The carriage wheels stopped at Dawnspire's gates just after dawn.

  I sat frozen, hands clenched in my lap, staring at the granite spire that would be my home for the next five years. The building rose from rolling fields like a promise—or a prison. Ward-runes pulsed along its single tower, steady as a heartbeat.

  Behind me, everything I knew was fading into distance.

  Father's last words still echoed: "Be Ethan where you must. Keep Lucien here."

  Mother's kiss on my brow. Maren slipping a honeycake into my pack. The weight of their trust pressing down like a stone.

  The driver opened the door. "Master Daniels. We've arrived."

  Master Daniels.

  Not Alaris. Not their son.

  Just a merchant's boy with light magic and a secret that could get everyone killed.

  I shouldered my pack and stepped down, boots crunching on gravel. The air tasted different here—sharp with possibility and the faint hum of contained magic. Other children milled about, some confident, others nervous. None of them carrying the weight I was.

  None of them pretending to be someone else entirely.

  A woman with silver-streaked hair approached, her eyes kind but assessing. "Welcome to Dawnspire. I'm Instructor Valen. You must be Ethan Daniels?"

  I nodded, not trusting my voice.

  "Your father sent word you'd recently awakened. Light affinity, yes?" She smiled gently. "Don't worry. We'll help you find your footing."

  Find my footing. Right.

  As if the ground beneath me wasn't already crumbling.

  The dormitory room was small but clean—stone walls, narrow bed, a desk beneath a window that looked out over the training yard. I set my pack down carefully, hands shaking.

  This was it.

  Five years. Maybe more if I went to Aurelián Spire after.

  Five years of being Ethan. Of burying Lucien so deep no one would ever find him.

  I pressed my palm to the cool windowpane, watching other children explore the grounds. Laughter drifted up. Easy. Light. They didn't know what it was like to carry two names, two lives, two worlds in one fragile body.

  The golden light stirred beneath my ribs—warm, insistent.

  Soft, I thought. We have to stay soft.

  The light dimmed obediently, but I could feel its frustration. It wanted to sing. To blaze. To be seen.

  But being seen would destroy everything.

  Week One

  Morning came too early, announced by bells that echoed through stone corridors.

  I dressed in the plain practice tunic they'd given me—no House crest, no identifying marks. Just gray cloth and my own uncertainty. The other boys in my hall were already up, talking and laughing as they headed to the training yard.

  I followed at a distance, keeping my head down.

  The yard was larger than I'd thought, with practice rings marked in chalk and weapon racks along the walls. Ward-sigils hummed faintly, tuned to stabilize young magic. Mist still clung to the grass, softening edges.

  I found a quiet corner and drew my wooden practice sword, trying to remember Father's lessons. Blade forms first. Magic later. Don't draw attention.

  The light wanted out. I kept it leashed.

  Boots crunched on gravel—measured, deliberate.

  I turned. A boy my age approached: broad for seven, gray-eyed, confidence in every line. A wooden axe etched with runes hung across his back.

  "Early start," he said, eyeing the faint shimmer at my fingertips I'd forgotten to suppress. "Testing that glow of yours?"

  My heart lurched. I let the light flicker out, forcing a grin. "Something like that. Trying to keep it steady."

  He raised a brow. "Looks strong. Most kids here can't spark anything that bright." He stepped closer. "What's your deal, Daniels?"

  Careful. Casual. Nothing special.

  I shrugged. "Father says it's in the blood. Got it a week ago. Still figuring it out."

  The boy nodded, something like respect in his expression. "Makes sense. Veyrs learn control too—axe doesn't swing itself." He unslung his weapon, twirling it with seven-year-old confidence. "I'm Ralen. Ralen Veyr. Want to spar? Wood only, no magic. Let's see what you've got without the light show."

  Relief flooded through me. "Deal. But don't sulk when I nick that axe."

  Ralen laughed—sharp, clean. "Talk's big, Daniels. Bring it."

  We squared off, mist curling at our ankles. I struck first, quick and testing. Wood cracked against wood. Ralen was strong, rooted like earth. I moved faster, staying light on my feet.

  Our rhythm built. Strike. Block. Counter.

  Then my foot caught a stone.

  Ralen's axe swung close.

  Instinct flared before I could stop it.

  Golden light burst from my palm—brighter than it should be, warmer, different. The ward-sigils buzzed, catching the surge, dimming it to something that looked almost normal.

