The carriage that came for them was nicer than anything Kael had ever ridden in.
It was black, naturally—House Mourning's signature color—but the interior was lined with dark velvet, the seats cushioned with something that felt like actual feathers. Glass windows allowed views of the passing landscape, though they were tinted to prevent outsiders from seeing in.
"This is fancy," Ember observed, running her fingers along the velvet. "I thought House Mourning wasn't wealthy."
"We're not. This must be borrowed." Kael settled into the seat across from her. "Or rented. Vessen said she was calling in favors."
Vessen herself had not come to see them off. She'd said her goodbyes the night before—brief, practical, with detailed instructions on who to contact at the Academy and what to say if certain questions were asked. Then she'd retreated to her chambers and hadn't emerged since.
Kael suspected she was relieved to be rid of them. Having two Harbingers in her compound couldn't have been comfortable.
The carriage lurched into motion, and Verantum began to slide past the windows.
Kael had lived in the city his entire life—or at least, all the parts of his life he could remember. He'd grown up in the lower districts, worked his way into House Mourning through a combination of natural talent and desperate ambition, and had spent the last four years learning to carry the dying thoughts of strangers.
He'd never left the city walls.
Now, watching familiar streets give way to unfamiliar ones, then to city gates he'd only ever seen from a distance, he felt something he couldn't quite name. Loss, maybe. Or anticipation. Or some complicated mixture of both.
"You're sad," Ember said.
"I'm thinking."
"You think loudly. Your face does things." She tilted her head. "Are you going to miss this place?"
"Parts of it. The library. Some of the people." Kael watched a marketplace slide past—stalls selling fruits and fabrics and things he'd never been able to afford. "Not all of it."
"What won't you miss?"
He considered the question. "The expectations, I suppose. Everyone at House Mourning knew what I was supposed to become. A Witness. A carrier of regrets. It was all planned out, step by step, until I was old like Vessen with hollow eyes and thousands of deaths in my head."
"Is that bad?"
"It wasn't. But now..." He touched his chest, where the warmth pulsed steadily. "Now I don't know what I'm supposed to become. And that's terrifying, but also—"
"Free?"
Kael looked at her, surprised. She was watching him with that unsettling intensity she got sometimes, seeing more than a child should.
"Maybe," he admitted. "A little bit free."
The journey to the Academy took three days.
They traveled through the heartland of Verantum—past farming communities that supplied the city with food, through small towns that existed to service travelers, over bridges that spanned rivers Kael had only ever seen on maps.
The world was larger than he'd understood. Not in an abstract, intellectual sense—he'd known that from books and lectures. But knowing it and experiencing it were different things. Each mile that passed showed him something new: different styles of architecture, different ways of dressing, different patterns of speech in the accents of the people they encountered.
Ember absorbed it all with her typical intensity.
"Why do the houses look different here?" she asked on the second day, pointing at a village where every building seemed to be made of pale yellow stone.
"Different regions have different building materials. This area has limestone quarries nearby, so they use limestone." Kael had picked this up from a geography text in the Mourning library—information that had seemed useless at the time but was suddenly relevant. "In the city, we use darker stone because that's what's available from the shard borders."
"Shard borders?"
"Where the stable parts of reality meet the broken parts. The Hollow." He gestured vaguely toward the horizon. "You can't see it from here, but somewhere out that direction, reality just... ends. Or changes into something else."
Ember frowned. "I know about the shards. I read about them. But I don't understand how they work. How can reality just end?"
"Nobody really understands. The Reckoning broke something fundamental about the world. Now there are pieces—shards—that are stable and connected, and spaces between them that are... not."
"The Hollow."
"Yes. Some people can travel through it, but it's dangerous. Most trade between shards goes through anchor points—stable connections that are maintained through tremendous amounts of debt."
"Everything comes back to debt," Ember said quietly.
"That's kind of the point. Debt is what holds reality together. The Ledger—the system that tracks all obligations—it's not just an accounting mechanism. It's the structure of existence itself."
Ember was quiet for a moment, processing. Then: "So when I owe a debt to an Absent creditor, I'm connected to something fundamental. Something structural."
The warmth in Kael's chest pulsed sharply. He wasn't sure if it was agreement or warning.
"Possibly. We don't really understand how divine debts work—not the way we understand normal ones." He paused. "That's part of why we're going to the Academy. To learn more."
"And if what we learn is bad?"
"Then at least we'll know. And knowing is better than not knowing."
Ember didn't look entirely convinced, but she nodded and returned to watching the landscape pass.
