The next day smelled like boiled grain and nerves.
John realized both at the same time.
He was lacing his boots when the knock came—firm, efficient, three quick raps. Not Halvar's sharp staccato, not Serais's courteous tap. This was someone trying very hard to be brisk instead of apologetic.
Dorothy opened the door.
A young warden stood there, helmet under one arm, expression carefully neutral. "Message from Rector Halvar," she said. "Breakfast service to your rooms is ending. You're requested to join the refectory for meals going forward."
"Requested," Flint repeated from his bed. "That sounds voluntary."
"Nothing in this tower is voluntary," Dorothy said.
The warden cleared her throat. "The Rector notes that continued isolation will 'feed rumor more effectively than any cult sermon.' His words."
John groaned under his breath. "He's not wrong."
Doris, who was sitting cross-legged on the bed with Brian in her lap, went stiff. The baby suckled lazily, eyes half-shut, one tiny heel
planted against her ribs.
"The refectory," she said slowly. "With him."
The warden shifted, clearly wanting to be anywhere else. "You'll be seated in the family alcove," she said. "Wards in place, additional
guard. Head Rectrix approved it."
"So we get to eat in a slightly less unsafe part of the unsafe room," Flint said. "What a treat."
Dorothy thanked the warden and closed the door.
Silence lingered, heavy.
John sat on the edge of the bed. "He's right," he said finally. "We can't hide forever. It makes us look like a secret everyone's supposed to poke."
Doris stroked Brian's back, fingertips tracing tiny circles. "They already stare," she said. "Even the walls."
"The walls will stare no matter where we are," Dorothy said. "People either get used to your presence or build stories around your absence. Only one of those options gives you a say."
"And you really want to bring a newborn into a hall full of twitchy mages?" Flint asked.
"No," Dorothy said. "But we're going to."
John exhaled. "We'll keep it quick. In and out. We sit near the edge, back to a wall. We leave if anything feels off."
"Feels off," Flint echoed. "That'll be right before the screaming starts."
Doris closed her eyes for a heartbeat.
When she opened them again, the fear was still there.
So was something harder.
"All right," she said. "We go. He sees their faces before they turn him into stories."
Brian burped and then, as if offended by the decision, spat a small dribble of milk down her sleeve.
Flint snorted. "He has opinions."
"Too bad," Doris murmured, wiping his chin. "So do I."
The corridor to the refectory was busier than any route they'd walked so far.
Students flowed like a river, multicolored robes marking disciplines, belts and sashes indicating year and status. Conversations rose and fell—snatches of jargon, laughter, complaints about early lectures.
Then someone saw Brian.
Sound thinned.
It didn't stop, exactly.
It changed.
Whispers wove through the crowd like a second current.
"Is that—?"
"The Echo?"
"He's so small."
"I heard he made the Spire shake."
"I heard he set half the tower on fire."
"No you didn't, you idiot, we'd all be dead—"
John shifted automatically to Doris's side, creating a half-shield with his body. Flint drifted to the other flank, hands loose, gaze
restless.
Dorothy walked slightly ahead, staff tapping, expression blandly forbidding.
Students moved out of their way.
Some with curiosity.
Some with fear.
A few with thinly veiled hostility.
Most just… watched.
Hungry eyes.
The refectory entrance was an archway so tall it could have swallowed a caravan wagon. Wards shimmered faintly across it—subtle, designed more to filter resonance and keep food where it belonged than to repel attackers.
Two wardens flanked the arch.
A third stood just inside, hand resting on the hilt of her sword.
"Family Aetheris," she said, nodding. "This way. The family alcove is warded for privacy."
"Privacy?" Flint asked. "Define 'privacy.'"
"People can see you," the warden said. "They just can't eavesdrop unless they're very rude."
"So normal," Dorothy said.
They stepped into the hall.
It was enormous—easily the size of a small town's marketplace, with long tables running down its length and wider round tables
clustered near the center for faculty and senior staff. Light poured in from high, warded windows, refracting in muted colors through crystals suspended from the ceiling.
Noise hit like a wave.
Laughter, conversation, clatter of cutlery on ceramic. For a moment, it overwhelmed even Brian. He went very still against Doris's chest,
eyes wide, senses flooded.
Then the nearest cluster of students noticed them.
The ripple moved outward.
Heads turned.
Voices dropped, then sharpened.
"Great," Flint muttered. "Center of attention. Exactly what every paranoid man wants in a room full of spellcasters."
"Back wall," John said through his teeth.
The warden guided them along the edge of the hall to a recessed alcove with two small tables and benches, half-screened by carved
wooden panels. A faint shimmer marked the boundary of a low ward—soft enough not to oppress, strong enough to dampen sound.