  Ralen froze, axe lowered. "That your light again?"

  My heart hammered. "Yeah. Sorry—got away from me."

  He studied me for a beat, then nodded. "Happens. Veyrs swing too hard sometimes—same deal. Keep it in check, and you'll be fine." He slung the axe over his shoulder. "You're not bad, Daniels. Got a fighter's heart."

  The knot in my chest loosened slightly. "You're not what I expected either. Thought Veyrs were all grim warriors."

  His grin flashed. "We are. But I like a challenge." He glanced toward the spire. "Dawnspire's gonna test us both. You'll need someone to stand with if that light gets wild."

  I met his gaze, seeing something steady there. Something that felt like solid ground. "You offering?"

  "Depends. You gonna keep sparking by accident?"

  I laughed despite myself. "Might surprise you with control next time."

  "Good. Come on. Vorn'll have us running laps if we're late."

  We walked together toward the gathering students, and for the first time since arriving, I felt something other than fear.

  Maybe I could do this.

  Maybe.

  Classroom — First Lesson

  Instructor Korrin was old—older than the stones, some whispered—with a voice like gravel and eyes that saw too much. His classroom occupied the tower's second floor, lined with scrolls and strange instruments that hummed faintly.

  "Sit," he commanded as we filed in.

  Twenty children, ages seven to nine, settled onto benches. I took a seat near the back. Ralen dropped down beside me without asking, and somehow that made everything feel less lonely.

  Korrin's chalk scraped across slate. Five symbols appeared.

  "The Currents," he said. "Not gods. Not powers. Flows. Primordial forces that shaped existence before there was language to name them."

  He tapped each symbol:

  Law — a perfect circle

  Measure — crossed lines

  Memory — a spiral

  Desire — a flame

  Consent — interlocking rings

  "Law confirms truth. Measure defines distance, weight, time. Memory threads causality. Desire fuels change. Consent binds existence through agreement." He turned, eyes sweeping the room. "They are not in balance. That is known. But the imbalance is divine—it is tension. And tension requires support."

  A girl near the front raised her hand. "Support from what?"

  "From us." Korrin smiled grimly. "The Seven Harmonics—mortal disciplines that stabilize what the Currents cannot."

  More chalk. Seven new symbols:

  "Radiance. Shadeweave. Rune. Flame. Earth. Spirit. Flowcraft."

  My breath caught at the first word. Ralen glanced at me, but I kept my expression neutral.

  "These are not powers you wield," Korrin continued. "They are resonances you tune to. Ways of supporting the lattice without breaking it further." He paused. "Magic is not domination. It is compensation. Remember that."

  The lesson continued—theory and history woven together. But my mind stuck on one thing:

  Radiance.

  Listed like it still existed. Like it was just another discipline.

  No one corrected him. No one said it was lost.

  Did they not know? Or was this another secret buried beneath official lies?

  Week Three

  I was halfway across the yard when a shadow fell over me.

  Not a cloud. Not a bird.

  A person.

  I looked up just in time to see a boy—wild dark hair, grinning like a maniac—plummeting from the dormitory roof three stories above, arms windmilling, clutching a badly-knotted rope.

  "LOOK OUT BELOW!"

  Instinct took over.

  My hands shot up, light flaring—not planned, not controlled, just there—forming a cushion of golden mana that caught him mid-fall and slowed his descent just enough that when we collided, it was more tackle than splat.

  We hit the ground in a tangle of limbs. My breath whooshed out. The boy rolled, came up laughing, and offered a hand.

  "That was AMAZING! Do it again!"

  I stared at him, winded. "What—how—why—"

  "Kaelen Thorne," he said, still grinning, hauling me to my feet. "And that was almost a perfect dismount. Would've stuck the landing if the rope hadn't snapped." He held up the frayed end like a trophy.

  "You fell off the roof," I managed.

  "Technically I jumped. Big difference. Falling implies lack of control. I had total control right up until the rope broke." He peered at me, eyes bright with curiosity. "What was that light thing? That was YOU, right? Not the wards?"

  My stomach dropped. "I—it was just—"

  "Because that was brilliant. Like a shield, but soft? I barely felt the ground! Can you do it on purpose? Can you teach me? Wait, no, you're new too. Light magic, right? I heard about you. Daniels?"

  "Ethan," I said weakly.

