The tower slept uneasily.
John could feel it in the way the ward-sigil over the door pulsed—not the lazy, slow glow of a calm night, but a tighter rhythm, like a
heartbeat after a run.
He lay on his pallet, eyes half-closed, listening.
Rain had stopped hours ago. The city beyond the Academy walls had settled into its own rhythms: distant cart wheels, occasional shouts, the muted clang of a late-working forge. None of that reached this high.
What reached, instead, was the tower's breathing.
Hum.
Pause.
Hum.
Pause.
Across the room, Flint snored softly, hand resting on the knife under his pillow. Doris slept curled around Brian, the baby's cheek
pressed against her chest, both of them wrapped under a blanket that smelled
faintly of smoke and herbs. Dorothy sat in the chair by the shutters, staff across her lap, head bowed—and, as usual, John had no idea whether she actually slept.
He was drifting toward a shallow doze when Brian twitched.
Not the little flail of a dream.
A sudden, full-body jerk.
Doris murmured, half-asleep, soothing him automatically. "Shh, love, it's all right…"
Brian went rigid.
His tiny fingers clenched in the fabric of her night-robe.
His breath hitched.
The air changed.
John bolted upright.
The ward hum over the door faltered.
Not louder.
Not brighter.
Just—off. A single beat out of time.
Dorothy's eyes snapped open.
"You felt that?" John whispered.
She didn't answer.
She was already standing, staff in hand, gaze on the door.
The sigil above it flickered again.
Brian made a sound John had never heard from him before.
Not a cry.
A tiny, sharp whimper that sounded… questioning.
Like something in the dark had reached out a hand, and some deep, wordless part of him was whispering: wrong.
Doris woke with a start. "What—?"
"Hold him," Dorothy said, voice low and tight. "Don't move. Don't speak unless I say."
Flint rolled off his pallet in one fluid motion, knife in hand, eyes suddenly awake and sharp. "Who do I stab?"
"Nothing. Yet," Dorothy said. "If we're lucky."
"We're never lucky," Flint muttered.
John swung his feet to the floor.
"What's happening?" he asked.
Dorothy's eyes were on the sigil, which now glowed a fraction too steady, like someone had laid a thin sheet of glass over a flame.
"Someone is touching the outer wardline," she said. "Gently. Carefully." Her mouth thinned. "Someone who knows what they're doing."
"In the hall?" John asked.
"No," Dorothy said. "From outside. They're teasing at the perimeter and feeding something through the seams. A thread, not a wave."
Flint frowned. "You can feel that from here?"
"So can he," Dorothy said, nodding at Brian. "That's why he woke before the ward did."
Brian whimpered again, a small, broken sound that vibrated in John's ribs more than in his ears.
The ward-sigil flickered a third time.
Then—
Tap.
The door shook once.
Not a knock.
Not the full-body rattle of someone pounding on it.
Just a precise, measured tap. Like a fingertip brushing wood.
"Who's there?" Flint hissed.
Dorothy's voice went even quieter. "No one," she said. "Not physically. They're testing anchor points. Looking for weak spots where the ward and the doorframe meet."
John's hand went to the hilt of his sword.
"Can they get through?" he asked.
"Not without making more noise," Dorothy said. "But they might get a taste. Enough to know what's inside."
A taste of Brian.
Of his resonance.
Of the child who'd made the wards scream.
The thought made John's skin crawl.
"Should we shout?" Flint asked. "Wake the wardens?"
"Not yet," Dorothy said. "The second we do, whoever's out there pulls back and we learn nothing. I want a direction first."
She stepped closer to the door, moving with exaggerated casualness, as if she were just restless. Her staff didn't glow, but the runes
along its shaft warmed faintly, responding to her grip.
"Doris," she said softly. "Hum."
Doris blinked. "What?"
"The song from the road," Dorothy said. "The one you used under the stars. The one you use when he can't settle."
Doris's throat tightened. "You think—?"
"He needs a stronger signal than fear," Dorothy said. "Something true. Give him safe noise."
Doris swallowed.
She pulled Brian close, tucking his tiny head under her chin, and began to hum.
Low.
Steady.
The melody John recognized from a hundred nights on the plains when the sky felt too big and the fire too small. Not a lullaby, exactly. Just a pattern of sound that said you are not alone.
Brian's shaking eased a fraction.
The ward flicker steadied.
Outside the door—
Tap.
This time the sound came with a faint… answering resonance. Like fingers trailing along a harp string, testing tension.