"This area is for faculty families and special guests," the warden said. "Head Rectrix authorized its use for you while things…adjust."
"Meaning while everyone calms down," Flint said.
"Meaning while everyone gets used to the idea that the Echo eats porridge like everyone else," the warden said, surprising him with a
flicker of dry humor.
Doris sat with her back to the wall, Brian nestled in her lap. John took the other side. Flint positioned himself where he could see both the entrance and the main floor. Dorothy sat with her staff leaned against the bench, hands folded.
A server—a harried-looking apprentice with flour on his sleeve—brought bowls of grain, fruit slices, and a jug of watered milk. His eyes flicked nervously to Brian and then away.
"Thank you," Doris said gently.
He flushed and fled.
John took in the hall as he ate.
At the central faculty table, Maevra sat with a plate untouched, listening intently to an older woman in deep green robes. Halvar wasn't there yet. Serais had taken a seat slightly apart from the main cluster, as if half-in, half-out of their politics. Ren Kaltan was absent—probably buried under reports.
A group of mid-level professors clustered further down the table, talking animatedly. One of them—a narrow-faced woman with iron-grey hair pulled back in a ruthless knot—kept glancing toward the family alcove.
Dorothy followed his gaze. "That's Vela," she murmured. "I was hoping you wouldn't meet her this soon."
"Who is she?" John asked.
"Head of Genealogical Aether Studies," Dorothy said. "Obsessed with bloodlines. Spent the last decade writing papers about how certain families produce more stable mages." Her mouth twisted. "She loves
Voidborn theory at a safe academic distance."
Doris stiffened.
"She'll want to see him," she said.
"Oh, she'll want more than that," Dorothy said. "She'll want charts. Samples. Data."
"No," Doris said, flat and immediate.
"Correct answer," Dorothy said.
Vela rose.
Of course she did.
She crossed the hall with the measured stride of someone who thought the floor was lucky to be walked on by her.
Several sets of eyes followed.
Flint's hand slid unconsciously toward the knife at his belt.
"Relax," Dorothy murmured. "She kills with words, not steel."
"That's worse," Flint muttered.
Vela stopped just outside the privacy ward.
Her gaze flicked from John to Doris, pausing on Brian, then to Dorothy.
"Doriane Aetheris," she said. "It has been a very long time."
Doris's jaw clenched. "Professor Vela."
"You remember me," Vela said, sounding faintly pleased. "That's gratifying. I worried you'd blocked everything out when you ran."
"I remember everyone who tried to turn my life into a diagram," Doris said.
A faint line appeared between Vela's brows, but she let it go. Her eyes moved back to Brian.
"So this is the child," she said. "The one who made the wards sing."
"His name is Brian," John said.
"Yes, yes," Vela said. "Of course. But you must understand the… significance." She leaned slightly nearer, though she didn't cross the ward. "There has never been recorded a Voidborn-descended infant with resonance
that powerful at four days old. The potentia—"
Doris's voice cut across her like a blade.
"He is not 'potential.' He is not 'the child.' He is my son."
Vela blinked, as if mildly surprised at being interrupted.
"Your emotional bond is admirable," she said, in a tone that suggested she was commenting on the weather. "But your lineage obligates you to consider the larger picture as well. The Academy cannot ignore what he represents. Neither can the Empire."
"Obligates," Flint repeated under his breath. "Wonderful word choice."
Vela's gaze flicked to him. "And you are?"
"A nuisance," Flint said. "You can list me under 'environmental hazards.'"
Dorothy coughed once, suspiciously like a laugh.
Vela dismissed him with a sniff and focused on Doris again.
"I am not your enemy, Doriane," she said. "On the contrary, I am your best chance at ensuring your son is understood rather than feared."
Doris's eyes were cold. "You're the one who wrote the paper about 'dangerous deviations in Voidborn cognitive development,'" she said. "I read it. Before I burned my copy."
Vela's lips pursed. "That paper was misinterpreted by people who didn't understand the nuance—"
"You suggested supervised breeding restrictions for anyone with more than two Voidborn grandparents," Doris said flatly. "That's not nuance. That's eugenics dressed up in proper nouns."
Several nearby students glanced over at the sharpness in her tone.
Vela's back stiffened. "It was a theoretical exploration of risk mitigation," she said. "We cannot pretend blood doesn't matter in magic.
Patterns repeat. Power concentrates. Your entire existence is proof."
Doris's hand tightened reflexively on Brian's blanket.
He squirmed, sensing her tension.
The air thickened around them—a subtle pressure, like a breath held too long.
