The bells sounded wrong that morning.
They weren't loud — just off, ringing a half-tone lower, like the air itself was reluctant to carry them.
Taren tugged at the collar of his uniform, still half-buttoned, eyes darting toward the courtyard where instructors were lining the students in neat rows. He hated neat rows. They always meant something serious.
Serin stood two steps away, whispering under her breath, "You think it's about us?"
Taren made a face. "Why would it be? Maybe someone broke a window again."
"You broke a window," she reminded him.
"Exactly. I'm still here."
She tried not to smile, but the twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her. The tension clung anyway; even at ten, she could read it — the way Kael's expression stayed too still, the way the guards at the gate wouldn't meet anyone's eyes.
Then they arrived.
Four robed figures, silver insignias catching the pale morning light. Council envoys. The crowd of students hushed immediately, the kind of silence that could slice air in half.
Kael stepped forward to greet them, but his voice carried that forced calm teachers used when they were about to lie.
"Councilors," he said evenly. "We weren't expecting inspection this early."
The lead envoy — Lys — smiled faintly. "You weren't expecting much of anything, I suppose."
Her gaze swept across the courtyard like a blade through tall grass… until it stopped.
On them.
Serin felt it first — the prickling behind her eyes, the sense of being seen through, not looked at. She nudged Taren, whispering, "Don't stare."
He whispered back, "I'm not staring."
"You're literally staring."
"Fine," he muttered, dropping his eyes.
But he could still feel the woman's attention on him, the same way you could feel heat before you saw fire.
---
The students were dismissed to class, but not them. Kael's voice cut through the murmurs.
"Vale. Aeris. You stay."
Serin froze. "Taren—"
"I know," he whispered. "We're doomed."
"Maybe they'll just scold us."
He gave her a look. "The last time I got scolded, the training field caught fire."
She tried to laugh. It didn't sound like laughter.
---
Inside Kael's Office
The room felt smaller with the Council inside. The walls held too much air, like even the space didn't want to be here.
Kael stood near the window, his posture sharp, formal. The resonance sphere — the same one that had pulsed all night — sat hidden beneath a cloth on his desk.
Lys stood closest to the children. "Taren Vale. Serin Aeris." Her tone was polite in the way thunder is polite before striking. "Do you know why you're here?"
Taren glanced at Kael, then at Serin, then back at her. "Because we're… good at things?"
Kael closed his eyes briefly.
Serin fidgeted with her sleeve. "We didn't do anything wrong," she said quickly. "We were training like we're supposed to."
Lys crouched slightly so her eyes were level with theirs. She had that strange softness adults used when they wanted to sound kind but didn't quite manage.
"You both have unusual gifts," she said. "But gifts can turn into danger when left unchecked. Tell me, did anything strange happen during your training this week?"
Serin's throat tightened. She looked at Taren. He gave her the same look back — don't say it.
She shook her head. "No, ma'am."
Lys tilted her head. "No? Not even during the storm?"
Taren's pulse jumped. "There was lightning. It hit a tree. That's… pretty strange."
Her smile was thin. "And the sky glowing red and silver — was that lightning too?"
Kael stepped forward quickly. "Councilor, they're children. Whatever you saw was likely residual energy from the storm—"
"Silence, Kael." Lys didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.
The room fell still. Even the torches dimmed slightly, their flames leaning away from her.
She looked at the children again. "The Academy is not a playground. When Aether behaves abnormally, it threatens all of us. If you are connected to that surge, you will tell me."
Serin swallowed. "We don't know how."
Lys's gaze softened slightly. "Then you felt something."
Taren blurted, "It wasn't bad!"
Kael winced.
The Councilor straightened, eyes narrowing. "What wasn't bad?"
He hesitated, realizing too late what he'd said. "Uh… the, uh—practice. It just felt… different."
"Different how?"
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere but her eyes. "Like… like the fire wasn't angry for once."
Lys blinked slowly. "And yours?" she asked Serin.
"The wind listened," she said quietly, before realizing what she'd admitted.
The envoy nodded once. "So it was you."
Kael's voice came tight and low. "That's enough questioning."
"You're protective," Lys said. "But protection isn't the same as control."
She turned back to the children. "We'll be observing your sessions. You'll report to the north amphitheatre at sunrise tomorrow. Alone."
