The Covenant was not born in secrecy.
Its earliest records were public, deliberate, and precise. Vale read the founding documents in a quiet side chamber, the weight of their words settling more heavily than any accusation.
Representatives from every major race had been present. Kings, scholars, void practitioners, elemental authorities. There were no missing signatures. No dissent recorded.
Consensus had been achieved.
The Covenant's first concern was not domination. It was continuity.
They spoke of maintaining order in a world destabilized by anomaly. Of preventing the collapse of established systems. Of safeguarding reality from forces that could not be regulated or inherited.
Stability was their chosen virtue.
Vale read through the minutes carefully. Each argument followed a familiar pattern. Power that could be categorized was acceptable. Power that could be taught was manageable. Power that could be inherited was safe.
Anything else was dangerous.
"Their fear wasn't destruction," Vale said quietly. "It was unpredictability."
Rin stood near the window, looking out over the courtyard. "Chaos frightens people less than freedom," he replied. "Chaos can be blamed. Freedom cannot."
Vale continued.
The Covenant's early decrees focused on classification. Elements were defined. Bloodlines formalized. Cultivation paths standardized. Deviations labeled inefficient or unstable.
History was curated.
Education adjusted.
Narratives refined.
The Covenant did not erase the past.
It explained it away.
One passage caught Vale's attention. A brief statement, written without flourish or emphasis, yet repeated in multiple documents.
Stability requires narrative control.
Vale exhaled slowly.
"They understood something," he said. "People don't need to be controlled if the story they live in makes control feel natural."
Rin turned to face him. "And once a narrative is accepted, defending it feels like morality."
Vale closed the document.
"So when Gale appeared," he said, "he didn't just threaten power structures. He threatened the story."
"Yes," Rin replied. "He proved that the world's limits were artificial."
Vale felt a familiar pressure settle in his chest.
The Covenant had not acted out of malice. They had acted out of preservation. That made them more dangerous, not less.
"Are they watching me?" Vale asked.
Rin did not hesitate. "Yes."
Vale nodded. "Not because I am strong."
"No," Rin said. "Because you are quiet."
Vale understood.
Power that announces itself can be measured. Power that resonates can be tracked. Power that echoes leaves evidence.
But silence?
Silence created uncertainty.
And uncertainty was the one thing the Covenant had been formed to eliminate.
Outside, the disciples continued their training, unaware of the ideological architecture that governed their lives. Sound rose and fell in controlled patterns, predictable and safe.
Vale stood and turned away from the records.
The Covenant of the Void did not hunt kings.
It hunted exceptions.
And for the first time, Vale understood that as long as he did not echo, he could not be easily classified.
That, more than any technique, was why the Covenant feared him.
Not because he would oppose them.
But because he might exist outside the story they had worked so carefully to preserve.