On the evening of the second day, they stopped at an inn.
It was a modest establishment—nothing like the luxurious places that catered to wealthy travelers, but clean and comfortable enough. Kael had been given funds for the journey, but he was careful with spending. He didn't know what expenses might await them at the Academy.
They took a single room with two beds, separated by a folding screen. It was the first time they'd slept somewhere other than House Mourning since Ember had arrived in his life, and the novelty of it seemed to unsettle her.
"It's too quiet," she said, sitting on her bed with her knees pulled to her chest. "At House Mourning, I could always hear footsteps. People moving around. Here it's just... empty."
"The inn is empty?"
"No, there are other people. I can feel them through the walls, kind of." She frowned. "That sounds strange, doesn't it?"
"A little. But everything about our situation is strange." Kael sat on his own bed, facing her. "What do you mean, you can feel them?"
"I don't know how to explain it. It's like... pressure, but not the constant pressure I always feel. More like ripples. When someone moves nearby, I can sense it." Her frown deepened. "I think I've been able to do it for a while, but I didn't realize what it was until we left the city."
"You're sensing other people's presence."
"Maybe? Or maybe I'm just imagining things." She shrugged. "It doesn't matter."
But it did matter. Kael thought about his own abilities—the warmth and cold that responded to concepts and emotions, the connection he seemed to have to Ember herself. Were these abilities linked? Were they both developing new sensitivities because of the fragments they carried?
"We should pay attention to things like that," he said carefully. "Any new sensations, any changes in what you can perceive. It might be important."
Ember nodded slowly. "The Academy. They'll know what to make of it."
"That's the hope."
She was quiet for a moment. Then, in a smaller voice: "Kael? Are you scared?"
The question surprised him. He'd been trying to project confidence, certainty—the kind of steady reassurance he thought a guardian should provide. But Ember wasn't asking for reassurance. She was asking for honesty.
"Yes," he admitted. "I'm scared of what we might find out. Scared of what the Academy might want from us. Scared of the things inside us and what they might become."
"But you're going anyway."
"Because being scared doesn't mean you get to stop moving. Sometimes you have to be scared and keep going at the same time."
Ember considered this. Then she lay down on her bed, pulling the thin blanket up to her chin.
"I'm scared too," she said quietly. "But I'm glad I'm not alone."
"You're not alone," Kael agreed. "We're in this together."
"Together," she repeated, like a promise.
The warmth in his chest pulsed, soft and steady, as they both drifted off to sleep.
On the morning of the third day, the Academy appeared on the horizon.
Kael had seen drawings—stylized illustrations in books and pamphlets that made the place look grand but abstract. The reality was different. The reality was overwhelming.
Three towers rose from the landscape like fingers reaching toward the sky, each one built from a different material: white marble, black basalt, grey granite. They caught the morning light and seemed to glow, each with its own character—the white tower gleaming with reflected sun, the black tower absorbing light into its depths, the grey tower standing solid and neutral between them.
Around the towers spread a complex of lower buildings, walls, courtyards—a small city unto itself, sprawling across the hills with a casual grandeur that suggested centuries of accumulated power and prestige.
"It's big," Ember said, her voice hushed.
"Bigger than I expected."
"How many people live there?"
"Thousands, I think. Students, teachers, staff, researchers. It's practically its own community."
The carriage approached the main gates—a towering archway of interlocked stones that seemed to shimmer slightly, as though reality itself was paying attention to who entered. Guards in Academy uniforms checked their documents, asked a few perfunctory questions, and waved them through.
Just like that, they were inside.
The carriage wound through wide streets lined with buildings of all sizes and purposes. Kael saw what looked like dormitories, lecture halls, libraries, training grounds. Students walked in groups, their uniforms color-coded to indicate tower affiliation: white for Obligation, black for Collection, grey for Witness.
And everyone—everyone—carried an aura of confidence. Of belonging. Of knowing exactly who they were and where they fit in the grand hierarchy of power and privilege.
Kael felt very small. Very out of place.
"They all look so sure of themselves," Ember murmured, echoing his thoughts.
"They probably feel the same way we do," Kael said, though he didn't quite believe it. "Everyone has doubts. Some are just better at hiding them."
The carriage stopped in front of an administrative building—a sensible grey stone structure with the Academy's seal carved above the door.
"Here we go," Kael said, reaching for the door handle.
Ember grabbed his hand. Her fingers were cold, trembling slightly.
"Together," she reminded him.
"Together," he agreed.
They stepped out of the carriage and into their new life.