Taren started, "But—"
"Dismissed."
The word cracked like glass.
---
Outside the Office
The corridor seemed colder. The marble underfoot still hummed faintly from the tension left behind.
Serin looked at him. "You told her."
"I panicked!"
"You always panic."
"I didn't mean to—"
"You said the fire wasn't angry!"
He groaned, covering his face. "Yeah, because that's totally a normal sentence for a sane person."
She huffed, crossing her arms. "Now they're going to test us again."
"Then we'll just… do normal stuff," he said weakly. "No glowing, no humming, no weird sky things."
"You make it sound so easy."
"Yeah, well," he muttered, "pretending is kind of my specialty."
She sighed, softer this time. "You think Kael's mad?"
He glanced back at the door. "He looked more scared than mad."
---
Inside, after they left
Kael pulled the cloth off the sphere. The twin lights inside were dim, faint as fading embers. But when he looked closer, he saw them flicker in rhythm — once, twice — each pulse matching the pace of two small heartbeats walking away down the hall.
He whispered, "They don't even know what they've done."
And behind him, Lys's reflection in the window answered quietly,
> "That's what makes them dangerous."
The amphitheatre was always cold in the mornings.
The stone didn't seem to care about sunlight — it just held the night a little longer than it should.
Taren and Serin stood at the edge of the circle carved into the floor, their shadows bending strangely under the pale glow of the containment sigils.
Kael was already there, arms crossed, face unreadable. Beside him stood two Council observers — robes silver, eyes sharper than their words.
Lys lingered a few steps behind them, calm as the morning fog.
"Step forward," one of the observers said. His voice was like glass breaking politely.
Serin swallowed. Taren gave her a small nod — the kind that meant don't worry, I'll mess up first if anyone does.
They stepped into the circle together.
The sigils flared once beneath their feet — white light bleeding into blue, forming intricate spirals that mirrored the diagrams Kael used in class.
The older observer spoke, monotone. "You will each summon your Aether manifestation. Nothing more. Nothing… unusual. Do you understand?"
Taren nodded quickly. Serin hesitated, then did the same.
Kael watched in silence. He knew better than to interrupt.
---
Taren went first.
He lifted his hand, slow and deliberate, summoning a single flame — small, obedient. The light danced quietly on his palm, flickering like a nervous heartbeat.
The Council scribes murmured in approval. Controlled. Predictable.
Serin followed.
A thin spiral of air rose around her wrist, forming a tiny ring that shimmered like glass before dissolving.
The second observer nodded. "Stable flow. Synchronized pulse."
For a moment, it was calm.
Then the first observer said something he shouldn't have.
"Strange. They're aligned again."
Kael's head snapped up. "Aligned?"
The man gestured toward the sigils under their feet. The white light had shifted — no longer separate streams, but crossing patterns, intertwining faintly at the center.
Serin blinked. "Is that… bad?"
"No," Kael said quickly. "Just—"
"Don't interrupt," Lys said softly.
Kael bit back the rest.
---
The air began to hum.
It wasn't loud — just the faintest vibration, like the world holding its breath.
Taren's flame bent toward Serin.
Her wind curled toward him.
The two currents met at the center of the circle — hesitant, testing, almost playful — before merging into a single flicker of gold.
A soft gasp rippled through the amphitheatre.
The scribes scrambled, taking readings. The observers exchanged quick, unreadable looks.
Serin whispered, "Taren, stop—"
"I'm not doing anything," he hissed.
The wind thickened, swirling tighter around them.
The flame grew brighter, but not wild — alive.
Lys took a step forward. "Contain it."
Kael's voice came low, controlled. "Don't move, either of you. Just breathe."
Taren exhaled shakily. "That's easy for you to say."
Serin's eyes darted toward him — wide, scared. "It's happening again."
The words made the air pulse — one strong thud that sent every torch in the amphitheatre flickering out.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Only the glow between them remained — soft, rhythmic, and impossibly beautiful.
---
The observers panicked first.
"Break the circle!" one shouted.
Kael raised a hand sharply. "No! That'll destabilize it—"
But they didn't listen. A sigil snapped, light bleeding sideways, and the entire formation shuddered.
The gold flare split into two streams, each shooting back toward its source.