  "Great! Ethan. Love it. Short. Punchy. Easy to yell when you're falling." He slung an arm around my shoulders like we'd been friends for years. "So here's what I'm thinking—"

  "KAELEN THORNE!"

  Headmaster Vorn stood at the dormitory entrance, face like a thundercloud. Ralen flanked him, looking resigned.

  "Uh oh," Kaelen said cheerfully. "The authority brigade."

  "That's the third time this week," Vorn said, voice tight. "Three stories. THREE. What were you thinking?"

  "That the rope would hold?"

  "It was a bedsheet."

  "A KNOTTED bedsheet. There's a difference."

  Ralen pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're going to break your neck."

  "Not if Ethan keeps catching me!" Kaelen jostled my shoulder. "Did you see that? Perfect timing. We should practice."

  "We should absolutely not practice," I said, fighting a smile.

  Vorn pointed with the kind of finger that meant business. "Detention. Kitchen duty. One week. And if I catch you on another roof—"

  "You won't. I'll be much sneakier next time."

  "KAELEN."

  "Kidding! Totally kidding. I have learned my lesson and will reflect deeply on my choices."

  He sounded completely unrepentant.

  Month Two — The Forest

  The forest edge near Dawnspire's eastern wall became my refuge.

  Not because it was empty—but because it was quiet in a way that didn't demand anything from me. I could sit by the brook, watching minnows dart through shallows, and just be. Not Ethan. Not Lucien. Just... present.

  I'd been sitting there maybe twenty minutes when I felt it—a pulse in the air, like the world inhaling.

  "You hiding too?"

  I startled, nearly slipping off my rock.

  A girl stood a few paces away—small, quiet, with dark eyes that seemed to see past surfaces. I'd noticed her before in class—always near the back, always listening more than speaking.

  "I'm not hiding," she said before I could answer her own question. "Just... listening."

  "To what?"

  "I don't know yet." She gestured to the forest. "There's something here. Something that wants to be heard."

  Most kids would've laughed. I just nodded. "Does it work? The listening?"

  "Sometimes." She studied me with that too-seeing gaze. "You okay?"

  "Yeah." The lie came automatically. Then, softer: "Just... a lot. Everything's new."

  "Your magic?" she asked gently. "I heard the whispers. Merchant's son, strong light affinity, awoke just before term. Lucky and overwhelming all at once."

  I nodded, staring at the water. "I don't really know how to control it yet. Vorn says it'll come with practice, but..."

  "But it's scary," she finished. "Not knowing what it'll do."

  The relief of being understood hit hard. "Yeah."

  We sat in comfortable silence. Then the pulse came again—stronger now. The air shimmered faintly between us.

  "Do you feel that?" she whispered.

  "Feel what?"

  "Something's here."

  The light appeared slowly, coalescing from dappled sunlight. A small silvery orb no bigger than my fist, glowing softly, drifting toward us like a dandelion seed.

  The girl's breath caught. "A wisp."

  I'd read about them—spirits of place and memory, rare and shy, drawn to those with the gift to see them. But I'd never seen one.

  The wisp hovered between us, pulsing gently. Then it moved—not toward the girl, but toward me.

  It circled my head once, twice, humming with a frequency that made my teeth ache. The light brightened, shifting from silver to something warmer—gold threading through white.

  I went very still. "Um—"

  "It's okay," the girl said quickly. "It's just curious."

  But the wisp wasn't just curious. It was agitated, circling faster, the hum growing insistent. Not hostile—searching. Like it recognized something it hadn't expected to find.

  My hands clenched. "I'm just—it's just light magic. That's all."

  The wisp pulsed brighter. For a heartbeat, I felt the girl's awareness brush mine—not reading my thoughts, just... feeling. Warmth. Safety. Something bright and fierce that didn't quite match the gentle glow in my palm.

  Then my fear cut through everything else.

  "Please," I said quietly. "I'm not—I don't know why it's doing that."

  The girl looked at me—really looked. Saw the terror barely hidden. The way my shoulders hunched. A boy who'd just gotten magic he didn't understand, thrust into a school full of strangers, trying desperately not to be noticed.

  The wisp hovered, waiting.

  "Hey," she said gently. "Whatever it is, it's okay. I don't understand it either, but I won't tell anyone."

  My eyes snapped to hers. "You won't?"

