Love it when the ex-soldier sounds like a sage," Flint muttered.
Dorothy's mouth quirked. "He's learning."
Doris glanced at John. "Do you… regret it?"
"Regret what?" he asked.
"Binding yourself to us," she said. "To me. To him. You could've stayed just a caravan sword. No Paragons hunting you. No wards
watching your every move."
John thought of long, empty roads. Of nights where the only thing between a caravan and death was his blade. Of walking away from camps at dawn because leaving was easier than belonging.
"No," he said.
She searched his face. "You're sure."
He nodded. "If I weren't here, you'd still be hunted. He'd still be what he is. You'd just… be alone while it happened. I've seen men die
alone. I've seen families fall apart because someone chose the road over the fire. I made that choice once. Not again."
Something in Doris's eyes gentled.
She leaned her shoulder against his. "I'm glad you're stubborn," she murmured.
"Comes with the sword," he said.
Brian's gaze drifted from the leaves to their faces.
For the first time, John felt the baby's eyes actually focus on him.
He froze.
It was only for a heartbeat.
But in that moment, something passed between them—raw, simple, terrifyingly pure.
Recognition.
Not of who John was.
But that he was there. Solid. Present. A shape in a world of overwhelming sensation.
Brian's tiny mouth opened.
A soft sound escaped—neither cry nor coo. Just… a note.
The leaves above them shivered once more, as if acknowledging the new thread in the weave.
"Did he just… see you?" Flint whispered.
John's throat tightened. "Feels like it."
Doris smiled, soft and fierce. "Of course he did. You're hard to miss."
Dorothy watched, something unreadable in her gaze.
"You understand this makes everything harder," she said quietly.
John looked at her. "Why?"
"Because you aren't just protecting a child," she said. "You're binding yourself to his path. Every choice the Academy makes about him,
they'll have to make with you in the room. Every time they weigh risk against reward, they'll look at you and see a father who won't step aside."
"Good," John said.
Dorothy nodded slowly. "Good. But remember: they will also see you as a lever."
Flint frowned. "Meaning what?"
"Meaning," Dorothy said, "if they can't convince Brian to do something, they may try convincing you. Or Doris. Or me. Or anyone he trusts."
John's jaw hardened. "Then we don't split."
Doris's hand found his. "Never."
For a span of heartbeats, the garden held only quiet.
Then a shadow fell across the path.
"Apologies."
The voice was soft, carrying a trace of an accent John didn't recognize.
He looked up.
A boy stood at the edge of the path.
He might have been ten or twelve—hard to tell in these clothes. Taller than most children John had seen that age, lanky, with dark
hair pulled back in a rough tie. His robe was the simple grey-blue of a novice, cinched with a plain cord. A slim book was tucked under one arm.
His eyes were what struck John.
Too old.
Too tired.
Too curious.
He stood straight, but not stiffly, as if he'd learned formal posture and then decided to wear it loosely.
"I didn't mean to intrude," the boy said. "The garden is usually empty at this hour."
Dorothy's gaze sharpened. "You're not lost?"
"No, ma'am," he said. "I have lecture in an hour. I come here to…" He trailed off, searching for a word. "…breathe."
Flint relaxed a fraction. "You and us both."
The boy's gaze flicked to Brian.
He stilled.
The air tensed.
Not the wards.
The boy.
"What's his name?" he asked quietly.
Doris's fingers tightened. "Why?"
The boy flushed slightly. "I apologize. That was rude. I just…" He hesitated. "The wards feel… different since yesterday. Thicker. My
head hurt half the night. I thought perhaps something changed. He feels like… change."
John's instincts pricked. "You can feel wards?"
The boy nodded. "I grew up in the lower spires," he said. "My mother cleans crystal arrays. My father works in the scriptorium. I've been walking through wards since I could toddle. They buzz. This one—" he nodded
toward Brian "—does more than buzz."
Dorothy studied him. "Name."