Serin staggered backward, clutching her chest. Taren hit his knees, gripping his hand.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then, together, they gasped — the same breath, the same sound, perfectly in sync.
The glow vanished.
---
Kael was the first to reach them. "Are you hurt?"
Serin shook her head weakly. "Just dizzy."
Taren nodded, still catching his breath. "What… was that?"
Lys stepped closer, her tone calm but edged. "That was proof."
"Proof of what?" Taren asked, eyes narrowing.
She didn't answer him — only turned to Kael. "You can't hide this anymore."
Kael straightened, his expression hard. "You can report whatever you want, Lys. But you don't understand what you're looking at."
"I don't need to understand it," she said. "The Council only needs to know it exists."
Her gaze lingered on the children. "Especially if it's attached to them."
---
Later — outside the amphitheatre
The courtyard felt different again. Quieter.
Students whispered as Taren and Serin passed, eyes following them like moths trailing light.
Taren kicked a pebble hard enough to send it skidding across the stones. "Great. Now we're 'attached things.'"
Serin sighed. "They looked scared."
"Good."
"Not them, Taren." She looked up at him, voice soft. "Kael."
He stopped walking. "Yeah. I saw."
For a second, neither moved. The wind brushed past, tugging at their cloaks.
Then Serin whispered, "You think we're in trouble?"
He smirked faintly. "We were born in trouble."
That made her smile — small, real, and fleeting.
They kept walking until the murmurs faded behind them, two small figures in the widening morning light.
And above the academy towers, faint as a heartbeat, the air shimmered once — a silent reminder that what had happened in that circle hadn't really stopped.
It was only waiting.
Night returned before the academy had fully recovered from the morning.
The amphitheatre still smelled faintly of ozone — the kind of metallic air that followed something too powerful to name.
Most students pretended nothing happened. Pretending was safer.
But Kael couldn't.
---
Kael's Quarters — Late Evening
Rain lashed against the windows, sharp and relentless.
Kael stood by the resonance sphere again, its light dimmed to almost nothing — yet the hum beneath it persisted.
Steady. Defiant.
Lys entered without knocking. "You're still awake."
"I could say the same," he said without turning.
"I expected you'd destroy that thing by now."
He exhaled. "I tried."
She blinked. "And?"
"It hummed louder."
That earned her silence. Then a quiet laugh — small, humorless. "You sound like one of your students, Kael."
He finally turned, exhaustion carved deep into his expression. "Do you know what you're asking me to do, Lys? They're children. If I report this, the Council will drag them into labs before dawn."
"Maybe they should."
Kael's voice dropped to a low growl. "Don't finish that sentence."
Lys met his glare evenly. "You think I enjoy this? That I want to watch history repeat? You know what happens when power like that is left unchecked."
"And you know what happens when the Council tries to own it," he shot back.
They stared at each other across the flickering light.
Neither blinked first.
Then Lys sighed, tone softening. "I'm not the enemy, Kael."
"Then start acting like it."
She turned to leave. "The Council will expect a report by sunrise. Whether you file it or not is your choice."
Kael's voice followed her to the door. "If they come for those two, they'll have to go through me."
Lys paused, hand on the frame.
"Careful, old friend," she murmured. "The last person who said that didn't survive the choice."
The door shut behind her.
Kael looked back at the sphere.
Its faint light pulsed once — slow, calm, as if listening.
He whispered, "What are you doing to them?"
The hum answered in rhythm with his heartbeat.
---
North Dorms
Serin couldn't sleep.
The rain outside wasn't the gentle kind — it was wild, restless, slamming against the panes like it wanted in.
She sat up, hugging her knees. The faint glow of her mark pulsed again, rhythm steady, almost comforting.
She whispered, "Not again."
The wind stirred — soft, barely noticeable, but it responded.
Her breath hitched. "Taren?"
No sound. Only warmth.
She blinked, looking around her dim room. "I'm imagining things," she muttered.
But then the warmth grew stronger — like someone had drawn near, invisible but close enough for her heartbeat to stumble.
And then — the voice.
> "Don't be afraid."
Serin froze. The voice wasn't loud. It wasn't even clear. But she knew it.
"Taren?" she whispered again.
The answer came like a pulse against her skin. Not words — feeling.
Worry.
Fear.
Then calm.
