By the second morning after the scream, the Academy had learned how to pretend again.
From the family suite, John could hear it in patterns: the regular tramp of students heading to first lectures, the clatter of dishes from the refectory, the distant thud of practice spells hitting padded targets. The sounds of a place that insisted on being ordinary even when it knew better.
Inside the suite, nothing felt ordinary.
Brian's sleep had settled into a strange rhythm—long stretches of heavy, limp exhaustion punctuated by pockets of fierce alertness in which his eyes roamed, pupils wide, tracking things only he could sense.
Doris had stopped trying to keep count of how many hours she'd slept.
She sat at the small table now, Brian swaddled against her chest, his head tucked under her chin. A cup of tea cooled untouched by her elbow. Her eyes had that dull shine of someone who'd cried until nothing was left.
John watched her from the bed, boots half-laced, cloak folded beside him.
"You don't have to go," she said, not looking up.
"I'm not going far," he said. "Halvar wants me to see the training grounds. Says I can't stay in this room forever or I'll start treating every knock like a threat."
"Every knock is a threat," Flint said helpfully from the other chair, where he was balancing a knife on his fingertip and pretending not
to eavesdrop.
Dorothy smacked his shoulder lightly with her staff. "Halvar has a point," she said. "You both need context. Knowing where we are helps
knowing how they'll try to use us."
John nodded. "I want to see where they train their mages. How they think. Where they put the effort."
"And where the exits are," Flint added.
"That too," John said.
Doris shifted, pressing her nose briefly into Brian's hair. "I don't like you being away from him," she murmured.
John crossed the small space and knelt by her chair. "I don't like it either," he said. "But if something goes wrong, I'd rather know the layout than guess. And I'd rather know who's teaching the ones who might stand between us and whatever the Paragons try next."
Her free hand found his. "Don't let them recruit you," she said. "You're not their sword."
"Too late," he said quietly. "I've been everyone's sword at one time or another. This time I'm choosing who I swing for."
Flint muttered, "And against," under his breath.
Dorothy adjusted her cloak. "I'll stay here," she said. "If any robe tries to 'accidentally' wander in for a peek, they'll find the door
uncooperative."
Doris's mouth twitched. "I trust you to make doors uncooperative."
"Doors and people," Dorothy said.
John squeezed Doris's hand, then straightened, slinging his cloak over one shoulder.
"I'll be back before second bell," he said. "If anything feels wrong, send Flint sprinting or throw something loud at the door."
Flint perked. "I am an emergency messenger now. Promotion."
"Don't stab anyone important while I'm gone," John added.
"No promises," Flint said. "But I'll aim for the less important bits."
The corridor outside felt less raw today.
The wardens at either end stood in the same positions as before, but their shoulders were less hunched, their eyes less wide. One nodded at John and Flint as they stepped out. The other lifted a hand in what might have been a salute or a ward-sign.
John returned the nod.
Flint gave them a jaunty little half-wave. "Still alive," he said. "Thought you'd want an update."
The nearer warden snorted. "We heard. No screaming walls today."
"Give it time," Flint said. "It's early."
They met Halvar halfway down the corridor.
He carried no tablets today, no satchel—just his chain and robe and that permanent air of calculated tiredness.
"John. Flint," he said. "You look marginally less like you've been run over by a wagon."
"High praise," Flint said.
Halvar's gaze flicked toward the suite door. "Everyone all right?"
"As all right as we can be with a child who thinks in resonance," John said. "He slept."
"Good," Halvar said. "Then let's introduce you to how this place tries to keep the rest of its children from turning into disasters."
They walked.
The training grounds sat in a broad, irregular courtyard stitched between several towers. From their approach balcony, John could see at least three distinct zones.
One was a simple open field of packed earth and sand, lined with weapons racks. Students in light armor practiced drills there—sword forms, shield lines, spear work—under the barked commands of a scarred instructor with
a broken nose and the unmistakable bearing of a career soldier.
"Combat ring," Halvar said. "Most of them will never see a real battlefield, but we teach them enough to not stab themselves when a spell
misfires."
"Reassuring," Flint said.