  "No." She reached out slowly toward the wisp. "I don't know what you are. I don't know what it sees in you. But I don't think that matters."

  The wisp drifted to her palm—warm and weightless, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat. Connection flooded her expression. The wisp rose, circling her now, and she laughed—bright and surprised.

  "It chose you," I said, wonder replacing fear.

  "Maybe. Or maybe we chose each other." She looked at me, the wisp settling near her shoulder. "It likes you. I don't know why, but it does."

  I swallowed hard. "And you're okay with that? Not knowing?"

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  She smiled. "My mother says spirits see truth. If it trusts you, that's enough for me. I'm Mira, by the way. Mira Valen."

  "Ethan," I managed. "Ethan Daniels."

  We sat until the bells called us back, the wisp a steady presence between us. Mira didn't ask what the spirit had seen. Didn't push for answers I couldn't give.

  Some truths, I was learning, didn't need words.

  Classroom — Month Three

  "The Harmonics are not complete," Korrin said, chalk tapping against slate. "They are compensatory. Mortals trying to shore up what the Currents cannot balance."

  A boy near the front frowned. "But if the Currents are divine—"

  "Divine does not mean perfect," Korrin interrupted. "The Currents are. They do not question. They do not adjust. Divinity without agency is simply force." He wrote a new symbol: 11

  "There are theories," he continued slowly, "that there exists a resonance uncounted among the established twelve. A harmonic that shouldn't be—but might be necessary."

  My skin prickled.

  "The Eleventh Harmonic," someone whispered.

  "Myth," Korrin said flatly. "Speculation. Wishful thinking from scholars who want reality to be tidier than it is." But his eyes swept the room, lingering on no one and everyone. "Still. The lattice has cracks. And cracks... have a way of revealing what lies beneath."

  After class, Ralen caught my arm. "You okay? You looked like you'd seen a ghost."

  "Fine," I lied. "Just... a lot to take in."

  Kaelen appeared at my other shoulder, somehow having materialized from thin air. "I think it's fascinating. Hidden harmonics, cracks in reality, ancient mysteries—it's like the world is trying to be interesting."

  Mira's wisp danced between us, amused. "The spirits say some cracks are doorways."

  "Doorways to what?" Ralen asked.

  "They don't say. But they're... curious."

  We walked together to the dining hall, our small group gradually becoming something more solid. Something that felt like friendship.

  But the weight of Korrin's words stayed with me:

  The Eleventh Harmonic. A resonance that shouldn't be—but might be necessary.

  I pressed my hand to my chest, feeling the golden light pulse beneath.

  What was I?

  And what would happen when someone finally figured it out?

  Month Four — The Weight of Silence

  Nights were the hardest.

  During the day, I could be Ethan—practice with Ralen, laugh at Kaelen's antics, sit quietly with Mira by the brook. The mask fit well enough when there were people to see it.

  But alone in my dormitory room, staring at the dark ceiling, the silence pressed down like stone.

  I hadn't seen Mother's face in months. Hadn't heard Father's voice. Hadn't felt Maren's steadying presence or the warmth of home.

  Letters were too dangerous—Vorn had made that clear. Anything written could be intercepted, studied, traced. One slip, one wrong word, and everything would unravel.

  So I lay in darkness, holding honeycakes in memory, and tried not to think about how long five years would feel.

  The door opened quietly.

  I sat up, heart racing. A figure slipped inside—tall, familiar.

  "Vorn?" I whispered.

  "Quiet." He crossed to my bedside, keeping his voice low. "I have word from your family."

  Relief and fear tangled together. "Are they—"

  "Safe. Well. Your mother sends her love. Your father says to remember: Be steady. We are with you." Vorn's hand settled briefly on my shoulder. "They're proud of you, Lucien. More than you know."

  Hearing my real name spoken aloud—even in whisper—made something crack inside me. "I miss them."

  "I know." His voice gentled. "But you're doing what must be done. The mask is holding. No one suspects."

  "Ralen almost saw—"

  "But didn't. And won't, if you stay careful." Vorn studied me in the darkness. "You're not alone here. I'm watching. And your friends—they're good children. Trust them as far as you safely can."

  "How far is that?"

  "You'll know when the time comes." He moved toward the door, then paused. "Your mother wanted me to tell you: the garden is blooming. She planted marigolds this year. Your favorites."

  My throat tightened. "Tell her... tell her I remember."