Dorothy's staff hummed faintly.
"Careful," Dorothy murmured.
John stared at Vela. "What do you want?" he asked.
Vela's gaze cooled. "Data," she said. "Access. The ability to chart his development, to understand his resonance, to map his channels. With proper observation, we could identify early markers for instability and intervene before—"
"Before what?" John asked softly. "Before he stops fitting into your neat little categories?"
"Before he tears something open that cannot be closed," Vela snapped.
Her control slipped for a heartbeat; the words came out too sharp, too urgent.
The people at the nearest tables went quiet.
Maevra's head turned then, gaze arrowing toward them from the central table.
Serais watched too, eyes narrowed.
Vela smoothed her robe with one hand. "The Paragons are not myths," she said, lowering her voice. "They are an active, organised threat. They worship the failure of your bloodline, Doriane. They dream of repeating
it. If your son's power becomes a beacon, they will come. We have one chance to
understand how he is different before they try to make him the same."
The argument was not entirely wrong.
That was what made it dangerous.
John felt the pull of it.
He also remembered Rennic's cracked array, the orb in the Deep Weave, the night the wards screamed.
"We're not refusing to let him be understood," John said. "We're refusing to let him be owned."
Vela exhaled sharply. "No one is talking about ownership."
"Your paper suggested breeding programs," Flint said. "If that's not ownership, my vocabulary's worse than I thought."
Vela ignored him.
She addressed Doris.
"I am prepared to offer you terms," she said. "You cooperate with my research—regular assessments, controlled stimuli, limited sampling—and I will personally ensure no more… reckless opportunists like Rennic come near him. I have influence. I can move projects. I can make certain that if he is studied, it is by people who know what they're doing."
"People like you," Doris said.
"Yes," Vela said simply.
Doris's laugh was low and humorless. "You think you know what you're doing," she said. "You think your charts mean you understand what my family tried to hold shut. You play with remnant symbols and call it 'theoretical.' You have no idea what it smelled like when the Aether cracked. I may have been a child when they taught me the stories, but I remember that."
Vela's expression tightened. "Then help us learn. Your personal trauma is not a sufficient reason to deny us the tools we need to keep
the world from—"
She cut off abruptly.
The air had gone… wrong.
Not like during the scream.
Smaller.
Localized.
Brian had gone very still.
His eyes were open, fixed on Vela's face.
He wasn't crying.
He wasn't fussing.
He was just looking at her.
The hair on John's arms rose.
For a heartbeat, the ward line around the alcove shimmered, refracting light.
Vela's lips parted.
Her pupils dilated.
"What is he—" she began.
Dorothy's hand slapped against the ward line.
"Enough," she snapped.
The shimmer snapped like a bubble.
Brian jerked, letting out a small, indignant sound.
The strange focus in his gaze blurred.
The pressure in the air eased.
Vela staggered half a step back, breath catching.
"What was that?" she hissed.
"Resonance feedback," Dorothy said smoothly. "You leaned in. The ward compensated. Don't loom at a Voidborn infant unless you want to feel your teeth vibrate."
Vela touched her sternum lightly, as if expecting to feel a mark. "He… he noticed me."
"Yes," Doris said coldly. "He doesn't like you."
A few nearby students snorted before they could stop themselves.
Color rose in Vela's cheeks.
"This is not a game," she said sharply. "You cannot hide him from what he is by drawing stars on the ceiling and pretending the world will leave him alone."
Doris's head snapped up.
"How dare—"
"Professor Vela."
The new voice cut clean through the tension.
Serais stood just outside the privacy ward, hands folded, expression mild.
"I don't recall seeing your name on the visitation schedule for this family," he said.
Vela bristled. "I am not required to seek your approval to speak to my former student."
"You are required," Serais said gently, "to follow the protocols agreed upon in yesterday's council. Which included no direct
approaches to the child without Rector or Head Rectrix consent." He smiled faintly. "I was there. You argued very passionately about the importance of procedures. I took notes."
Vela's jaw clenched. "This is an informal conversation."
"Is it?" Serais asked. "Because from where I stand, it sounds remarkably like a research proposal delivered to exhausted parents over
breakfast." His gaze went to Doris and John. "We can discuss academic ethics another time. For now, I suggest we let them eat."
Maevra's voice carried across the hall then, cool and precise.
"Vela."
The genealogist flinched.
She turned.
Maevra was still seated, but the weight of her gaze made it feel like the air between them had solidified.
"Do we need to review the council's resolutions already?" the Head Rectrix asked. "I trust your memory has not deteriorated so rapidly."
Vela's face went blank—an expression John recognised from officers caught overreaching.
