Magister Thrain's mana pulsed like stone and iron — immovable, sharp-edged, and deeply disciplined. Even seated, his presence towered over the long chamber, every word carried on the weight of decades at war.
"This," he said, "is what you will call the Kill V Formation. Spearpoint mages at the front. Flankers wide. Rear guard rotates in and out based on mana thresholds."
His hand moved over the raised battle map in front of him — a three-dimensional mana-sculpted model, shapes glowing faintly to mark soldiers, terrain, and threat vectors. For the students who could see it, it was clear and sharp.
For me — just blurred patterns, outlines in low relief. But I heard enough. Felt enough. And I understood more than they expected.
Thrain tapped a point near the rear left. "Now. In the event of an ambush from high ground — archers to the north ridge, and a pincer from the woods — you collapse inward. Rear rotates forward. Mages form a counter-line. Any issues?"
No one spoke.
Not until I raised my hand.
Thrain's head turned slightly, the ripple of his mana brushing the air like a hound sniffing for intent. "Annabel?"
I didn't hesitate. "That collapse leaves the formation surrounded from all sides. If you rotate forward, you're boxing yourself tighter, not wider — which works if your goal is to defend, but not to survive."
His mana twitched — interest, not irritation.
I went on. "You have three high-class mages, correct? They'll draw the ambushers' attention regardless. But the mistake is keeping them grouped. A mage can stall — but not from the center. You spread them along the outer arc. One front. One mid. One rear. Give each one an anchor squad. That forces the enemy to split their own advance. And if one side weakens first, you rotate toward it — punch a hole."
A long pause.
Stillness rolled through the room.
Thrain's voice was low. Not dismissive. Not condescending.
"Explain the logic of the hole."
"It's not about winning," I said. "It's about breaking pressure. Being surrounded isn't a position — it's a clock. Every second, you lose morale, ground, resources. But the enemy's center is always the weakest — because it expects reinforcement. Hit that, and you don't need to rout them. You just need to run."
Thrain leaned back slowly in his seat.
For a moment, I thought I'd misstepped — said too much, missed something obvious.
Then he exhaled through his nose.
"That," he said, "is a retreat maneuver I've only ever seen executed by First Battalion, Eastern Front. And none of them could explain it that clearly."
His aura sharpened — a blade turned toward me, but not to strike.
"Tell me where you learned it."
I shrugged lightly. "I….didn't. It just made sense."
More silence.
Then, surprisingly, a low sound — the rough edge of something like a laugh. "You're eleven."
"Almost twelve," I corrected, dryly.
Thrain stood, stepping towards me. His outline blurred into closer focus — a heavy weight of mana balanced on the edge of motion. "And yet you're reading battlefield formations like you've stood in them."
He paused. "When the time comes — and it will — I expect you to consider the Student Council. You think too well under pressure to stay a follower."
My heart didn't jump. My breath didn't catch.
But something in my spine straightened.
I gave him a small nod. "Understood."
"Dismissed," he said, but not just to me.
The others rose. Chairs scraped. Mana flickered tiredly through the air.
But his attention lingered on me a second longer.
And I could feel it in his core — not confusion.
Admiration.
Not for power.
For clarity.
The corridor outside the strategy hall was dim — light slipping in narrow bands across the stone, mana trails smearing like paint where the students walked. Most scattered quickly, voices low. I tracked them as blurs and warmth, attention sweeping past me with either caution or curiosity.
But one stayed.
Soft steps beside me, unhurried. Not heavy with mana — quicksilver, not steel. I recognized the signature.
"Annabel?" the voice came, light and lilting.
I turned slightly. "Fay."
Her outline shimmered in my perception — tall for our age, sharp at the shoulders, hair pulled back in a braid that glowed faintly with the traces of recent spellwork. She'd been in Thrain's class too — always precise, always composed. When she walked, even the air around her felt symmetrical.
"I've been watching you train," she said, falling into step beside me. "I figured you were strong. But that? That was something else. You're like a battle genius."
I blinked. Compliments weren't rare, but most came laced with disbelief or quiet suspicion. Fay's was… clean.
"Thanks," I said simply. "Though I'm nowhere near as book-smart as you. I've heard your recitations — I'd kill for that kind of recall."
She laughed — bright and short. "You'd kill for it. I'd kill to have your instincts."
We walked a few more paces. Her mana flickered beside mine — not probing, just… open.