Dorothy's hand tightened on her staff.
"That's not Academy work," she murmured. "Too… hungry."
"Paragons," John said.
"Or someone copying them badly," Dorothy replied. "Either way, unwelcome."
Flint slid silently along the wall until he was beside the door, knife reversed in his hand, every line of his body coiled.
"What if they do get through?" he whispered.
"Then we kill them fast," John said. "Before they see his face."
The thought of robed cultists in this room—near that cradle, under those chalk stars—made heat crawl up his spine. His fingers twitched on the sword hilt.
Tap.
The sound was softer this time.
More confident.
Dorothy's eyes narrowed.
"Mmm," she said under her breath. "You clever, foolish thing."
"What?" John demanded.
"They're not trying to break through," Dorothy said. "They're trying to scent him. Leaving a hook. A tracing thread."
"Can they?" Doris whispered, still humming.
"Not easily, with the buffers we added," Dorothy said. "But if they can slide enough of their magic through cracks in the lattice, they
might be able to tell the difference between an ordinary mage and… him." Her gaze went to Brian. "Which we are not letting happen."
"Then stop them," Flint hissed.
"I'm working on it," Dorothy snapped.
She lifted the staff.
This time, the runes lit—a low, muted glow, like coals banked beneath ash.
She didn't chant.
She didn't wave.
She simply pressed the staff's butt gently to the floor.
The wards hummed in response.
Brian twitched.
Doris's humming wavered, then steadied.
Dorothy closed her eyes, feeling.
"They're coming from the west quadrant," she said softly. "Closer to the outer wall than the gate. Too high for sewer grates, too low for
roof access." She grimaced. "Waterways, maybe. Old maintenance tunnels."
"Inside the city?" John asked.
"Yes," Dorothy said. "But outside the primary ward ring. They've threaded something along the wardline and are using it like… like a
fishing line."
Flint swore under his breath. "They're fishing for him?"
"Of course they are," Dorothy said. "They can't get in, so they're trying to see how far the echo travels."
"Then we cut the line," John said.
Dorothy smiled, grim and brief. "That, I can do."
She drew in a slow breath.
Then she changed her grip on the staff, fingers sliding into grooves worn by decades of use.
"Hold him," she said to Doris. "Keep humming. Don't stop. No matter what."
Doris nodded, tears prickling her eyes. She tightened her arms around Brian, her song deepening, threading through the air.
Dorothy raised the staff an inch.
Brought it down.
Tnk.
The sound was small.
Precise.
It hit the floor and snapped outward like a pebble thrown into perfectly still water.
The wardlines in the room shivered.
The sigil over the door flared.
Outside—
Something bit back.
Not physically.
John felt it as a spike of pressure in his ears, like his skull wanted to fold inward.
Brian gasped, tiny chest hitching under Doris's hand.
She rocked him harder, humming louder, voice cracking.
Dorothy braced, eyes flashing open.
"They pulled," she said through her teeth. "They pulled."
"Can they drag him?" Doris choked out.
"No," Dorothy said. "Not that strong. But they can tug at his attention if I let them. Which I won't."
She brought the staff down again.
This time, the sound was deeper.
Less like a tap on stone, more like something answering the tower's buried bones.
Thum.
The floor hummed.
The walls hummed.
The wardline around the suite flared in a circle John could feel, like static raising the hairs on his arms.
For a heartbeat, he saw it—not with his eyes, but with whatever sense the tower woke in people who stayed too long.
A net.
A glowing spiderweb of energy around the entire building, threads running along corridors, around suites, down into foundations. And just outside it, a thinner line, oily and wrong, trying to hook into the weave.
Dorothy's pulse of power hit that line.
The wrongness shivered.
Balancing on a knife-edge.
Brian made a strangled noise.
The thin line tightened—like hands closing around a rope.
Dorothy snarled.
"Oh no you don't."
She drove the staff into the floor a third time, harder.
THUM.
This time, something snapped.
John felt it as a jolt in his teeth.
Flint flinched, one hand flying to his ear.
Doris gasped.
Brian went limp.
For a terrifying heartbeat John's heart stopped.
Then he heard it.
A thin, outraged whisper at the edge of hearing, as if carried from very far away:
"—lost—"
And then—
Nothing.
The ward-sigil over the door steadied.
Slow.
Pulse.
Slow.
Pulse.
Normal.
Brian whimpered.
Then began to cry in earnest—thin, exhausted sobs that were as human as any infant's.