  "I will."

  He slipped out, leaving me alone with the echo of home and the weight of everything I couldn't say.

  I pressed my hand to the window, looking out at stars that seemed impossibly far away.

  Be steady. We are with you.

  I would be. I had to be.

  Even if it hurt.

  Time Passing — Fragments

  Classes became routine. Blade forms in the morning. Theory in the afternoon. Practice in the evening.

  Ralen taught me to anchor my stance. Kaelen showed me seventeen ways to break rules without getting caught (I used exactly none of them). Mira helped me understand the quiet language of spirits.

  We became something together—not Pack yet, that word would come later—but something solid.

  I learned to laugh without thinking. To spar without holding back. To let the mask settle so naturally I almost forgot it was there.

  Almost.

  Korrin's lessons deepened. He spoke of ley-lines and resonance patterns, of how Dravaryn itself was a wound trying to heal. Of Aeloran, the guardian deity, and how his sacrifice kept the lattice from collapsing.

  "Some believe he chose his duty," Korrin said one afternoon. "Others whisper he was bound. Either way—he holds the world together through will alone."

  Kaelen leaned over. "I'd break before bending like that."

  "That's because you break everything," Ralen muttered.

  "On purpose. There's a difference."

  Mira's wisp flickered with amusement. It had taken to following our group everywhere, a small silver light that seemed to approve of our chaos.

  Winter came. Snow blanketed the fields. We trained in the cold until our breath misted and our fingers went numb.

  Spring returned. Ward-runes pulsed brighter as the ley-lines shifted with the season.

  And slowly, carefully, I grew into the lie I was living.

  Ethan Daniels. Merchant's son. Light mage.

  Not Lucien Alaris. Not the boy with Radiance in his blood and memories of another world buried in his soul.

  Just... Ethan.

  It should have felt like freedom.

  Instead, it felt like drowning very, very slowly.

  Eight Years Old — The Conversation

  Kaelen flopped onto the practice mat, arms spread like he'd been felled by divine judgment. "Eight. Which means we're over halfway to being terrifying."

  Mira raised an eyebrow. "You're already terrifying. Just not in the way you think."

  Kaelen grinned. "Thank you. I try."

  Ralen settled beside them, wiping sweat from his brow. "Seven years until graduation. If we make it."

  Kaelen rolled onto his side. "Seven years is forever. What are you even going to do after?"

  Ralen shrugged. "I was thinking about the Royal Guard. If they'll take me."

  Kaelen snorted. "Pretty sure the Royal Guard doesn't take berserkers. No matter how disciplined."

  Ralen didn't rise to it. "We're not berserkers anymore. Not like the old stories. My family learned to channel it. Rage isn't the weapon—it's the fuel. Discipline is the blade."

  I looked up from my notes. "That's... poetic."

  Ralen glanced at me. "It has to be. Otherwise people just see the rage."

  Kaelen sat up, mock solemn. "I stand corrected. You're terrifying and philosophical."

  Mira smiled. "Which means you're growing up."

  Kaelen groaned. "Don't say that. Growing up means responsibility. And paperwork."

  "And making choices," Mira added softly. Her wisp pulsed in agreement.

  "What about you?" Ralen asked me. "Any grand plans?"

  I hesitated. Plans required a future I could see. Right now, I was just trying to survive the present.

  "I don't know yet," I said finally. "Maybe... just keep learning. Figure out what this magic really is."

  Kaelen nudged my shoulder. "That's the most Ethan answer ever. 'Maybe I'll just exist and see what happens.'"

  "Better than falling off roofs," I shot back.

  "That was one time this month—"

  "Three times," Ralen corrected.

  "Three times that you know about—"

  We dissolved into laughter, and for a moment, everything felt simple. Four kids on a practice mat, dreaming about futures that might never come.

  But the laughter carried warmth. And warmth, I was learning, was enough to push back the dark.

  At least for now.

  Ten Years Old — Claiming Territory

  "I have an idea," Kaelen announced.

  The four of us sat at our usual breakfast spot—a weathered oak table in Dawnspire's training yard, scarred from years of carved initials and spilled cider. We'd been meeting here for nearly three years now, but we had to share it with other students. Sometimes we'd arrive to find it already taken, forcing us to scatter to different spots.

  Ralen didn't look up from his porridge. "Your ideas worry me."