Her eyes widened. "You're dreaming," she said aloud. "You're—"
She stopped. Her head spun slightly, the air thickening around her like the world had decided to tilt.
The sound of rain softened, and all she could hear was a faint rhythm — a heartbeat, echoing far away.
---
South Wing
Taren tossed in his sleep, caught between fever and dream.
He saw flashes — wind swirling in slow spirals, light bending in silver arcs.
Somewhere in the haze, a voice whispered, don't be afraid.
He stirred. "Serin?"
The dream responded with warmth — faint, reassuring, real.
His breathing steadied.
He didn't wake, not fully. But even in sleep, his hand moved — reaching toward the empty space beside him.
The ember beneath his skin flickered once, twice… then glowed in rhythm with a pulse miles away.
---
Kael's Tower
He didn't know what woke him — a noise, a shift in the air, or just the ache of realization.
The resonance sphere was alive again. Not bright, not dangerous — just aware.
Kael stood, whispering, "No…"
Two streams of light — one red, one silver — circled within it like twin comets orbiting a single point.
For a moment, they moved apart. Then, slowly, they began to align.
Kael pressed his palm against the glass. "Don't."
The sphere pulsed once.
Outside, thunder rolled across the valley.
---
North Dorms — Dream
Serin stood in the middle of a field that wasn't a field — endless white, like dawn before color.
The wind moved, gentle and slow, carrying faint traces of warmth.
"Taren?" she called softly.
The light bent ahead of her — shaping itself into a silhouette. Small. Familiar.
He turned.
Their eyes met.
Neither spoke.
But the moment they did, the air rippled — faint sound, like two heartbeats aligning.
She whispered, "This isn't real."
He smiled faintly. "It doesn't have to be."
The ground shimmered beneath them. The air trembled.
And then, before she could move closer —
The world broke apart.
---
Both woke at the same time.
Serin gasped, clutching her wrist.
Taren sat upright, chest heaving.
Across the distance, neither said a word — but both whispered the same name.
> "...I saw you."
The wind outside carried the sound away like a secret.
Dawn came late that day.
The sky looked pale and tired — like it hadn't slept either.
Taren leaned over the basin, splashing water on his face until the mirror stopped showing someone else's reflection. His own eyes stared back — bloodshot, faint shimmer still lingering beneath them.
He gripped the edge of the sink. "You're fine," he muttered to his reflection. "You didn't see anything. You just dreamt it."
But deep down, the lie didn't hold.
Because when he closed his eyes, he could still feel her breathing — faint, steady, like the echo of a lullaby that hadn't stopped yet.
He dried his face and walked out before his thoughts caught up.
---
North Wing — Dawn
Serin sat on the edge of her bed, half-dressed, boots untied.
Her roommate — a loud, cheerful girl named Lira — was still asleep, snoring softly into her pillow.
For a moment, Serin envied her.
She wanted to be normal — to wake up to noise, not whispers.
The wind through the cracked window brushed against her hand again — soft, almost apologetic. She flinched. "Stop doing that," she whispered.
The wind didn't stop.
She sighed, tying her boots, and whispered again — this time under her breath.
"Then fine. But don't make it weird."
---
Courtyard
The academy stirred like a hive.
Students filed out for morning drills, the air filled with chatter and the clang of practice weapons.
Taren was halfway across the square when he spotted Serin. Their eyes met — brief, hesitant — and for a heartbeat, the noise around them dimmed.
It wasn't just in their heads.
The fountain in the center of the yard rippled once, as if something unseen had brushed across the water's surface.
Serin looked down quickly, breaking eye contact. "Don't," she whispered to herself. "Not here."
Taren exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Great. Now we're breaking physics in public."
---
Kael watched from the balcony above, expression unreadable.
He had barely slept. The Council wanted answers — the kind that fit in reports, not the kind that broke logic.
And yet, when he looked at those two kids in the courtyard, all he could think was: They're not doing it on purpose.
Behind him, Lys spoke. "It's happening even without proximity tests."
"I know."
"Then it's escalating."
Kael turned sharply. "You think I don't see that?"
"Then act before the Council does," she said evenly. "Because when they lose patience, they don't ask questions."
He stepped closer. "If I hand them over, they'll destroy whatever this is trying to become."
Lys met his gaze, her tone colder now. "And if you don't, it might destroy the academy."
