Silas found Gideon Drakhar before breakfast.
This was not difficult.
Finding anyone in Greyhaven Preparatory Academy became considerably easier once Silas understood that buildings, like workshops, had habits.
Students moved toward food.
Instructors moved toward classrooms.
Clerks moved toward offices.
People carrying three or more books tended toward the library.
Gideon carried five.
Silas saw him crossing the covered walk between the main building and the north wing just after sunrise.
“Professor Drakhar.”
Gideon kept walking.
Silas followed.
“Professor Drakhar.”
“You have already been told that title is inaccurate.”
“You didn't correct me yesterday.”
“I was hoping you would improve overnight.”
Silas considered.
“Mr. Drakhar?”
“Worse.”
“Sir?”
“Acceptable.”
Gideon stopped beneath the covered walk.
Morning rain ticked against the wooden roof. Beyond the rail, water ran along the edges of the academy's stone paths instead of collecting into the broad brown lakes Briar Glen called roads.
Gideon looked down at him.
“You found me.”
“Yes.”
“I had noticed.”
Silas waited.
Gideon waited longer.
Apparently this was going to be a contest.
Silas surrendered first.
“You said Wildvine might be the wrong question.”
“No.”
Silas frowned.
Gideon shifted the books in his arms.
“I said calling it weak was a conclusion reached before the question had been properly defined.”
“That is longer.”
“It is also what I said.”
Silas liked precise people.
They were exhausting.
“I want to know why.”
“I imagine you do.”
Gideon resumed walking.
Silas followed again.
“Are you going to tell me?”
“Perhaps.”
“When?”
“When you stop following me.”
Silas stopped.
Gideon continued for three steps.
Then he stopped too.
Turned.
Looked at the distance between them.
Silas remained where he was.
A small change occurred around Gideon's mouth.
Not a smile.
Possibly an administrative error.
“Come.”
Silas joined him.
They entered the north wing.
Gideon's room was smaller than Silas expected.
Not an office.
A study.
Possibly a storage room that books had conquered.
Shelves occupied three walls. The fourth contained one narrow window overlooking the training yard.
Books filled the shelves.
Documents filled the spaces between books.
Loose pages had been stacked on a table, a chest, two chairs, and most of the floor near the far wall.
One chair remained usable.
Silas suspected this was intentional.
Gideon placed his five books on the desk.
That created another stack.
“You read?”
“Yes.”
“How well?”
“Well.”
“That is not a measurement.”
Silas thought of the dormitory, where Will Carter had informed him that the academy divided first-year readers into four groups.
“I can read academy primers.”
“So can half the children in this building.”
“I can read Ward's field notation.”
That earned attention.
“Could you?”
“Some of it.”
“Better.”
Gideon opened a drawer and removed a sheet of paper.
He placed it on the desk.
Silas recognized the handwriting.
Evan Ward.
His Awakening record.
Silas looked at Gideon.
“You have my certificate.”
“A copy of the examination record.”
“Why?”
“Because I requested it.”
“Why?”
Gideon looked irritated.
Not by the question.
By the fact that Silas had made him answer something obvious.
“Because yesterday a five-year-old with Perfect Innate Aether, an ordinary Wildvine, and the manners of a retired accountant appeared in a dormitory where I happened to be delivering enrollment records.”
Silas considered.
“I don't know what a retired accountant is supposed to act like.”
“Neither do you.”
“Then that part seems weak.”
Gideon sat.
Silas took the remaining chair.
The desk stood between them.
Ward's report lay in the center.
Gideon pointed to the first line.
“Age.”
“Five.”
“Eidolon.”
“Wildvine.”
“Innate Aether.”
“Ten.”
Gideon's finger stopped.
“Perfect.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why those three facts interest me?”
“Because Wildvine usually has little or no measurable Aether.”
“Usually?”
Silas thought of Mary Bell.
And Ward's expression.
“And people assume that means always.”
“Good.”