The second zone was more structured: circles inscribed in chalk and paint, targets at varying distances, metal dummies with blackened
surfaces. There, robed students flung fire, ice, and shimmering bolts of force under the supervision of mages in tighter, more practical gear.
Several lines of water arced carefully from a row of cisterns to a series of floating glass orbs—students manipulating streams with
different degrees of finesse. One orb splashed to the ground; its owner swore as an instructor clapped sharply, dispelling the mess with a twitch.
"The elemental yards," Halvar said. "Fire to the far left, water where you see it, air and earth to the right. The central lane is for
composite work, when they're trusted not to blow up their classmates."
"And the third?" John asked.
The third zone was smaller, tucked against a tower wall: a series of low platforms and suspended crystal structures, lines of faint light connecting them like a web. Students walked along them with slow, measured
steps, brows furrowed, while instructors watched with hawk-like intensity.
"Focus walk," Halvar said. "Aether structure work. Empty of raw elements, heavy on control. Only older students are allowed there. You won't see any of them try anything flashy."
Flint leaned on the balcony railing. "So this is where you turn them from scared teenagers into arrogant pyromancers."
"Yes," Halvar said. "And sometimes into decent human beings who know when not to throw a fireball."
John watched a girl in red-trimmed robes shape a controlled arc of flame through a hoop. Her expression was pure concentration—not delight, not malice. Just focus.
He recognized it.
"I've trained recruits before," he said quietly. "Regular legions. Swords, not spells. They looked like that."
"How?" Halvar asked.
"Terrified of the field," John said. "More terrified of failing someone. Heroics come later. Or never."
Halvar's mouth twitched. "You might find you have more in common with them than you think."
Flint pulled a face as a novice misfired and sent a puff of smoke into his own face. "Do they blow themselves up often?"
"Less than they used to," Halvar said. "We've improved."
"And the tower didn't mind you building a playground under its nose?" Flint asked.
"The Spire approves of practice," Halvar said. "It frowns on mess. The less accidents we have, the calmer it stays."
John watched a group of students in grey run a shield drill—two holding translucent barriers of air while a third threw stones rapid-fire at them, trying to find gaps.
"How many of them know what's under their feet?" he asked.
"Some," Halvar said. "Rumors drift down. Most are too busy surviving tests to worry about history. That's both blessing and curse."
Flint's gaze swept the yards. "Any of them Paragon sympathisers?"
Halvar's expression cooled. "If we knew that, we'd be having a very different conversation," he said. "We keep eyes. We listen. We watch for patterns. But beliefs are slippery. Especially when wrapped in the language of
'purity' and 'clarity.'"
"Sounds like sermon talk," John said.
"It is," Halvar said. "That's the problem."
They descended from the balcony to ground level.
The effect was immediate.
From above, the grounds looked like choreographed training.
From within, it felt like being in six different battle drills at once. Shouts. Cracks of magic. The smell of ozone and sweat and hot
sand.
As they stepped into the edge of the yard, several students turned to stare.
John felt the weight of their looks.
That must be him.
The caravan sword.
The Voidborn's man.
The father.
He kept his face neutral.
Halvar ignored the stares. "We're not hiding you," he said under his breath. "That would only turn you into a worse rumor."
"Is there a better kind?" Flint asked.
"Controlled," Halvar said. "Rumors we steer are preferable to ones we don't."
They walked along the edge of the elemental yard.
A student practicing wind control overbalanced; a gust whooshed sideways, ruffling John's hair and nearly knocking Flint off his feet.
"Sorry!" the novice yelped.
Flint grabbed his arm, steadying him. "Aim that at your target, not your spectators, unless you want more healing bills."
The boy flushed. "Yes, sir."
"Don't call me sir," Flint said automatically.
Halvar's mouth quirked.
John tilted his head. "You ever study here?" he asked Flint.
"No," Flint said. "I just spent enough time watching street thugs try to learn knife work to recognize a bad stance."
They moved on.
Near the far side of the yard, a low stone platform bore carved grooves where multiple elements had visibly scarred it. An older student stood there, arms extended, three instructors watching closely as he tried to
mesh a thin stream of water with a ring of flame.