"Hey," she said, "would you maybe want to spar sometime?"
I tilted my head toward her outline. "You're not worried I'll throw you into a wall?"
"I am worried," she said, smiling. "That's half of why i'm asking."
I nodded, and this time, a thread of warmth curled low in my chest.
"Then yes," I said. "I'd like that."
—
The air had cooled. The kind of evening stillness that settled over the compound when everyone was too sore or too tired to speak. I moved by memory and feel — the sharp grass brushing against my fingertips, the faint crunch of my boots on the packed dirt path.
Most of the training grounds had emptied. I felt it in the way mana faded — scattered threads drifting back toward the dorms like lazy smoke.
But not all of it.
A familiar shape pulsed at the edge of my awareness. Still. Grounded. Sharp, but not aggressive.
Lycian.
He was alone.
I followed his outline — not the sight of him, but the pressure of his presence, the way his mana brushed outward like a steady breath. He wasn't actively flaring, just open enough for me to catch the edges. Like he wanted to be found.
"You're not sleeping either," I said, breaking the quiet.
"No," he replied, low and even. "Didn't feel like dreaming about bleeding."
The sound of him shifted slightly. A soft movement on wood. He must've been sitting on one of the old tree trunks near the back ridge — I remembered where they were from earlier walks.
"Come sit."
I made my way forward, counting the steps in my head. The log was cool beneath my hands when I found it. I eased down slowly, my legs stiff with leftover strain.
He let the silence stretch for a while. I didn't rush it.
Then, finally: "I talked to my bond. Mentally."
I turned slightly toward him, tracking the direction of his voice and the shape of his mana. "Like… talking without talking?"
"Exactly. No words out loud. Just… intent. Pushed through the bond. It's not constant. It only happens when you reach for it."
I frowned slightly, focusing. "So, like hearing each other's thoughts?"
"Close," he said. "But not automatic. You don't hear every passing idea. It's not invasive. You choose to send. They choose to receive."
"And you figured that out on your own?"
"Trial and error," he said, with a sound like a quiet shrug. "But once you get the thread, it's hard to miss again."
I nodded slowly, processing.
He shifted his weight slightly, and his mana stirred again — not touching mine, but near it. A guide. Not a push.
"You could try. With Salem. It might work, if your bond's strong enough."
I hesitated. "What do I do?"
"Close your eyes," he said.
I huffed lightly. "Would i really need that?."
He laughed under his breath. "Sorry. But it still helps."
I let my breath slow and steadied my core. The bond with Salem was a warm coil inside my chest — familiar and steady. Fierce when provoked. Protective always.
"Think of her," Lycian said. "Not just her name — feel her mana. Let yours lean toward it. Like calling out. But with silence."
I let my mana extend — thin and tentative at first. A thread. Just one. I wrapped it in her shape, the heat of her presence, the way she always felt like fire tightly leashed behind cold steel.
At first, I felt only distance.
Then…
Warmth.
A flicker. Then a pulse.
"Annabel?"
I startled — not outwardly, but inward. Her voice had no sound, but it vibrated through the thread like music felt through bone.
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Instead, I focused.
"Salem."
The thread brightened.
"Took you long enough."
Her voice curled around the edges of me — fond. A little smug. But behind it, the shape of her mana glowed like relief.
My hand twitched. I exhaled.
"She answered," I said aloud.
Lycian's presence shifted again — amused. "Did you just get that first try?"
"Yea impressive right?" I murmured teasingly.
He clicked his tongue. "Show-off."
I almost smiled.
Behind the teasing, I could feel something else from him. Approval, maybe. Or understanding. He didn't need to say it.
"Try not to send each other love notes during combat drills," he added, rising from the log. His footsteps brushed the grass as he walked a few paces.
I tilted my head. "Jealous?"
His mana flared slightly — amused again. "Of your bond? No. Of how fast you're learning? Constantly."
He paused long enough for me to track the direction he was heading — back toward the main grounds.
But before the shape of him faded completely from my range, he said, soft:
"You did good today, Annabel."
He didn't wait for a reply.
I didn't need to give one.
He already knew.
I stayed a little longer, tracing the faint glow of my bond with Salem, still pulsing gently through the thread. It wasn't a voice anymore — just a feeling.
Present.
Connected.
Enough.