Gideon leaned back.
“Do you know how many Awakenings the Concord recorded in this province last year?”
“No.”
“Neither do I.”
Silas blinked.
“I expected a number.”
“That is why bad scholars invent them.”
Silas decided he liked Gideon more than yesterday.
Gideon continued.
“What I do know is that Concord records contain thousands of common plant Eidolons. Wildvine is among the most frequently documented.”
“And high Aether is rare.”
“Extremely.”
“How rare?”
“Rare enough that Ward tested you twice.”
Silas looked down at the report.
There it was.
Retest confirmed.
Gideon folded his hands.
“So. Explain it.”
Silas looked at him.
“You already have a theory.”
“Yes.”
“Then why ask me?”
“To determine whether I am wasting my morning.”
Reasonable.
Silas looked again at Ward's notes.
Wildvine.
Perfect Aether.
Two facts that did not fit the usual pattern.
He had already thought about institutional bias.
People did not train Wildvine because Wildvine usually had no meaningful reserve.
Because people did not train Wildvine, nobody knew much about what a well-trained one could become.
That explained ignorance.
It did not explain the reserve itself.
“Mutation,” Silas said.
“Possible.”
“Wildvine may not be as ordinary as it looks.”
“Possible.”
“Family trait.”
“Possible.”
“My father could carry a high-Aether lineage that didn't express in the same Eidolon.”
Gideon's eyes sharpened.
“Better.”
Silas noticed.
“Why better?”
“Because you separated inherited Aether potential from Eidolon appearance.”
Silas stored that.
“Are they separate?”
“Not entirely.”
“That sounds inconvenient.”
“Reality rarely organizes itself for the comfort of students.”
Silas looked again at the report.
There was another answer.
A colder one.
Dense weight in his left hand.
A war maul that had nearly drained him simply by existing.
He said nothing.
Gideon watched him.
The room became quiet.
Outside, the first breakfast bell rang.
Neither moved.
Finally Gideon said, “There is another possibility.”
Silas's attention settled completely.
“What?”
Gideon did not look at his left hand.
That made the restraint obvious.
“Your examination record may be incomplete.”
Silas kept his face neutral.
“How?”
“Ward is competent.”
Not the answer Silas expected.
Gideon tapped the report.
“He is also a field examiner working alone through rural settlements. His task is to Awaken children, measure Aether, register the result, and move on. He is not conducting a research examination.”
Silas waited.
“If a second manifestation were concealed during Awakening, a routine examination would not necessarily discover it.”
Cold.
Not from the room.
Memory.
Silas heard Garrick clearly.
The other one does not exist.
Gideon studied his face.
“You stopped blinking.”
Silas blinked.
“That doesn't help.”
“I suspected as much.”
“You suspected I have another Eidolon.”
Gideon lifted one shoulder.
“I suspect your visible record does not adequately explain your result.”
“That isn't the same statement.”
“No.”
“Was that deliberate?”
“Yes.”
Silas sat very still.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Gideon was giving him room not to answer.
That mattered.
“What would a second Eidolon explain?”
“Perfect Innate Aether paired with an apparently low-potential first manifestation.”
“Does having two always produce higher Aether?”
“No.”
“Then it doesn't explain it.”
“It makes it less anomalous.”
“Less isn't none.”
“No.”
Silas looked at him.
Gideon looked back.
The man was not trying to corner him.
He was testing a structure.
That made the conversation more dangerous.
And more useful.
“How many people have two?”
“Very few.”
“A number.”
“I don't have one I trust.”
“Concord?”
“Counts only confirmed records.”
“Houses?”
“Hide them.”
“Academies?”
“Repeat Concord numbers.”
Silas almost smiled.
“You don't trust anyone's numbers.”
“I trust good numbers.”
“Do you have any?”
“Enough to know Twin Eidolons exist.”
There.
Formal term.
Silas repeated it silently.
Twin Eidolons.