  "This one's brilliant though." Kaelen pulled out a small runestone, grinning like he'd found treasure. "I've been studying enchantment theory. Specifically, sound-based wards."

  "Why does that sound ominous?" I asked.

  "Because you're learning," Mira said, her wisp flickering with what might have been amusement or warning. Hard to tell with wisps.

  Kaelen ignored us both. "See, most people use sound wards for alarms or communication. But theoretically—and I want to emphasize the theoretically part—you could enchant an object to produce... let's say... music."

  "What kind of music?" Ralen asked suspiciously.

  "Well, I may have borrowed a recording crystal from the tavern in town during last month's visit—"

  "Kaelen."

  "—and it may contain several bawdy tavern songs that the crystal captured during their busiest night—"

  "Kaelen, no."

  "—and I may have figured out how to bind that recording to an activation rune that triggers on contact."

  We stared at him.

  "You want to enchant our table to sing tavern songs?" I said slowly.

  "Bawdy tavern songs," Kaelen corrected. "There's a difference. These have historical significance. Cultural value. Questionable lyrics about milkmaids and—"

  "Absolutely not," Ralen said.

  "Why not? It's perfect! No one else will want to sit at the singing table. It becomes exclusively ours. Territory claimed through superior tactical thinking."

  "Through chaos," Mira corrected.

  "Tactical chaos. The best kind."

  I looked at the table, then at Kaelen's eager expression, then at Ralen's resigned one.

  The proctors are going to kill us."

  "They have to catch us first," Kaelen said. "Besides, enchantment practice is literally part of our curriculum. I'm just being academically ambitious."

  "You're being academically catastrophic," Ralen muttered.

  But he didn't stop Kaelen. None of us did. Because secretly—very secretly—it was kind of brilliant. Kaelen worked fast, fingers tracing runes into the wood grain with practiced precision. For all his chaos, he was genuinely talented at enchantment work. The runestone pulsed softly as he embedded it into a knot in the wood, muttering activation phrases under his breath.

  "There." He sat back, admiring his work. "Touch-activated. Anyone sits down, the table sings."

  "How loud?" Mira asked.

  "Moderately loud?"

  "Kaelen."

  "Fine. Impressively loud. But that's what makes it effective!"

  Ralen reached out to test it.

  The table burst into song.

  Not gentle melody.

  Not subtle background music.

  Full-throated, boisterous, bawdy tavern songs about farmers' daughters, suspiciously friendly bards, and exploits that definitely weren't appropriate for a school setting.

  Every head in the yard turned.

  "OH NO," I said.

  "OH YES," Kaelen crowed.

  The table continued singing, cycling through what had to be every inappropriate song ever recorded in that crystal. Students erupted into laughter. Some looked scandalized. A few took notes with academic intensity.

  Proctor Thane materialized like an omen of doom. "WHAT IS THAT NOISE?"

  "Cultural education?" Kaelen offered weakly.

  "WHOSE WORK IS THIS?"

  We exchanged glances.

  Some instinct toward self-preservation warred with loyalty.

  Loyalty won.

  "Ours," Ralen said firmly. "All of us."

  Thane's eyes narrowed. "Dispel it. Now."

  Kaelen reached for the table. His fingers brushed the wood—

  —and the song changed to something worse. Much worse. Something about a duchess and a stable hand.

  "I… may not know how to turn it off yet," Kaelen admitted.

  "MAY NOT—"

  "In my defense, I was very focused on the activation part—"

  "HEADMASTER VORN’S OFFICE. ALL FOUR OF YOU. NOW."

  Vorn studied the still-singing table with an expression somewhere between fury and grudging respect.

  "In twenty years of teaching," he said slowly, "I have seen many pranks. This..." He gestured at the table, which had cycled to a song about pirates that was somehow even worse than the stable hand one. "This is certainly among the most technically proficient."

  "Thank you?" Kaelen tried.

  "That wasn't a compliment, Mister Thorne."

  "Understood, sir."

  Vorn walked around the table, examining the runework. "The binding is excellent. The activation phrase is clever. The choice of content is catastrophically inappropriate." He looked at Kaelen. "You did this?"

  "Mostly, sir."

  "And you three?" His gaze swept to us.

  "Accomplices by proximity," I said.

  "And loyalty," Mira added quietly.

  Ralen just nodded.