The log was cold beneath me, but not unpleasant. It grounded. Solid. I stayed there, fingers absently tracing the rough edge of the bark while the thread between Salem and me still hummed faintly. Not loud, not bright — just there.
"Still with me?" I reached out along it, not pushing — just brushing the thought outward.
A beat.
Then: "Always."
It made my chest loosen in that quiet way only she could pull off — like unclenching a fist I hadn't realized was closed.
"What are you doing?"
"Just finished sparring," Salem replied, her mental tone steady, though I could feel the faint ache in it. Tired, but sharpened from it. "Upper-class groups again. They're not subtle about it. They want you to know the difference."
"Is there one?"
"Oh, yeah." A soft flick of amusement. "You can feel it. More raw pressure. Cleaner casting. Good at chanting spells and doing it without — they're so used to reacting on instinct."
I let that settle. The difference between theory and blood in the dirt. Between talent and time.
"Field experience really makes or breaks a mage, huh?"
"It's the break part that does most of the teaching."
There was a pause between us — not awkward, just space to breathe. I let my senses drift outward a little, catching the faint pulses of movement near the dorms. Dull echoes of spell practice long finished. Laughter from somewhere near the mess hall. Everything distant, dulled. But this thread — this line to Salem — it felt like it cut through all of it. Direct. Warm.
"Did you already know about this?" I asked. "The mental thing? Talking like this?"
I felt her nod more than heard it. "Yeah. I've known for a while. Bond-speak isn't rare once your link stabilizes. But…" There was a pause, not quite hesitation. "We never needed it. We're always hip to hip. You think it, I know it."
"Wait." I straightened a little. "You've been reading my thoughts?"
There was a beat — and then laughter, in the way only she could do it without sound.
"No, no. It doesn't work like that. It's not automatic. It's like knocking on a door and you choosing to open it. Trust me — if I could read your thoughts, I'd be a lot more tired."
I huffed and relaxed again, mostly. "You're the worst."
"You love me."
"Yeah, yeah."
That hit in the middle of me — low and steady. A quiet truth I hadn't realized I'd missed hearing until now.
"It's nice though," I said. "Just being able to reach you like this."
"I like it too."
I leaned back on the log slightly, letting my arms fall limp behind me. The air had cooled even more. My mana brushed across the surrounding space, soft outlines forming — the curve of trees, the gentle slope of the ground, the empty silence Lycian had left behind.
"I'll be in our room in a bit," I said.
"Something wrong?"
"No. Just… something I want to check out. Something I felt earlier."
Salem didn't press. She didn't have to.
"Alright," she said. "Don't stay out too long."
"I won't."
The thread quieted, not severed — just relaxed. Still there. Still humming.
I stood slowly, brushing my palms off against my pants. Whatever it was I'd felt earlier — that small twist in the mana currents, that unnatural shape just west of the main field — it hadn't felt urgent at the time.
But it hadn't felt right either.
A slow ripple westward across the grass. The further it moved, the more the shape of the field returned — low dips in the land, the faint hollow where students usually ran combat drills, and…
There it was again.
A smear in the air.
I paused. Reached again — slower, more deliberate — and felt it. Wrong. Not loud, not sharp, but twisted in a way that set my teeth on edge. A flavor of mana I couldn't name.
Not human. Not elf. Not dwarven either. Maybe demon, but it didn't carry that acidic crackle that always hit after not being around it for a while.
But it was familiar.
Too familiar.
I reached deeper, letting the thread of it wrap across my fingers like smoke. It didn't sting — not exactly — but it pulsed strange. Like the aftershock of a presence I knew but couldn't place right.
No — not couldn't.
Didn't want to.
It was close to Salem's. That same layered texture, coiled like breath held in the dark. Ancient in a way that felt bone-deep. But Salem had never been here today.
Only one person had.
Lycian.
I stilled. Breath held, hand curled against my chest. He'd sat right next to me. Talked openly. Kind. Steady. His presence never flinched, never faltered.
There hadn't been deception. I would've felt it. I always did.
Wouldn't I?
A shiver ran up my spine — not fear, exactly, but caution. The sort that made you step lightly in the woods without needing to know why.
I'm overthinking it.
I pushed my senses farther toward the brush lining the field. Bushes, low branches, soft roots and disturbed earth — but no mana signatures. No hidden watchers. No heat of spellwork smoldering just beneath the bark.
Empty.