"Kael," he said. "Kael Meron. Second-year novice."
Flint's brows climbed. "You're a student?"
Kael's mouth quirked. "Trying to be."
Doris's eyes narrowed slightly. "Has someone sent you?"
"No," Kael said quickly. "I know better than to wander into things above my rank. But I also know when something loud walks into the weave. Everyone's whispering. Head Rectrix summons. Church involvement. Security
notes. My mentor says to ignore rumors." He shrugged. "I don't trust people who say that while eavesdropping."
Dorothy huffed a quiet laugh. "You'll do well here."
Kael's gaze returned to Brian.
He didn't move closer.
He didn't reach.
He just watched.
"What do you feel?" Doris asked cautiously.
Kael tilted his head, considering. "There's… heat," he said slowly. "And wind. And pressure. And something like when you stand on the edge of the drop between spires and look down and your stomach thinks about jumping even though your feet don't move."
Flint grimaced. "You're very good at making me uncomfortable, kid."
Kael winced. "Sorry."
"It's not an insult," Flint added. "It's an observation."
John leaned forward slightly. "Can you see his aura?" he asked. "Or is it just feeling?"
Kael shook his head. "I'm not trained for sight yet. Only sense. But he… hums differently than anyone I've ever stood near. The wardlines bend around him instead of through him."
Doris glanced at Dorothy. "Is that—"
"Expected," Dorothy said quietly. "Voidborn did that too, in the old days. Wards disliked you. They had to be re-written to accommodate."
Kael blinked. "You're Voidborn?"
Doris's mouth thinned. "I was."
He studied her. "You still are."
"That's not a compliment," she said.
"It wasn't meant as one," he replied. "It's… a truth."
John watched him more closely.
This boy didn't flinch when he heard the word.
Didn't spit.
Didn't cross himself.
He just filed it away like another data point.
"Why are you telling us this?" John asked. "Most people seem to prefer pretending they don't notice."
Kael smiled faintly. "People only pretend not to notice when they're afraid of being caught looking. I'm no one. If they scold me for
curiosity, they'll forget by morning."
"That's not comforting," Flint said.
"It is to me," Kael said simply. "Being forgettable is useful. I listen. I watch. I file things away. If you stay, you might want someone who hears which way the wind is blowing in lecture halls."
Dorothy's gaze sharpened. "You're offering yourself as… what? A set of ears?"
Kael shrugged. "A pair of ears with legs. I'm often where no one important bothers to look. If they talk about the Voidborn child in class,
I'll know. If a professor tries to sniff around your door, I'll know which one. If the students start taking sides, I'll hear it first."
"And why," John asked slowly, "would you help us?"
Kael hesitated.
He looked at Brian again.
"Because," he said, voice soft now, "we need the Academy to stop breaking people like him."
Doris's breath caught. "You've seen…?"
"My brother," Kael said. "He didn't bend the way they wanted. He broke instead. They gave him a nice ceremony. They said he
'transcended.'" His mouth twisted. "Transcended gravity off the east wall, more
like."
Silence hung.
"I don't want that for any more children," Kael said quietly. "If I can help prevent it by telling you who to avoid and where the blades are hidden, I will."
John studied the boy's face.
There was bitterness there, yes. And anger.
But beneath that: a practical, calculated resolve.
"How do we know this isn't a test?" John asked. "Someone sending a kindly-eyed novice to see how paranoid we are."
Kael smiled without humor. "You don't," he said. "That's the Academy. Trust is a luxury. I'm not asking for it. I'm just giving you
information you'd get too late otherwise."
"What information?" Dorothy asked.
Kael ticked points off on his fingers. "Professor Rennic—reckless, likes artifacts. Avoid him. Master Vela—obsessed with
bloodlines, will want to 'chart' the family tree, probably literally. Don't let her near the child. Senior Novice Teren—already betting on whether the 'Voidling' sets something on fire before his first year. Kick him if he comes near."
