Life at Silver Star Academy ticked on with the precision of a clockwork gear—yet beneath the surface, unseen currents stirred.
The ordeal in the Ashen Gorge had tempered Elara Sorn like cold steel in flame, and her place within the academy shifted in subtle but profound ways. On the surface, the ripples calmed: Blake Ironanvil's death was officially recorded as "a tragic loss in combat against high-tier abyssal entities and Brotherhood raiders." Elara was formally reprimanded by the disciplinary board for "failure to fulfill auxiliary duties and issue timely warnings," stripped of many credits. Yet, because her conduct during the defensive battle had been noted as "stable and effective in regional morale control," punishment was balanced by merit. She was spared harsher judgment.
But suspicion and distance clung to her like spores from the gorge, impossible to wash away. Cecilia Whiteshard and her circle no longer taunted her openly, yet their cool indifference—sharpened with the quiet arrogance of bloodline pride—was more suffocating than open hostility. They were waiting, watching for the slag-town outcast to stumble again and be cast down for good.
Elara welcomed their silence. It left her freer to work. She devoted herself to studying the academy's cold, exacting ladder of advancement, while in secret honing the forbidden power that could never be revealed. Like a ravenous sponge, she absorbed every sanctioned lesson, but always filtered it through a witch's eye, parsing the academy's logic for flaws, cracks, and hidden gears.
…
After one lecture on Identifying Anomalous Signals in Spirit Resonance, Mistress Illysse lingered, dismissing the rest of the class.
"Sorn," she said softly, her gray-blue eyes bright with academic curiosity, "your control is… unusual. Not forceful, not overwhelming, but… instinctively stabilizing. It is as if your threads do not echo the harmonies of the stars, but weave toward silence itself—a stillness ordered beyond nature." Her voice carried no rebuke, only curiosity tinged with warning. "Remember, the academy admires talent, but values conformity even more. Frequencies that are too distinct invite… scrutiny."
A chill ran down Elara's spine, though her face remained calm. She bowed with perfect deference. "Thank you, Mistress, I will remember. I will focus on foundation and regulation." She knew the words were kindly meant—but also a warning. Her disguise had already brushed against the attention of a Whisperer.
…
The inspection dragged on, suffocating. Ten minutes passed, the Inquisitor finding no visible flaw. Just as he signaled his aides to dismantle the array, his eyes flickered—seemingly idle—across the students. At last, they settled not on Elara, but on Mistress Illysse Whisper.
He did not step forward. Instead, a thread of thought, icy and exact, pierced her mind:
"Mistress Whisper."
Her body tightened for half a heartbeat. Then she bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment.
"Your ward, Elara Sorn," the Inquisitor's mental voice slid like a probe of cold steel. "Her resonance logs—initiation and recent drills—register atypical noise. Subtle, but not of the standard starlit spectrum. Within bounds, yes… yet too steady. Too pruned. Like a garden trimmed of every weed. Perfection, Mistress, is its own kind of deceit."
He pressed on, the command as weighty as law:
"You are closest to her. You will observe. Record every deviation—excellence or error alike. Especially any flavor that is not of the stars. Submit your logs to the Tribunal at regular intervals. Do not intervene. Do not conceal. Do you understand?"
It was not a request. The Tribunal's shadow had settled on Elara's shoulders, and Illysse Whisper was chosen to be its eye.
Illysse's face betrayed nothing. She lowered her gaze once more. "By the Tribunal's will, Inquisitor. I will observe." Her voice, returned by resonance, was flat as polished glass.
The link snapped. The Inquisitor swept the hall once more, then with a curt motion, withdrew. His entourage filed out; the gates reopened. But the hall remained cloaked in silence—no longer simple nerves, but dread of the invisible hand.
Illysse lingered, her gaze brushing the bowed figure of Elara, who stood quiet and still, the picture of shaken obedience. For a heartbeat, the gray-blue of her eyes flickered with something complex, unreadable.
…
Every experiment thereafter felt like handling nitroglycerin beside a roaring boiler—pursue effect, restrain fluctuation, always under the watchful web of academy monitors. One misstep could bring disaster. And yet she calculated, step by careful step, dancing nearer to the edge of forbidden power.
The Tribunal's blade hung above her, gleaming, waiting. But Elara had no choice. Within this cage of gears, she would dance. And every step would be her defiance.