Doris sagged, clutching him, her own breath coming in shuddering bursts.
Dorothy leaned heavily on her staff, sweat beading at her temples.
"Did you cut it?" John demanded.
"Yes," Dorothy said, voice hoarse. "The line's gone. They'll know he's here—they already knew that—but they won't have his exact… flavor."
Flint blinked. "Flavor?"
"Every mage tastes different to the wards," Dorothy said. "They were trying to get his on their tongue. All they're left with now is 'loud.'"
John let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Can they try again?" he asked.
"Of course," Dorothy said. "But now the wards know what to look for. They'll be jumpier. Which means we get alerts faster."
As if summoned, the door sigil pulsed twice.
A sharp knock followed—two quick raps, one pause, one longer.
Halvar.
Dorothy exhaled. "And here comes the shouting."
Flint wiped a hand over his face. "He can have mine. I'm too tired for it."
John opened the door.
Halvar stood there in a plain robe, hair mussed, chain hastily thrown over one shoulder. Behind him, one of the night wardens hovered, face pale and sweaty.
"I felt that," Halvar said. "What did you do?"
"Cut a hook," Dorothy said flatly.
Halvar's gaze shot to her. "Explain."
"Paragons—probably—threaded a resonance line along your western ward seam," she said. "They were fishing for his signature. I hit the
line until it snapped."
The warden swore softly.
Halvar's jaw clenched. "Did they get anything?"
"Enough to know he's still loud," Dorothy said. "Not enough to track him by scent."
"Are you sure?" Halvar pressed.
"If they'd gotten more, the wards would be screaming," Dorothy said. "And he'd be staring at the wall like it was speaking his name."
Brian, still crying, disproved that neatly.
He sounded very much like a baby who'd been scared and wanted skin and warmth and nothing else.
Halvar's shoulders loosened a fraction.
"All right," he said. "All right. I'll have perimeter crews sweep the western line at first light. If they've woven anything physical into the ward anchor points, we'll burn it."
Dorothy wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. "It's more likely they pushed through temporary constructs," she said. "Nothing that'll last long once their caster lets go."
"The attempt is enough," Halvar said. He turned to the warden. "Wake Ren. Tell him we had active probing at the outer ring. Same
quadrant as the last wardstation echo. He'll want to light up half the city."
The warden nodded and hurried off.
Halvar stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him.
His gaze landed on Brian.
The baby's cries had softened into hiccups, each one trembling.
Doris rocked him, still humming weakly.
"He felt them first," she said. "Before the wards. Before Dorothy. He woke to it."
Halvar's expression darkened. "Of course he did," he said quietly. "He's Voidborn blood in a tower built on their bones. Every line that
shakes, he'll feel."
John's hands curled. "They said he's their key," he muttered. "Their 'breach-born.' They're not going to stop."
"No," Halvar said. "They're not."
He rubbed his face, suddenly looking every year of the strain he carried.
"In one sense, this is… useful," he said.
Flint stared. "Useful?"
"It confirms proximity," Halvar said. "We thought they'd be sniffing at the walls after the scream. Now we know where. West. Low. Near water." His mouth twisted. "I'd rather have useful information without having
someone tugging at a four-day-old's soul, but this tower rarely gives me the option."
"Ren's going to overreact," Dorothy said.
"I'm counting on it," Halvar replied. "He'll double patrols. Pressure the city watch. Demand we restrict access to the lower levels near that quadrant. That gives me political cover to write three new rules and slam
four doors in Vela's face."
Doris managed a weak laugh. "You weaponise bureaucracy."
"Yes," Halvar said. "It's the only weapon I can use in daylight."
Brian hiccuped again.
Doris kissed his damp forehead. "You're all right," she whispered. "They didn't get you. They didn't."
He clung to her robe with all the strength of his tiny fingers.
Halvar watched them for a moment.
When he spoke again, his voice was softer.
"They're escalating faster than we thought," he said. "First, they chased you on the road. Then they screamed at your wards from a
canyon. Now they're brushing the outer lines of Aetherion itself, trying to taste what's inside."
"And next?" John asked.
"And next, they'll try to send something through," Halvar said. "Not people. Not yet. Probes. Constructs. Dreams. Anything that can slip through cracks we don't see."
Doris shuddered. "Dreams."
He nodded. "If he starts having night terrors that feel… foreign, you tell us. Immediately."
"And if we don't?" Flint asked.
Halvar gave him a look. "Then the Paragons get a free pathway into the mind of a child who can already rattle my tower at four days old. I'd prefer to avoid that."