---
Training Yard — Later
"Again!" Instructor Rhea barked, clapping her hands.
Taren and Serin stood opposite each other, wooden staffs in hand. The other students had been told it was a sparring drill, but everyone knew this was observation.
Serin tried to smile, whispering, "Don't set me on fire."
"No promises," Taren muttered, taking a stance.
Rhea's voice cut through the air. "Begin!"
They moved — not as opponents, but as instinct. Every strike met before it landed, every movement predicting the other's. It wasn't training anymore; it was choreography written by something else.
The students started whispering.
Rhea frowned. "Enough," she ordered.
But they didn't stop.
Serin's staff spun mid-swing, wind bending around it like invisible thread. Taren's flame erupted in a line across the ground, halting just short of her boots.
And then — the spark.
For one impossible second, her wind and his fire collided. Instead of cancelling, they spiraled.
The staff in her hand glowed. The flame around his palm turned silver at the edges.
Gasps spread through the yard.
"Taren!" Rhea shouted. "Drop it!"
He tried. It didn't listen.
Serin's voice trembled. "I can't control it!"
The air between them shimmered — light swirling upward, rising higher until it burst into a shower of sparks that faded harmlessly into the air.
Silence followed.
Even the wind stopped.
---
Kael arrived seconds later, his coat half undone, eyes scanning for damage. "Everyone step back!"
He knelt beside them, voice low but sharp. "Are you hurt?"
They both shook their heads.
Behind him, Lys observed quietly, arms folded. "You see it now," she said.
Kael didn't answer. He was too busy staring at the ground — where faint spirals of scorched lines had formed, identical to the patterns he'd seen in his sphere.
Lys whispered, "It's the same mark."
Kael's throat tightened. "No. It's growing."
---
Courtyard — Evening
Word spread fast.
By sunset, half the academy had heard the story — the prodigy pair who made the elements dance.
Some whispered admiration. Others whispered fear.
Taren and Serin heard both.
"Why are they all staring?" Taren muttered, pushing through the crowd.
"Because you almost turned a sparring match into art," Serin said softly.
He groaned. "Yeah, I'm sure the Council calls it art too."
"You think they'll expel us?"
He looked at her — really looked. "If they do, at least we go out in style."
She snorted, covering her mouth to hide a smile. "You're terrible at being serious."
"I try," he said. "Doesn't work."
They walked until the courtyard emptied, the last streaks of dusk bleeding into the horizon.
Neither said it, but both felt it — the quiet in the air that wasn't quiet at all.
Like something had started breathing through the world, waiting for the next heartbeat.
---
Kael's Tower — Night
Kael stared out at the empty yard long after they'd gone.
The resonance sphere pulsed on his desk again — stronger now, brighter, alive.
He whispered, "I can't protect them forever."
Lys's reflection in the glass answered quietly.
> "Then you'd better decide who you're protecting them from."
The first drop of rain hit the academy wall like a warning.
By the time the second fell, the wind was already restless — twisting through the courtyards, curling under doors, searching for something it remembered but couldn't name.
Kael didn't notice the storm at first.
He was too busy reading what should've stayed buried.
---
Kael's Office — Midnight
The room was a maze of scattered notes.
Old scrolls, torn diagrams, candlelight bleeding into ink.
At the center of it all sat the open folder — Prototype 01: Echo Symmetry.
He'd read the same paragraph five times.
He still didn't understand it.
> "When the frequencies align past the harmonic threshold, separation becomes illusion. What follows cannot be reversed."
Kael exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Separation becomes illusion," he muttered. "What does that even mean?"
The resonance sphere flickered faintly beside him, responding like it had heard the question.
He turned toward it, voice quiet. "If I'm right… they're past the first stage already."
Thunder rolled across the valley — long, deep, and tired.
The glass rattled.
He pressed a hand to the sphere's surface. "If I can't stop it, I'll at least understand it."
The sphere pulsed once in answer.
---
North Dorms
Serin couldn't sleep.
The storm wasn't loud; it was alive.
Every time thunder whispered through the air, the wind inside her chest stirred — faint, rhythmic, as if something within her was answering back.
She sat by the window again, knees drawn to her chest. Her candle had burned out hours ago. The only light came from flashes outside.
She whispered, "Please… just stop."
But the wind didn't listen.
It never did.