Not miracle.
Not curse.
Category.
Categories were useful.
“What happens to them?”
Gideon reached for a book.
He opened it near the middle without checking the page number.
A table.
Names had been replaced by initials.
Two columns listed paired Eidolons.
The third showed progression.
Silas leaned closer.
Some entries ended early.
Age nine.
Age eleven.
Age fourteen.
Several carried a single word.
Deceased.
Silas looked up.
Gideon had been watching him.
“That.”
“What killed them?”
“Different things.”
“Crest integration?”
“Sometimes.”
“Using both?”
“Sometimes.”
“Other people?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Silas looked back at the table.
Potential with a cost.
Much more believable.
“Why show me this?”
“Because if my suspicion is wrong, you have learned something rare.”
“And if you're right?”
“Then you have learned something necessary.”
Silas was silent.
Gideon closed the book.
“I am not asking to see a second Eidolon.”
That surprised him more than the deduction.
“Why not?”
“Because if you have hidden it successfully until now, someone had a reason for teaching you to do so.”
Silas thought of Garrick standing in the forge.
If people see that, choices disappear.
Gideon continued.
“I don't know the reason.”
“Would you report it?”
“Report what?”
Silas looked at him.
Gideon's expression remained flat.
“A theory?”
“Yes.”
“To whom?”
“The Concord.”
“No.”
“Academy?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because evidence precedes reporting.”
“That sounds like the scholarly answer.”
“It is.”
“And the other one?”
Gideon looked toward the rain beyond the window.
“When rare Blood Legacies enter public records, scholars are rarely the only people who read them.”
Houses.
Concord officials.
Anyone who understood value.
Power sometimes arrived with ink.
Silas already knew that.
Gideon returned his gaze to him.
“If your father told you to hide something, I will not ask you to break his instruction for the sake of satisfying my curiosity.”
Silas's fingers moved once against his knee.
“Why assume my father?”
“You are five.”
“I could have decided.”
“You probably did.”
Gideon sounded tired.
“But five-year-olds do not usually develop sophisticated secrecy rules without help.”
Silas let that pass.
Gideon added, “Usually.”
Better.
Silas looked at Ward's report again.
The secret remained his.
Gideon had come close enough to touch it and deliberately stopped.
Trust did not arrive whole.
But this was material.
Something that could be worked.
“Suppose you're right,” Silas said.
Gideon's eyes focused.
“Suppose.”
“Would the two Eidolons need the same kind of Crests?”
“No.”
Immediate answer.
“Could one damage the other?”
“Possibly.”
“Could a Crest on one affect both?”
“Possibly.”
“Can they both receive Crests?”
“Yes.”
“Should they?”
Gideon paused.
“That is the useful question.”
Silas leaned forward.
“And?”
“I don't know enough about yours.”
Silas stared.
Gideon stared back.
“You say that often.”
“Only when accurate.”
Most adults feared those words.
Gideon used them like tools.
Silas approved.
“Then what do you know?”
“I know your Wildvine is public.”
“Yes.”
“It carries Perfect Innate Aether.”
“Yes.”
“You are already at the first threshold.”
“Yes.”
“And you require a Crest to progress.”
Silas nodded.
“So the immediate problem is not whatever may or may not exist in your other hand.”
Gideon pointed to Silas's right.
“It is that.”
Wildvine.
“The thing everyone thinks is useless.”
“The thing everyone has decided is useless,” Gideon corrected.
“Difference?”
“An important one.”
Gideon rose.
He crossed to the window.
Rain streaked the glass.
Below them, students moved through the courtyard toward breakfast.
“Do you know what people mean when they say an Eidolon is strong?”
Silas thought.
“High Aether.”
“Sometimes.”
“Good combat traits.”
“Sometimes.”
“Strong Blood Legacy.”
“Usually what they mean.”
Gideon's voice had changed.
Still controlled.
Sharper now.
This was familiar territory to him.