The water steamed.
The flame flickered, bending inward.
"Composite working," Halvar said. "Fire-water, air-earth, and so on. We don't allow more than two elements at a time without absurd oversight."
"Why?" John asked.
"Because the last time someone tried three without supervision, we had to rebuild part of this yard," Halvar said. "And they had to regrow their eyebrows."
Flint snickered.
John watched the student's face tighten with strain, sweat beading at his hairline.
"How many can the average mage handle?" he asked.
"One well. Two poorly. Three with time and scars," Halvar said. "Four is rare. Any more… belongs in old songs and cautionary tales."
"And him?" Flint said quietly. "My tiny screaming nephew?"
Halvar's gaze flicked briefly toward the residential wing towers looming over the yard.
"Ask me again in twenty years," he said. "After we've all survived."
Back in the suite, quiet had settled.
Doris sat on the bed with Brian tucked against her, humming a low, tuneless sound more felt than heard. It wasn't any song John
recognised—just a repeated pattern, steady as breathing.
Dorothy sat cross-legged on the floor, a shallow bowl of water in front of her. Ripples moved across the surface, forming faint rings
that expanded and faded—not natural waves, but something she was doing with tiny gestures of her fingertips.
"Training?" Doris asked.
"Testing," Dorothy said. "Seeing how he lines up with the ambient field now."
Doris frowned. "Field?"
Dorothy tapped the bowl. A new ring spread, met a barely visible ripple, and flattened. "The background noise of this place," she said.
"The wards. The Spire. The faint residue of a dozen old spells no one bothered to fully clean. I want to see if he's pulling on it even in his sleep."
"And?" Doris asked, eyes worried.
Dorothy watched the water a long moment.
"Less than yesterday," she said. "More than he did on the road. He's aligning. But not drowning."
Doris's shoulders eased a little. "Good."
Brian's fingers twitched against her wrist.
For a heartbeat, the air felt… thicker.
Not wrong.
Just dense. Like the space between them and the far wall had briefly become syrup.
Then it passed.
Dorothy's eyes flicked up. "You felt that?"
Doris nodded. "Yes. He… clenched. Like he was bracing."
"Not pulling," Dorothy murmured. "Bracing against something that isn't there. Memory echo."
"From the scream?" Doris whispered.
"Likely," Dorothy said. "The body remembers even when the mind can't label it."
Doris kissed his temple. "It's over," she murmured. "You're here. You're safe."
Brian made a small sound of protest—annoyed at being jostled, not panicked.
Doris smiled despite herself. "Still dramatic," she said softly. "Just like your father."
From the corridor, footsteps approached.
Two sets.
The now-familiar double-tap-and-one-knock sounded.
Halvar and John returned, with Flint trailing behind, muttering about sand in places sand should never be.
"How was it?" Doris asked as they entered.
"Loud," John said. "Structured. Too many teenagers with access to fire."
"So normal," Dorothy said.
John shrugged. "If this is normal, I can work with it."
He crossed to Doris, eyes dropping automatically to Brian. The baby's gaze was half-open, heavy-lidded. He looked up at John's face and gave an almost annoyed huff, as if to say, Where were you?
John's chest tugged.
"I saw where they train," he said. "Saw their instructors. Their students. Most of them… looked like kids who think if they get strong
enough, nothing can hurt them."
"That'll pass," Dorothy said.
"For some," John said.
He sat at the edge of the bed. "Kael was there," he added. "In the periphery. Watching. He nodded once. Then pretended he hadn't seen me. Good instincts."
Flint flopped into the nearest chair. "They love to talk," he said. "Already heard three versions of last night that involve angels, one version that involves demons, and one particularly imaginative one where the tower sprouted legs and walked."
Doris raised an eyebrow. "Walked where?"
"Out of the Empire," Flint said. "Honestly, I don't blame it."
Halvar leaned against the wall, arms folded.
"Council met," he said. "Maevra shouted. I assisted. Serais was quietly terrifying. Ren threatened to write very unpleasant things in his next report if the Court tried to interfere."