"We tell you," Doris said firmly. "Anything. Everything."
Halvar exhaled. "Good." He glanced at Dorothy. "Can you reinforce this room's dampening lattice without turning it into a cage?"
"Yes," Dorothy said. "It'll feel… thicker. A bit muffled. Like being wrapped in two blankets instead of one. He might fuss. But it'll be
harder for threads to slip in without us noticing."
"Do it," Halvar said. "Send your materials list to Lyr; she'll complain, then find it anyway. I'll clear channel access with the Spire."
Flint raised an eyebrow. "You can… do that? Just walk up to the central tower and ask it for permission?"
"It's less walking and more arguing with stone," Halvar said. "But yes. Someone has to maintain the relationship."
John rubbed his temples. "We're in a war already," he said softly. "And he's not even a week old."
"Yes," Halvar said. "We are."
He touched the door sigil lightly.
It pulsed in answer.
"They're not getting in," he added. "You have my word. They can shout from the cracks. They can scratch their little marks in the sewers. This tower has stood through worse than them. And it has me, Maevra, Dorothy,
Serais, and a very grumpy archivist all aligned on one priority: keep that child out of their hands."
Flint snorted. "For someone who claims not to make forever promises, you're getting close."
"Forever is the Emperor's lie," Halvar said. "My promise lasts as long as I do. After that, I'll have arranged enough documentation to
haunt whoever follows."
He turned toward the door.
"Try to sleep," he said. "They're rattling from outside. We can handle that. When they come for the inside…" He paused. "We'll talk strategy another day."
He left.
The door closed softly.
For a few moments, all that remained was Brian's thin, hiccuping sobs and the echo of something bright and sharp having been cut out of the night.
Flint slid his knife back under his pillow and flopped onto his pallet. "I hate this place," he muttered into the blanket. "But I hate every place that isn't here more."
Dorothy sank back into her chair, staff across her knees. Her hands trembled slightly as she let the adrenaline drain.
"That was close," John said quietly.
"Yes," Dorothy said. "And it will happen again."
John crossed to the bed and sat beside Doris.
She was still rocking, still humming, but the song had grown ragged. Her eyes shone with tears she was too tired to shed.
"He felt them," she whispered. "He woke before anyone else. If we'd been asleep—if Dorothy hadn't—"
John cupped the back of her neck gently. "We were here," he said. "We woke. We cut the line. That's what matters."
"What if next time we're not enough?" she choked.
"Then we bring more people into the room," he said. "Halvar. Maevra. Serais. The old archivist with the copper braid. We fill this little
space with enough stubbornness that nothing can pull him out of it."
Doris let out a wet laugh-sob.
Brian's cries weakened.
He sagged against her, muscles loosening.
The wards hummed—a low, steady note.
John listened.
He remembered the feel of that thin, wrong line outside the ward net, tugging. The way Dorothy's counterstroke had snapped it. The distant, outraged whisper.
"Lost."
Good.
Stay lost.
He brushed a finger over Brian's small hand.
The baby's fingers twitched and curled around the tip.
"You hear me?" John murmured. "They're looking. They're going to look your whole life. They're going to yell about destiny and purity
and whatever nonsense gets them out of bed. But they're not here. We are."
Brian didn't understand the words.
He understood the warmth.
His grip tightened.
Dorothy watched, eyes half-lidded.
"Hooks will keep coming," she said softly. "Threads. Temptations. Warnings. It's what they do. It's what this world is made of now—lines tugging on everything. All we can do is teach him which ones to follow and which ones to snap."
John nodded.
"Then we start now," he said. "First lesson: if something in the dark whispers your name without asking… you scream louder and turn away."
Flint snorted. "Catchy."
Doris pressed her lips to Brian's temple and whispered the old caravan blessing.
"Stay small a while longer," she murmured. "Stay ours. Let the lines fight themselves out there. In here, you're just a boy who drools on
everyone."
Brian made a tiny, protesting grunt at being slandered.
Then, finally, he drifted into sleep.
The wards resumed their slow, steady pulse.
Rain began again, light against the stone.
Somewhere to the west, near the outer wardline, cloaked figures gathered in a damp tunnel, muttering about broken links and wasted offerings, eyes bright with fanatic frustration.
They had reached out.
They had been cut.
They would try again.
But tonight, in a small suite wrapped in wards and tired determination, their hooks found nothing but stone.
The shadows on the wardline stayed outside.
Inside, the light was small.
But it held.