Flint perked. "I like this kid."
Kael continued. "The second-years are divided. Some think he's a sign that the Academy is special. Some think he's an omen that we're all doomed. Both groups will want to be near him. Both groups are dangerous."
"And you?" Doris asked. "What group are you in?"
Kael's eyes met hers.
"I think he's a child who didn't ask for any of this," he said. "And I think people like to read meaning into others so they don't have to find it in themselves."
Dorothy nodded slowly. "You're wasted as a novice."
"Not if I live long enough to be useful," he said.
John's instincts still whispered careful, but another voice—older, from his years in the legions—recognized something important.
Informants didn't always look like shadows in alleyways. Sometimes they were angry boys in grey robes with good ears and better grudges.
"All right," John said. "If you hear something important, how do you tell us?"
Kael considered. "The garden," he said. "This bench, second hour after noon. I come here most days. If I find you here, I sit. If I don't, I leave a feather under the left leg."
Flint blinked. "A feather?"
"The garden has birds," Kael said. "And most people don't notice small items on the ground unless they're tripping over them."
"Good system," Dorothy said.
"And if we have something to ask?" John said.
Kael thought. "Tie a bit of red cloth to that branch." He nodded to a low sprig of the silver-leaf tree. "Only for emergencies. Red cloth near wards will make some people nervous. They'll avoid it unless they know why
it's there."
"Why help us, really?" Doris asked one more time. "No titles. No speeches."
Kael's jaw tightened.
"Because my brother believed the Academy would protect him," he said. "It didn't. I want to see if it can protect someone like him," he
nodded at Brian, "without killing him in the process."
He stepped back.
"I should go," he said. "If I'm late to lecture, my mentor will ask why. I prefer not to say 'I was talking to the Empire's newest problem.'"
Flint grinned. "We're a problem now. Promotion."
Kael smiled briefly. "You'll collect titles whether you want them or not."
He turned to leave, then paused.
"Oh," he said, almost as an afterthought. "One more thing. They're already calling him something in the dormitories."
John's shoulders tensed. "What?"
Kael's eyes were sympathetic.
"Not the word the cultists use," he said. "No one's said that one aloud where I've heard it. But they call him… the Echo."
Doris's hand trembled.
"Echo?" she whispered.
Kael nodded. "Because when he cried last night, every glass in three corridors trembled. Students who were awake say they felt something in their bones. Even those without magic."
Flint rubbed his arms. "That tracks."
"It'll spread," Kael said. "Names always do. Better you hear it from me than from gossip."
John's jaw clenched.
"He's Brian," he said quietly. "To us."
"I know," Kael said. "But the Academy… loves its myths. And it's already turning him into one."
He bowed—awkward, more habit than respect—and walked away down the path, book under his arm.
The silver leaves above them rustled.
Doris stared at Brian's sleeping face.
"Brian," she whispered fiercely, as if insisting to the world. "Not Echo. Not anything else. Brian."
John rested his hand over hers.
"We hold his name," he said. "No matter what they say outside."
Dorothy leaned on her staff, looking at the tower spires beyond the ward dome.
"They will call him many things," she murmured. "The Echo. The breach-born. The Voidling. The Savior. The Doom. That's how people are. They hang their fears and hopes on someone else, so they don't have to carry them alone."
Flint snorted. "Idiots."
"Yes," Dorothy said. "But very predictable idiots."
Brian shifted, nestling closer to Doris.
The tree's leaves glowed faintly once more, then settled.
The garden held its fragile calm.
For now, there was only a baby asleep under a humming tree, two parents holding onto his name like a lifeline, an old mage counting cracks in the world, and a dagger-minded boy with too much loss walking away with pfresh secrets.
Somewhere in the Academy, a rumor took root.
They called him the Echo.
But here, under the silver leaves, he was just Brian, breathing soft and even, while the world beyond the wards worked very hard to decide what he would be.