  Vorn sighed the sigh of a man who'd aged a decade in one morning. "I should expel all of you."

  Our stomachs dropped.

  "However." He pulled out his staff. "This is also a learning opportunity. Enchantment practice includes both activation and dispelling. Consider this your practical examination."

  He touched his staff to the table.

  Nothing happened.

  The song continued, now detailing a merchant's wife and a traveling minstrel.

  Vorn frowned. "Interesting." He tried again, muttering a counter-ward.

  The song got louder.

  "How did you—" He studied the runework more closely. "You layered it. Three binding runes, two amplification wards, and—is that a persistence charm?"

  "I wanted it to last?" Kaelen said.

  "It will last approximately forever at this rate." Vorn tried a third time. The table flickered, went silent for half a second, then resumed with renewed enthusiasm.

  By the time he finally dispelled it—three attempts, two different counter-wards, and one very creative unraveling technique later—we'd heard every inappropriate song in that crystal at least twice.

  "Detention," Vorn said flatly. "One week. Kitchen duty for all four of you."

  "Yes, sir," we chorused.

  "And Mister Thorne? Impressive technical work. Never do it again."

  "Yes, sir."

  We filed out. Once we were safely away, Kaelen started grinning.

  "Worth it?" I asked.

  "Completely worth it."

  Ralen shook his head. "We're going to be peeling potatoes for a week."

  "But it's our table now," Kaelen pointed out. "No one else is going to want to sit at the table that sang about duchesses and stable hands for two hours straight."

  He wasn't wrong.

  From that day forward, the weathered oak table in the training yard belonged to us. Other students gave it a wide berth, even after Vorn's dispelling finally took permanent hold. The story spread. The legend grew.

  The singing table.

  Our table.

  And though we didn't know it yet—wouldn't name it for another year—that day marked something bigger than claiming furniture. Four kids who'd stood together and taken collective blame for chaos they didn't all create. Who'd peeled potatoes side by side for a week and somehow found it worth it.

  The legend of the Pack started there, with inappropriate songs and kitchen duty and loyalty that didn't need to be spoken.

  It just was.

  Worth every potato we peeled.

  Two Weeks Later

  Morning found us at our table—properly ours now, no question. I arrived first as usual, grateful for the quiet moment before the day's demands pressed down.

  Ralen appeared precisely five minutes after the dawn bell, dropping his practice axe on the wood with a solid thunk.

  "Morning," he said.

  "Morning," I replied.

  Comfortable silence. The kind friends could share.

  Kaelen tumbled in late, stealing a roll from my plate. "Did you hear? Proctor Thane is still telling people about the singing table incident. Says it was 'technically impressive if morally bankrupt.'"

  "High praise from Thane," Mira observed, settling beside me with her wisp trailing behind.

  "I'm considering it for my academic record," Kaelen said proudly.

  "Please don't."

  We ate in companionable chaos, the easy back-and-forth that had become our rhythm. Three years of friendship, distilled into moments like this. Shared space. Shared laughter. Shared consequences.

  The mask had grown more comfortable over time. I knew how to be Ethan here—when to laugh, what to say, how to move through the world without raising questions. But sitting at this table, claimed through collective audacity and kitchen duty, I could almost forget I was pretending.

  Almost.

  "You're brooding again," Kaelen observed.

  "I'm thinking."

  "Same thing."

  "It's really not."

  Mira pulled out her notes. "Korrin's giving a practical assessment next week on resonance manipulation. We should probably review together."

  "A whole week?" Kaelen said. "That's forever."

  "It's seven days," she corrected patiently.

  Ralen shook his head. "You're hopeless."

  "I prefer 'optimistically unprepared,'" Kaelen said with a grin.

  I smiled despite myself. This was what made everything bearable. What made me think I could survive not just the next assessment, but the two more years until secondary trials. Until we could move forward together to whatever came next.

  "We'll be fine," I said. "We always are."

  "Listen to Ethan," Mira said. "Voice of reason."

  And for once, sitting at our table with my Pack around me, I almost believed it.

  Twelve Years Old — The Night Before

  "Secondary trials tomorrow," Ralen said as we walked back from evening practice. "Can't believe we're already here."

  Secondary trials—the formal assessment that would determine our skill progression and placement for the next phase of training. Pass, and we'd be eligible for Aurelián Spire. Fail, and… well, no one talked about what happened if you failed.