"No, Head Rectrix," she said tightly. "We're quite done here."
"I doubt that," Maevra said. "But you are done for now. Return to your students. I would hate for them to experiment unsupervised."
Dismissed in front of half the hall.
It was as much of a rebuke as Maevra ever gave publicly.
Vela's nostrils flared.
She gave Doris one last look—something like warning, something like promise—then turned sharply and walked away.
The noise level in the hall slowly resumed.
Serais stepped closer, careful not to cross the ward.
"My apologies," he said. "I should have anticipated she'd try that."
"You did anticipate," Dorothy said. "That's why you were watching."
Serais's eyes crinkled. "I am the Church Liaison," he said. "My job is to stand where trouble is likely and try to look like an accident when it changes direction."
Flint barked a laugh. "Best job description I've heard yet."
Serais's gaze went to Brian.
The baby, overwhelmed by all the resonance and emotion, had decided to fall asleep. His hand still clutched a fold of Doris's robe.
"She was wrong about one thing," Serais said softly. "You are not obligated to the Empire by blood, Doriane. You are connected to it by
choice. There's a difference."
Doris's mouth trembled. "They don't see one."
"Some of them do," Serais said. "Some of us are very loud about it."
He glanced at John. "If anyone approaches you again with terms, samples, or 'opportunities,' you may invoke the Church's concern for the 'dignity of the soul.' It annoys them, but they have to pretend to respect it."
John's lips quirked. "Weaponizing doctrine?"
Serais smiled. "Faith is many things. One of them is leverage."
He gave a small bow.
"I'll leave you to your porridge," he said. "Try to enjoy it. The refectory is one of the few places in this tower where everyone has to sit down eventually. That makes it useful."
He drifted away, returning to his lonely table.
Dorothy exhaled slowly. "Well," she said. "That went… about as badly as it could without someone drawing chalk."
Flint shuddered. "Don't give them ideas."
Doris smoothed a hand over Brian's hair. "He reacted to her," she whispered. "He felt something."
"Of course he did," Dorothy said. "She was staring at him like he was a slide under a lens. He felt the weight of that attention. Anyone
would squirm."
John watched the hall.
The students were all talking again.
But something had shifted.
They'd seen the line drawn.
They'd watched a professor get reprimanded for pushing.
Not nearly enough.
But it was a start.
"Let them talk," he said quietly. "We'll show them how far they can come before we push back."
Flint smirked. "You're getting good at this 'threat with manners' thing."
They didn't linger.
As soon as the bowls were empty, they returned to the hallway and then to the safer air of the family suite.
Brian slept deeply, oblivious to the morning's politics.
Doris laid him in the cradle beneath the chalk stars, palm on his chest until his breathing evened.
John watched the way her shoulders slumped once she stepped away.
"You all right?" he asked.
She laughed once. "No," she said. "But I'm not running. That's something."
Dorothy sat down at the table, pulling a fresh scrap of parchment toward her.
"Lines," she said.
Flint groaned. "More maps?"
"Different kind," Dorothy said. "We have Halvar's chart of Aether flows. Now we make our own: who we can trust. Who we can't. Who sits where. Who watches what."
She drew small circles, writing names beside them.
Maevra — stubborn, dangerous, on our side (for now).
Halvar — tired, honest, likely to die early if he keeps this up.
Serais — soft voice, sharp mind, useful doctrine.
Ren — says "acceptable risk" too easily, but hasn't lied yet.
Vela — absolutely not.
Rennic — triple underlined, skull.
Flint leaned over, grinning. "Put me on there."
Dorothy added: Flint — nuisance, blade, loyalty inconveniently strong.
"What about Kael?" John asked.
Dorothy hesitated only a moment before writing: Kael — ears, anger, watch.
"And me?" Doris asked quietly.
Dorothy looked up.
"You're the center," she said simply. "You and him. The map is built around you."
Doris glanced at the chalk stars above the cradle.
"He's the center," she corrected. "I'm just… standing in front."
John brushed her knuckles with his.
"We both are," he said.
Brian slept on, tiny chest rising and falling.
Outside, in offices and shrines and shadowed corners, people drew their own maps—lines of influence, lines of possibility, lines of fear.
Here, on a small scrap of parchment in a family suite, another map took shape.
Not of leylines.
Not of seismically unstable folds.
Of alliances.
Of people.
Of who might stand between a child and a world that wanted to turn him into a diagram, a doctrine, or a disaster.
The Hall of Hungry Eyes had seen them.
They had seen it back.
The lines between them were drawn.
They'd hold, or they'd break.
But they would not be unwatched.