Another flash — and for a heartbeat, she saw him.
Not in front of her. Not in the reflection.
In her mind — quick, blurred, real.
Taren, standing in the courtyard, drenched, defiant, staring up at the storm as if daring it to fall harder.
She blinked, breath catching. "Taren?"
The air shifted.
And then she heard it.
> "You shouldn't be awake."
Her pulse jumped. "You're not really here."
> "Neither are you."
It wasn't sound. It wasn't thought.
It was something in between — a feeling wearing the shape of words.
---
South Wing
Taren stood exactly where she'd seen him.
The storm lashed against the stone, but his flame stayed steady in his hand, shielded by some invisible balance.
He wasn't sure why he'd come outside.
He just felt… pulled.
When her voice brushed his mind, soft as a sigh, he didn't even flinch.
> "Why do you always go looking for trouble?"
He smiled faintly. "Maybe trouble's just better company."
> "You sound tired."
"I could say the same."
> "You're standing in the rain."
"So are you."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It felt like the calm that came between breaths.
Lightning tore the sky open — silver and gold.
For a second, both of them felt the same jolt — through air, through bone, through something deeper.
---
Kael's Tower
The resonance sphere flared so suddenly that the candles went out.
Kael stumbled back, shielding his eyes.
"Not again—"
The sphere vibrated violently, silver and crimson light swirling faster than before.
Then it steadied — and the glow split, shooting upward like twin threads escaping through the ceiling.
Kael followed the direction instinctively — toward the dorms.
He grabbed his coat, whispering, "Not now, not tonight."
---
Courtyard — Storm's Peak
The rain fell sideways.
Wind roared between the towers, howling through the old stone.
Serin reached the courtyard first, hair plastered to her face, boots sinking into shallow puddles. "Taren!" she shouted.
He turned at the sound, his eyes lit by the flame he still held — not in his palm anymore, but floating, hovering in front of him like it had a heartbeat of its own.
She froze. "You said you'd stop training alone."
"I didn't call it training," he said quietly. "I just needed to see if it would listen."
"Listen?"
He looked up. The storm above them spun in slow motion — the rain bending slightly around the flame's light, like it didn't dare touch it.
"It's the same," he said. "The wind moves when I breathe."
Serin stepped closer, soaked and shivering. "That's not normal."
"I know."
"And you're still doing it."
He gave her a small grin. "We've established I'm not smart."
She almost smiled, but her voice broke through the rain. "Then what is this?"
He shook his head. "I don't know."
Lightning struck again — close enough to make the ground tremble.
The flame in front of him flared, twisting upward — meeting the wind.
The storm paused. Just for a heartbeat.
And in that impossible stillness, they both heard it: a sound that wasn't thunder — a pulse.
Slow. Steady. Familiar.
Serin whispered, "You hear it too?"
Taren nodded. "It's not the storm."
They looked at each other — drenched, trembling, terrified.
And for that single second, the world stopped pretending it understood them.
---
From the Tower
Kael burst into the courtyard, calling their names — but he was too late.
The wind had already calmed, the flame gone.
They stood there in the rain, silent, small, and impossibly still — two children staring at each other as if the entire sky had just taken a breath and decided to wait.
Kael's voice caught in his throat. He didn't move closer.
He didn't need to.
The glow beneath their skin had faded.
But the air between them — that was alive.
---
Later — Kael's Notes (unread, unsent)
> Observation: The storm reacted to them, not vice versa. No signs of external manipulation. Their synchronization continues without physical contact or conscious intent.
Personal note: They are unaware. But the world is not.
Dawn broke late.
It came in shades of white and grey — the kind of light that made even warmth feel cold.
Taren woke to the smell of rain still clinging to the room.
His pillow was damp. His hand — sore. A faint red mark spiraled across his palm, almost like a burn but too precise, too clean.
He flexed his fingers. It pulsed once.
"Not a dream, then," he whispered.
From across the dorm, another voice stirred — one that wasn't supposed to.
> "It still hurts."
He froze. "Serin?"
No answer. Just a faint echo in his chest — like hearing someone else breathe inside his own lungs.
---
North Dorms
Serin sat up abruptly, clutching her wrist.
The mark there had turned pale silver, shaped like a faint spiral. It throbbed once before fading.
Lira stirred in her bed. "You okay?"
