Beyond the window, the star-threads turned, indifferent as ever.
Alice wrote three words in her book out of old habit, even on a page that would erase itself she watched the afterimage of the boy linger in her office.
She let it linger. She liked the symmetry of a problem that refused to round itself to zero.
Knock…knock…
[Maeve Blackwood, Senior Assistant And Solaris's Chief Informant]
Maeve came in without knocking as a stack of files balanced against her hip, it was a tick of professional irritation showing in the crispness of her footfalls.
"Archmage, pardon the directness, but that was a breach of standard protocol. In my decade of service, you have never personally suggested the entrance exam to a candidate, let alone one with... his profile."
She set the stack down on the obsidian desk, the top folder marked in the color reserved for unremarkables.
"Aurelius of the outer Bourne branch. Appraisal: negligible mana. Academy readiness score: bottom quintile. His sole distinction is being the delivery boy for an anomalous incident you just expunged."
"Correct on all counts, Maeve. And that is precisely why I spoke."
Alice steepled her fingers, watching the newest constellation trace itself across the glass.
"…?"
"Respectfully, I don't follow. Klave Bourne is already here, topping his cohort. We have the premier product. Why invite the scrap from the same forge?"
"Because, Klave is a masterpiece of the known. He is what our system is built to produce. The boy today... was an error in the system's logic."
"He registered as a void. But not a wild card. Not even a blip on the array until he stepped within twenty paces. Then—"
"Precisely. There's no way the device malfunctioned, Maeve. It was not a void. It was a pressure. The containment was so perfect the device interpreted it as absence." Alice resisted the urge to smile, but she let the shimmer in her eyes do the work.
"…!"
Maeve hesitated, her finger tracing the seam of the top file. She wasn't afraid, not in the way most Academy staff seemed to wilt in this office, but Alice could see the calculation flex under her practiced impassivity.
"You realize, if the assessment board catches wind of this, it will be categorized as special interest. Even his cousins may not be notified, let alone his parents. The house will twist itself to leverage the anomaly."
"You will maintain a neutral record. No flags, no escalation. We do not poison a test environment with intervention. If the house wishes to deploy its own assets, that is their prerogative, but we will provide no excuse."
"And if he's weaponized by another party? The Baltazars, or the St. Germain contingent, for instance?"
"If a knife is sharp enough to cut its own whetstone, I am content to watch it try." She flicked her gaze to the window, where the stars spun in patterns only she could follow.
"Let them test him. Let them even break him, if that is the natural order. We are not raising glass here, Maeve. We are searching for diamonds."
Silence, then the faintest scrape as Maeve gathered her files and departed, closing the door behind her with a decisive but respectful click.
Alice waited until the footsteps faded, then allowed herself a single, private smile.
Let the system devour you, Let it gnaw until it finds the pit in the fruit.
***
[Bourne Family Residence - Outer Branch House]
I'll say this for the outer-house: no matter how long you've been gone, there's always someone awake when you come back.
We trundled in just after dark, the wagon's wheels squealing in protest as Corwin navigated the last icy switchback.
I expected to see maybe a lamp in the window, maybe a single candle and my mother waiting at the table with her books, but the whole bottom floor was lit up as if she were waging a one-woman siege against darkness.
The moment we crossed the threshold, Marienne appeared in the hall, with her apron and hairpins.
"You're late, I almost sent for the Ashfords. There was a rockslide in the pass, rumor said two merchant wagons didn't make it through."
Her eyes flicked over me, then my father, and I watched as she took into every scrape and split, the way only a mother could.
She said nothing about the slashes on Corwin's sleeve or the stubborn crust of blood above his temple, but I could see what was going on through her head: injuries, real and potential, measured against the relief of seeing both of us whole.
"We're fine," I said. "Nothing but a broken harness and a long road."
"Did you deliver it?" Marienne asked.
"All the way to the Director's office. She signed for it herself." Corwin nodded.
He said this as if it were a point of pride, but I caught the way his hand hovered at the small of his back, massaging circles through the shirt.