I let my mana pull back, coiling into myself like a blanket drawn tight. Whatever it was, it was gone now. Or never there. Or maybe just old.
Either way, I wasn't chasing ghosts in the dark.
I turned and walked back through the familiar curves of the training path, letting instinct lead. I barely needed outlines anymore — the rhythm of this route lived in my steps by now.
By the time I reached the dorms, most of the lights were dim. One or two mana traces still floated near the hallway, but Salem's was bright — steady — pulling me in like it always did.
The door clicked softly behind me. I didn't need to ask where she was — I could feel her shape on the bed, curled half toward the wall but still leaving space for me like she always did.
The door closed behind me with a soft click.
Salem was already standing, the outline of her magic glowing dim in the room. That familiar, steady shape — like shadow wrapped in silk. She always looked like warmth to me, even when she didn't speak.
"You're tense," she said. Her voice brushed gently against my mind, not probing — just close. Present.
I nodded, walking past her toward the bed, sitting slowly.
"I felt something out in the west field. Some kind of mana…" I paused. "Not like anything I've felt before."
She didn't interrupt, but her aura shifted — the flame in her rising, like a wind had touched it.
"It wasn't human, or elf, or dwarf. Not exactly. it was close to your kind of magic. Twisted, though."
I hesitated. "For a second I thought… maybe it was you."
I turned my head slightly toward her, though I didn't need to see her to feel how still she'd gone.
"I only gave you freedom to roam," I said. "So if it was you out there… if you're planning something because of that — something I'm not seeing — I need to know."
My fingers reached into the satchel beside the bed.
I found the stone.
The one that held the last threads of the bond's deeper structure. Safety checks. Quiet restrictions. Little assurances — that I was still the one steering this connection.
I took a breath.
And I severed every link.
The bond didn't break — it changed.
It stopped being mine to manage.
The silence in the room grew thick. Not tense — just full. Heavy with what I'd just done.
Salem didn't speak at first. I felt her mana shift slightly — pulsing out, then settling close around me, wrapping me in warmth that wasn't just protective. It was soft. Almost shy.
I turned toward her again, speaking low.
"If it was you out there… if you used that freedom to move behind my back… if you're planning something, and this is me being stupid enough to make it easier—"
I swallowed. "Then kill me. I won't stop you. I gave you the freedom. I'll live with that choice."
She stepped closer.
And then her hand found mine.
She didn't grip tightly, didn't rush it — just slid her fingers between mine, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"I wasn't out there," she said, voice almost a whisper. "And you can put the link back."
Her thumb brushed against my palm.
"I like being bonded to you."
I didn't speak. I just sat there, letting her magic fill the space between us — open, exposed, honest.
Then, quieter:
"Without it… I feel alone."
I turned my hand and held hers back, a little tighter.
"…You're not."
My fingers closed slowly around the stone still warm in my palm — the same one I had used to dissolve the deeper ties of our bond. It sat now between us like a question I hadn't answered yet.
I stared down at it, letting the silence settle again.
Then I breathed in.
And I pressed my will back into the stone.
Not to take control. Not to reclaim dominance. Just to meet her where she was. Equal.
The bond flared quietly — like the soft sound of fabric catching fire in the dark — and then wove itself whole again, not a thread pulled tight in my grip, but a living line between two hearts. Balanced.
Her mana surged for a second — not with power, but with emotion. It reached for mine and brushed against it, like a hand to a cheek.
She turned to me. So were eye to eye. Her fingers lifted, brushing softly along my jaw before tracing the edge of my lips. Just enough to feel.
Her voice was steady, but the bond trembled again with something deeper.
"I will forever be loyal to you," she said. "No matter how you see me."
My breath caught.
She kept going, quieter now.
"I love you, Annabel. I know you don't love me the same way. I know. But I can live with that."
Her hand lingered near my face, and then slipped into mine again.
"Just… don't ever release our bond again. It felt so empty. Like I wasn't real anymore."
I didn't trust myself to answer out loud. I just leaned forward, pulled her into my arms.
She folded against me without resistance — like she'd been waiting to be allowed to fall.
Her arms around me were firm but gentle, anchoring. Her breath warmed my neck, soft and slow, and I felt her settle into the quiet as if the world had narrowed down to this one moment, this one connection.
I let my head rest against hers, and the bond pulsed again — not commanding, not claiming.
Just there.
Whole.
And ours.