Serin nodded quickly. "Yeah. Bad dream."
Lira groaned. "Then tell it to stop shaking my window next time."
Serin blinked, glancing toward the window — where the wind was indeed tapping, softly but rhythmically, like knocking from something that wanted in.
She whispered, "Sorry."
---
Council Chamber — Morning
The room was all stone and silence.
Kael stood at the center, posture straight but jaw clenched.
Lys sat among three other envoys. None of them smiled.
The resonance sphere rested on the table between them — inert now, no light, no hum. Just a relic of something it couldn't contain.
"Your report," the eldest Councilor said.
Kael placed a sealed scroll on the table. "All observed phenomena documented. No evidence of instability."
Lys's brow twitched. She didn't call him out — not yet.
"Do you believe these children pose a threat?" the Councilor asked.
Kael met his gaze. "I believe they pose a mystery."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only honest one."
Silence stretched thin.
Finally, the Councilor said, "Then until further evaluation, they will remain under observation. Together."
Kael's breath caught. "Together?"
Lys's voice was calm. "Containment is easier when variables stay within the same equation."
He realized too late what she'd done.
Keep them together — to watch them.
He bowed stiffly. "Understood."
But as he turned to leave, Lys's voice followed quietly, almost kindly:
> "Whatever's happening, Kael… don't make the same mistake twice."
He didn't answer.
---
Courtyard — Noon
The academy had returned to its rhythm, but the rhythm was wrong.
Students whispered as Taren and Serin walked side by side, summoned to Kael's office once more.
They didn't talk much.
Every now and then, one would glance at the other — like they were trying to confirm the other was real.
Finally, Taren muttered, "They're staring again."
Serin tried to shrug. "Maybe they're jealous."
"Of what? My inability to sleep?"
She smiled faintly. "Of not being boring."
He almost laughed — almost — but stopped when they reached the tower stairs.
---
Kael's Office
He looked different — tired, but steadier. His tone, though, was quiet steel.
"I'm changing your schedule," he said. "You'll train together for the next few weeks. No one else joins your sessions. No reports, no interference."
Serin frowned. "The Council said—"
"I'll handle the Council."
Taren tilted his head. "You're not following their orders?"
Kael gave a thin smile. "I'm redefining them."
He walked around the desk and crouched slightly to meet their eyes — something he hadn't done since their first day.
"What happened yesterday… and last night…"
Taren shifted uneasily. "We didn't mean to—"
"I know," Kael interrupted softly. "That's what frightens me."
The words lingered.
He stood again. "I'll protect you from the Council. But you have to protect each other from yourselves."
Serin frowned. "What does that mean?"
Kael didn't answer right away. He looked out the window instead, to the distant mountains still wrapped in cloud.
"It means the world is starting to hear you. Make sure it hears the right things."
---
Later — Outer Gardens
They found a quiet spot near the fountain, away from the crowd.
The water glimmered faintly, rippling whenever they got too close.
Taren sat on the edge, skipping small pebbles across the surface. "He looked serious today."
"He always looks serious," Serin said. "But this time it felt… heavier."
He nodded slowly. "Yeah."
A pause. Then, quieter: "Did you dream again?"
Serin hesitated. "Not like before. I just… heard you."
He looked up. "Heard me?"
"You said something. I don't remember what."
He swallowed hard. "Maybe I talk in my sleep."
"Maybe I listen in mine."
That made him smile — not big, just enough.
The wind brushed across the water, scattering small ripples.
For a moment, the reflection of the two kids merged — one flicker of gold and silver light beneath the surface — then broke apart again.
Neither noticed.
---
Kael's Tower — Twilight
He sealed the last report and slid it into the drawer with shaking hands.
He'd lied to the Council.
He'd lie again.
Because in his heart, he already knew — this wasn't something to be studied.
It was something that chose.
He looked out at the courtyard below, where Taren and Serin sat side by side, heads tilted toward each other, laughing about something small.
For a moment, they looked normal.
For a moment, he almost believed they could be.
Then the resonance sphere on his desk flickered once — a faint shimmer of silver and red light, pulsing in perfect rhythm with their laughter.
Kael closed his eyes. "Echoes before light," he murmured. "And after light…?"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't have to.
Because somewhere deep inside that faint pulse, the world had already answered.