They didn't post it on the walls. No names written in chalk. No schedules inked on paper.
But Whisperers had other ways of assigning blame.
Kael stood alone in the training ring at dawn, fingers curled around the worn grip of a practice blade. The morning light slanted through narrow windows, casting long shadows over the stone. It had been days since the three-on-one bout, and the sting of it hadn't faded.
He'd nearly let go. Nearly shown them what the shadow could really do.
The worst part wasn't the bruises or the tension in his shoulders. It was the quiet. The knowing silence in the hallways, the lingering stares. The fact that no instructor had addressed it directly. Which meant someone had arranged it—and was waiting to see what would bleed through.
Kael wasn't a danger yet. But someone wanted to know how close he was to becoming one.
He slipped into the archives by memorized route—past the candlelit hall and beneath the scriptorium stairs, where records were stored in vaults of silence.
He searched quickly, efficiently, eyes scanning by sigil not by name.
Merrin.
A form submitted the day before their sparring match. Labeled "Controlled Field Simulation for Evaluative Purpose."
Stamped. Approved.
Sigil: Instructor Drelan.
A middling officer in the training cadre. Ambitious. Not subtle. But clearly testing orders higher than his pay grade.
Kael replaced the scroll. His mind felt clearer now—not angrier, not afraid. Just aware.
They weren't trying to see if he could fight.
They wanted to see if he'd break.
He emerged from the archive stair into the outer hallway—just in time to hear familiar boots scuffing tile.
A chuckle rolled out like old smoke.
"Bran," Kael said.
The name landed like a stone in a still pool.
His friend looked leaner than when he left—eyes sharper, jaw set. There was a healing cut under his left eye, but he moved easily, as if the trip hadn't worn him down—just reshaped him.
"Back from glory?" Kael asked, tilting a brow.
Bran snorted. "Glory's overrated. Brought you anything?"
"What?"
"Smell of wet sheep. Town was nothing but fog and farmers with too many opinions."
Kael smirked despite himself. They clasped arms, and for a moment, the pressure eased. The world felt less jagged.
"Seriously though," Kael said, voice lower, "how did it go?"
Bran hesitated, then shrugged. "Veil surged once, near the border. Scared the locals but didn't last. Just enough to cut off half our entry points for a night. One guy dislocated a knee, nothing major."
"You got everyone out?"
Bran nodded. "Yeah. We were lucky. Gloamkin didn't breach the core lines. Town might still turn later, but the Crown'll send auxiliaries."
Kael frowned. "And us?"
Bran's smile dimmed. "Us? We're assets, Kael. Not heroes. If it gets too bad, they burn the village and call it purification."
Kael didn't answer.
"Any word on your first run?" Bran asked, tilting his head.
"Nothing," Kael muttered. "They're keeping me inside. Eyes on me. I think… I think someone's pulling the leash tight."
Bran studied him. "You think it's the sparring thing?"
"I think it's everything."
Later, Kael returned to his quarters, tension still swimming in his chest.
He sat on his bunk, watching the candle burn low.
Tenebris stirred faintly inside him, like a breath caught between shadows. It had been quieter of late—less clawing, more watching.
And then Kael saw it. Not with his eyes, but with whatever gift Tenebris gave him when the room blurred at the edges.
A coin. Blackened and etched. Spinning slowly across a surface he couldn't name.
And then the echo—like breath against the back of his neck.
"The Little Kin always return."
"The shadow knows its own."
The words of the cultist—replaying. Insistent.
Kael blinked, heart steady, breath quiet.
They had known. Not his face. Not his name.
Something deeper.
And someone in this compound knew it, too.