"And you, Aurelian? Did you behave?" She rounded on me with her arms folded.
"Ah…"
I wanted to tell her how I nearly vaporized twenty-three men and a few acres of forest, or how a great mage of this era had called me by name and looked at me like I was a riddle written in her own blood.
But the look on her face made me want to lie, or at least distill the truth into something potable.
"I did what I was told,"
She held my gaze for a moment, then nodded, as if she'd heard exactly what she wanted.
"Perfect, let's all eat then."
And so we did.
We ate in the kitchen, the three of us, as if nothing in the world had changed.
The stew tasted of chicken, and I listened as Corwin described the city to my mother in the tone of a man reciting a miracle he'd witnessed but not yet understood.
He kept reaching for the back of his head, like he was surprised to find it unbroken.
Marienne refilled his cup three times and pressed cold cloths to his scalp, even though the wound had all but vanished.
She glanced at me between sentences, as if searching my face for the next disaster.
Afterward, we sat by the hearth. The fire sizzled, eating through the kindling at twice its normal speed.
I tried to calm my breathing and let the warmth make me feel soft.
But I thought about the way Alice d'Árcenne's voice had occupied my chest, or the soundless scream of the array as it recognized me in the archway.
"Rel… I heard from your father that the Director herself spoke with you." She didn't phrase it as a question, but a test of whether I'd tell the truth.
"Yeah, she said something about how the Academy was interested in a more 'representative cohort.' And she even suggested applying for the entrance exam."
"…!"
Corwin made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.
"You'd be the first outer-branch Bourne to test for the Academy in three generations. Even Klave had to fight for his slot, and he's the main line's darling."
I didn't say that Klave already had a seat waiting for him, or that the only reason anyone wanted me there was because they had glimpsed at something in the wrong light.
Marienne's eyes shone, but her hands twisted a dish towel into a rope.
"You don't have to, Aurelian. If you'd rather stay here, apprentice with the Ashfords, or even work the land—"
"It's his choice. The entrance exam is in the next coming month. If the Director wants you there, you'll be there. But you don't need to impress anyone but yourself."
I watched the dance of flames, and for a long moment, I considered my words. I knew what was expected of me.
But I also knew that anything less than remarkable would end in disappointment, or worse, suspicion.
"We will see…" I said. "But I also need to ask… do I need to take the aptitude test?"
My mother and father traded a glance like two gamblers calculating the odds.
Corwin spoke first.
"Every Bourne takes the test whenever the Head wants. If you want to apply to the Academy, you must have it on record before the entrance exam."
He said it as if it were a matter of course, but I heard the catch there.
Even with a slight hesitation he'd expected me to balk, to drag my heels or fold in some grand tradition of mediocrity.
"They say sometimes a gift doesn't bloom until the very last—"
"The test is more accurate in adolescence, anyway," Corwin said, cutting her off, "so no need to worry about how you've ranked before. Most gifts show up late. You never know what you'll get."
A lie, but I didn't call him on it. If you had power, you always knew. If you didn't, you already knew that too.
"I remember when I had mine," he continued, suddenly distant, as if the memory wasn't entirely his own.
"The examiner told me I wasn't cut for much, but I might 'take to numbers.' Suppose they weren't wrong." His hand strayed unconsciously to the old abacus on the shelf. His other hand, I noticed, was curled into a subtle fist.
I nodded, because that's what good sons did. "When is it?"
"Three days. Here, at the family guildhall. They always send a proctor from the main family."
That meant someone who'd take notes not just on the test, but on the state of our house and the worthiness of our branch. It was never just a test.
"And if I fail?"
Corwin smiled, sad and sharp.
"Nobody fails. You just get a result."
But in the back of my mind, I remembered what happened to outliers—those who scored too high, or too low, or too off-center.
In the old days, you'd be turned into a weapon or a warning, with no in-between. I wondered if that had changed.
Marienne leaned over and squeezed my shoulder.
"You'll do fine, Rel. I'm sure of it." She said it with a certainty that was almost terrifying.