Arthur's footsteps slowed, the suitcase in his hand coming to a resting stop against the side of his leg.
Beneath the navy wool of his pocket, his knuckles briefly brushed against the wooden amulet before his hand fell away. The phantom sting of his mother's voice—and the memory of a home he could never return to—surfaced for a fraction of a millisecond. His Autonomic Merged Processor seized the useless emotional data, compartmentalized the grief, and severed the impulse.
He turned toward Cyril, his features settling into a gentle, elder-brotherly warmth.
"It's not just normal, Cyril," Arthur said softly, his voice striking the soothing, resonant baritone of a boy who had spent an entire year mastering the art of saintly comfort. "It would be far stranger if you didn't feel that way."
Arthur gestured toward the colossal stone walls rising twenty-five meters ahead of them.
"When I first stepped onto this island, they told us the exact same thing: five years of absolute isolation. No departures, no visits, and no turning back. For someone who has spent his entire life rooted in one place, being torn from the soil feels like you're suffocating. Everyone in that plaza behind us has felt it, even if they hide it behind loud laughter and bravado."
He took half a step forward, closing the space between them to offer an open, disarming posture.
"Old Man Ward raised you, didn't he? You don't just miss the person; you miss the anchor. When the world around you becomes this loud and foreign, reaching for the familiar is the only natural response."
Cyril didn't refute the deduction. Instead, his shoulders dropped by a fraction of an inch, the defensive tension melting out of his posture as his wide, ruby gaze drank in the affirmation.
Ward, Arthur's mind cataloged with cold, frictionless precision. The anchor confirmed.
Arthur allowed a faint, self-deprecating smile to soften the corners of his eyes.
"The five years will pass faster than you think, but you don't have to carry the silence by yourself." Arthur reached out, his hand coming to rest firmly against Cyril's shoulder in a grounding, protective hold. "Until you find your footing here, think of me as your temporary anchor. If you ever need to speak of Grenfell, or of Sir Ward, I'm always listening."
Feed the boy's intrinsic hunger for family, Arthur thought, his eyes shimmering with pure, unconditional sympathy, and the disciple will gladly lay the master's secrets at my feet.
Arthur offered a light, encouraging tilt of his head, gently steering them back toward the towering checkpoint gate.
"It's not easy to cross these checkpoints as a student—you need special tokens—but as your mentor, I'll try to find some time to meet you once a week."
"Token?" Cyril tilted his head, blinking in sudden recognition. He reached into his inner breast pocket. "You mean like this?"
Cyril withdrew a rectangular slip of polished ironwood, holding it out between two fingers.
Arthur glanced down, and for a fleeting instant, his mental gears ground against an unexpected variable.
The token was identical to the one resting in his own chest pocket—the same smooth beveled edges, the same intricate arcane filament running through the grain. But where Arthur's bore the deeply etched name Drevayne, Cyril's was stamped in silver lacquer with Agellid.
Arthur's gaze lingered on the silver seal. "That does seem to be genuine…"
"Great!" Cyril beamed, his crimson eyes lighting up with unfiltered joy. "Then I can come visit you every day after class!"
Arthur's mind violently recalibrated.
Every day?
An unannounced Cyril in Sector Six meant an unmonitored variable breaching his operational theater at random hours. It meant compromised windows for Sinclair's clinical sessions, an audience during his illegal circuit-stretching regimen, and an active impediment to slipping into the Inferior Archives.
"No, no," Arthur said quickly, raising both hands with a placating, elder-brother chuckle. "Please, I insist, let me be the one who does the visiting. It's a hassle to go through the strict checkpoints every day—the wardens are stiff, the arcane inspections are tedious, and you should be resting after lectures. Besides, if I come to you, I'll make sure to bring you lots of snacks every time I visit!"
Cyril's eyes widened to the size of saucers. The memory of the rich, salted butter caramel evidently flared in his mind, his ascetic discipline collapsing instantly before the prospect of foreign confections.
"You're so thoughtful, mentor!" Cyril bowed his head, clasping his hands together in pure reverence. "We can follow your plan then."
Arthur exhaled a quiet breath through his nose, his saintly smile settling firmly back into place.
"Now, let's get past these checkpoints before curfew," Arthur said, nodding toward the open-palm wardens waiting at the portcullis. "Tell me more about this Ward as we walk. What kind of teacher was he?"