The training field was shrouded in a damp morning mist, soft tendrils of vapor curling around Kael's boots as he stepped into the open arena. His breath plumed in the chill, mingling with the silence that had grown between him and the other recruits. Bran was still gone—nearly two weeks now—and Eline hadn't returned to the training grounds since their last evaluation.
The void they left behind felt deliberate.
Kael tightened the wrappings on his forearms, hearing the crackle of cloth and leather beneath his fingers. The instructors had grown colder, more watchful. There was no more encouragement—only assessment. Whispercraft lessons now came with layers of silence and scrutiny. And the whispers themselves, those faint voices threading the edges of his thoughts, had grown bolder.
Today's lesson was a multi-form spar. He would face three opponents in succession, all Whisperer aspirants like him—but with less suspicion tethered to their names.
"Kael of the Hollow Quarter," barked Ser Vettin, his voice slicing the fog. "Enter the circle."
Kael obeyed, drawing in a calming breath. The ring was marked by ash and sigil-etched stones, a soft shimmer pulsing from the border—enough to disrupt uncontrolled shadow flares. Inside the arena, shadows were bound to their wielder's will… or not at all.
Three recruits faced him: Tovrin, a wiry, quick-footed archer with a nasty edge; Mirell, whose grasp of Whispercraft exceeded her years; and Elgar, silent and built like a tombstone.
The match began with a snap of Vettin's fingers.
Mirell surged first, shadows trailing from her hands like ribbons. Kael countered with a flick of his own—barely a brush of movement—and the darkness wrapped around his wrist like a brace. Not offensive, not yet. He waited, letting instinct churn low in his belly.
Tovrin fired an illusion bolt, more distraction than threat, and Elgar moved in behind it, swinging wide. Kael ducked, swept low, and tapped Elgar's knee. The contact should've disqualified the first fighter—but Elgar didn't fall.
Kael's eyes narrowed. That hadn't been part of the rules.
Mirell struck again, this time with shadow blades lancing forward. Kael dodged, catching the shimmer in her eyes—more amusement than effort. This was more than a test.
It was a provocation.
He caught one of Mirell's blades on his shadow bracer, twisted it into a loop, and shoved the force back at her with a practiced snap. She stumbled, enough for Kael to pivot and strike Elgar across the back. He collapsed, groaning.
Tovrin lunged. Not with illusions now—but with real steel, a practice blade laced in sanctioned shadow. It came close. Too close.
Kael's vision flared. Shadows poured out of him like a tide, curling protectively, violently. He willed them back—but not fast enough. The black whip of power coiled around Tovrin's throat, lifted him a half foot off the ground.
Everything slowed.
Kael's pulse beat in his ears.
He could end it. Right here.
But then—her voice.
Not spoken aloud. Not from the stands. Not even real.
A whisper in his head, soft and resolute: "You are more than what they expect of you."
Eline.
His grip slackened. The shadows recoiled.
Tovrin crumpled, gasping. Mirell stood still, wide-eyed, hands raised. The match was over.
Silence choked the field.
Then Ser Vettin nodded slowly, signaling the end. No praise. No reprimand. Just the cold wind in Kael's lungs.
Later, he sat alone near the practice stones, forehead resting on his knees, shadow coiled tight around his legs like a living memory. The mist had thinned, but the pressure in his chest hadn't.
"Nearly took his head off."
Kael didn't startle. He recognized the voice—Haren, one of the few who hadn't chosen a side. Yet.
"He meant to push me."
"No doubt," Haren said. "But they're watching, Kael. That wasn't just training. Someone wanted to see if you'd break."
Kael looked up. "Did I?"
"Not today."
That night, Kael returned to his dorm alone. The halls felt emptier without Bran's sarcastic mutters or Eline's distant silences. He dropped the coin—that coin—on the desk, its surface still cold, etched in symbols the archives refused to explain.
It hummed faintly when he touched it. Not sound. Not vibration.
Presence.
Kael closed his eyes and leaned back. Sleep came slowly, clawing past his anxiety.
And the dream took him.
He stood in a corridor of blackened mirrors, light bleeding like ink from cracks in the glass. Reflections rippled—versions of himself, not quite right. His eyes golden. His mouth muttering words in languages he didn't know. Shadows pressed against the mirror's edge, as if waiting to burst free.
And behind it all, a whisper:
"Veilbound. Chosen. Forgotten."
He turned, and saw Eline—not as she was now, but younger. Her hand was outstretched, fingers ghosting over one of the mirrors. She didn't see him.
"Why did you watch me?" Kael asked. "Why not say something?"
She looked at him.
And smiled sadly.
The mirrors cracked.
Kael jolted awake, breath ragged, the coin burning cold in his hand.