  Five years. Five years since I'd arrived at Dawnspire, alone and terrified. Five years of masks and secrets and slowly learning how to be Ethan Daniels. Five years of this—walking with my friends, the Pack that had formed around our chaos and loyalty.

  "We'll be fine," Kaelen said with his usual reckless confidence. "How hard can it be?"

  "You're going to jinx us," Mira warned.

  "That's not how jinxes work—"

  "It's exactly how jinxes work."

  I barely heard them. My mind was already turning toward tomorrow—toward the trials, toward the risk of my magic revealing too much, toward the mask I'd have to hold even tighter than usual.

  But beneath the fear, something else stirred.

  Hope.

  If we passed—when we passed—we'd go to Aurelián Spire together. The next step. The place where real power was taught, where we'd become more than students playing at magic.

  Ralen caught my expression. "You good?"

  "Yeah." I managed a smile. "Just thinking about what comes next."

  "Aurelián," Mira said quietly. Her wisp pulsed with something that felt like anticipation.

  "If we all make it," Kaelen added, and for once his voice lacked its usual flippancy.

  We stopped walking. The weight of those words settled between us like a challenge.

  "We will," Ralen said firmly. "All of us."

  "Together," Mira agreed.

  I looked at them—these three people who'd stood with me for five years without knowing the truth of who I was. Who'd claimed a table through collective chaos. Who'd made kitchen duty feel like victory. Who'd turned loneliness into belonging without ever asking me to explain the shadows in my eyes.

  "Together," I repeated. "That's not negotiable."

  Kaelen grinned, but it was softer than his usual chaos. "So we're making a pact? Very dramatic. I approve."

  "Not a pact," Ralen said. "A promise. We've been the Pack here at Dawnspire. We stay the Pack at Aurelián."

  "All four of us," Mira said, her wisp dancing between us like it was sealing the vow with light.

  "All four of us," we echoed.

  The words felt bigger than they should. Like we were binding something more than intent—like we were writing our futures in the space between friendship and fate.

  Five years had led to this moment. Five years of growing up together, learning together, standing together. Tomorrow would test everything we'd built.

  But standing here, the four of us against whatever came next, I felt something I hadn't felt since leaving home:

  Certainty.

  "Remember," Ralen said as we reached the dormitory doors, "we're in this together. Whatever happens tomorrow—we face it as a Pack."

  Kaelen slung his arms around both me and Ralen. "Aw, look at us. Being inspirational and stuff. I'm so proud."

  "Get off," Ralen muttered, but he was smiling.

  "Never. This is a bonding moment. We're bonding."

  "We've been bonding for five years," I pointed out.

  "Exactly! And tomorrow we bond our way into Aurelián. As a unit. Unstoppable."

  Mira smiled. "If we survive Kaelen's confidence, we can survive anything."

  We separated at the hall, heading to our respective rooms. I paused at my door, looking back at them.

  Ralen, steady as stone.

  Kaelen, chaos barely contained.

  Mira, quiet strength wrapped in gentleness.

  My Pack.

  Five years had changed everything. The scared seven-year-old who'd arrived at Dawnspire was gone, replaced by someone who'd learned to carry two names, two lives, two worlds—and somehow found people who made that weight bearable.

  The guilt twisted, sharp and familiar. They didn't know the whole truth. Maybe they never would.

  But the promise we'd just made? That was real.

  All four of us. Together. No matter what.

  I stepped into my room, closed the door, and pressed my back against it.

  Tomorrow, the secondary trials would test everything we'd learned.

  Tomorrow, I'd have to be Ethan Daniels more perfectly than ever before.

  Tomorrow, the mask would have to hold.

  Because if it slipped—even for a moment—

  Everything would fall apart.

  And I couldn't let that happen.

  Not when I finally had something—someone—worth protecting.

  I crossed to the window, looking out at stars scattered across velvet darkness. Five years ago, Father had said: Be steady. We are with you.

  I pressed my palm to the glass, feeling the golden light pulse beneath my skin.

  "Tomorrow," I whispered to the night, to the light, to the boy I used to be and the one I was still becoming. "Tomorrow, we hold the line. All four of us."

  The light pulsed once—acknowledgment, promise, warning.

  Tomorrow would come whether I was ready or not.

  But this time, I wouldn't face it alone.

  This time, I had my Pack.

  And together?

  Together we could face anything.