Doris blinked. "And?"
"And we have a temporary accord," Halvar said. "No relocation. No forced separation. No experiments involving him without consent
and clear necessity. Increased ward buffering around this wing. And a strict ban on all Spire-adjacent work within three halls of your suite."
Flint frowned. "How many halls away is safe?"
"Now?" Halvar said. "Never enough. But this will do."
Doris let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "Thank you," she said.
Halvar's gaze softened briefly. "Don't thank me," he said. "I have a vested interest in keeping my tower in one piece."
Dorothy snorted. "You can say both."
Halvar's mouth twitched. "Then you're welcome."
Silence settled for a moment.
Then Halvar straightened.
"One more thing," he said.
Everyone tensed.
"Always more," Flint muttered.
Halvar ignored him.
"The Paragons made noise," he said. "Two minor cells in outer provinces tried small rituals last night. Both failed. Both burned out
their own altars in the attempt."
John's gut tightened. "Because they felt him?"
"Because they thought they felt an opening," Halvar said. "When the wards screamed, the disturbance rippled far beyond the city.
Sensitive cultists took it as a sign. They tried to reach in. The wards were already closing by then. They clawed at a locked door and hurt themselves."
Doris shuddered. "So he… called them?"
"No," Halvar said firmly. "The Academy brick you live in screamed. They listened. That's not on him. But it does mean they're more alert."
Flint toyed with his knife, spinning it between nimble fingers. "How long before one of them decides to stop waiting for signs and just tries to break something?"
"Too soon," Halvar said. "Which is why we need to make sure that if they ever get inside these walls—and some will try—their first step is their last."
John's expression sharpened. "You're expecting an infiltration."
"I'm expecting attempts," Halvar said. "They'd be fools not to try. We're their great enemy and their greatest opportunity. That's a combination zealots find irresistible."
Dorothy's fingers tightened on her staff. "Any sign they have allies inside?"
"None we can prove," Halvar said. "Which is not the same as none."
Kael's mention of seal patterns in the dirt flickered through John's mind.
He looked at Halvar. "What do you need from us?"
Halvar considered.
"For now?" he said. "Exactly what you're already doing. Keep him close. Keep him calm if you can. Tell us if he senses something that isn't there for us but might be there for him."
"And later?" Doris asked.
Halvar's gaze moved to Brian.
He was very quiet for a moment.
"Later," he said quietly, "we'll ask more of him than anyone should ever have to give."
Doris's arms tightened around her son.
"Then we make sure he's strong enough to say yes or no," she said. "Not because you want it. Because he does."
Halvar nodded slowly.
"That," he said, "is the only answer that doesn't end with all of us in flames."
He pushed off the wall.
"I have twenty-seven more fires to put out before sundown," he said dryly. "Try not to add to the number."
"Make better promises," Flint said.
Halvar left.
The door clicked shut.
The quiet that followed felt… different.
Not empty.
Full.
Full of other people's plans and fears, of rumors humming through stone, of a tower that had turned its attention, however briefly, to a child who couldn't yet hold up his own head.
Doris stroked Brian's hair.
"Do you hear all of this?" she whispered. "Do you feel how loud they are about you?"
Brian made a vague, cranky noise.
His tiny fingers flexed against her wrist.
The air thickened again, barely, around them.
Dorothy watched the bowl of water.
A faint ring shivered across its surface.
Then stilled.
"Quiet currents," she murmured. "He's learning to push back. Even if he doesn't know what that means yet."
John sat down beside them, close enough that their shoulders touched.
Flint joined them, dragging his chair over with a scrape.
They sat like that for a long time—four people and one small child in a room that hummed with the attention of a tower, a city, a cult, and
a world leaning closer.
He was Brian.
They clung to that.
Outside, the Academy flowed around them: lectures, drills, petty feuds, ambitious projects. Life, layered over danger.
Inside, for a brief stretch of afternoon, currents ran quieter.
They wouldn't stay that way.
But for now, the walls hummed, the baby slept, and the people who had chosen him over everything else drew themselves a little closer together.
Preparing.
For the day when quiet currents became something else.