“A child from an established house may Awaken an Eidolon that has been studied for three hundred years. His family already knows what beasts combine well with it. Which traits reinforce the bloodline. Which Crests tend to produce reliable Arts. Which mistakes cripple development.”
He turned.
“Is the Eidolon strong?”
“Yes.”
Gideon's expression hardened.
“Wrong.”
Silas waited.
“The system around it is strong.”
That was better.
Gideon returned to the desk.
“The Eidolon may also be exceptional. Often it is. But people confuse those two advantages because they usually arrive together.”
Silas thought of Garrick's forge.
Good iron.
Experienced smith.
Correct heat.
One advantage did not erase the others.
“What about Wildvine?”
“It has almost no system around it.”
“Because people don't train it.”
“Yes.”
“And people don't train it because they think it is weak.”
“Yes.”
“Closed loop.”
Gideon's eyes flickered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Silas sat back.
Gideon studied him for another moment.
Then said, “You reached the correct conclusion.”
He picked up the Wildvine record.
“The absence of successful Wildvine Bearers is evidence.”
Silas frowned.
Gideon lifted one finger.
“It is not proof.”
There it was.
The exact distinction Silas had wanted from Ward.
“What would prove it?”
“Development.”
“How?”
“By making choices.”
“Crests.”
“Among other things.”
Gideon sat again.
“Every Crest is permanent. Every Crest changes what the next choice means. A Bearer does not merely become stronger.”
He drew a short line on a blank sheet.
Then another branching from it.
“He becomes narrower.”
Silas stared at the drawing.
That was not how Ward had explained progression.
Ward had described thresholds.
External acquisition.
Integration.
Repeat.
Gideon was describing path dependence.
Build.
“Every choice closes other choices.”
“Exactly.”
A good mechanism behaved the same way.
Drill a hole in the wrong place and the metal did not care that the design had improved afterward.
“What would you choose for Wildvine?”
Gideon put down the pen.
“Too soon.”
Silas felt immediate irritation.
Gideon noticed.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“You should dislike that answer.”
“Why?”
“Because you want movement.”
“Yes.”
“And movement without information is how children die during first Crest integration.”
Silas stopped.
Gideon's tone remained calm.
No drama.
That made the sentence heavier.
“So we gather information.”
“We?”
Gideon looked at him.
Silas caught the shift.
There it was.
A boundary.
Not theory now.
Relationship.
“What would it take,” Silas asked, “for you to teach me?”
Gideon was silent.
The rain continued.
Breakfast noises drifted faintly through the building.
Finally:
“Why me?”
Silas had expected the opposite question.
He answered carefully.
“You noticed the contradiction.”
“Ward noticed it.”
“He accepted the usual conclusion afterward.”
“Reasonably.”
Silas raised an eyebrow.
“You defend him?”
“He had one examination and twenty minutes.”
Fair.
Silas continued.
“You didn't tell me Wildvine was secretly powerful.”
“No.”
“You said we don't know.”
“Yes.”
“You admitted when your evidence stopped.”
“Yes.”
“And you can tell me how Crest choices change later choices.”
Gideon watched him.
Silas finished.
“That is more useful than confidence.”
For several seconds, Gideon said nothing.
Something uncomfortable passed through his expression.
Pride, perhaps.
Or an old injury.
Silas could not tell.
“People in this academy call me a failed Bearer.”
Silas waited.
Gideon said it as fact.
Not invitation.
“My Eidolon mutated during Awakening.”
“What kind?”
“A dragon line.”
Silas's attention sharpened.
Gideon continued before he could ask.
“The result was not what my family expected.”
That was carefully phrased.
“Your level?”
“Twenty-nine.”
Tempered.
One step from Vanguard.
Except Gideon was far too old for one step to mean anything simple.
Silas understood.
“You're stuck.”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Long enough.”
Silas looked at him.
Gideon's jaw tightened almost invisibly.
There was the wound.
Not shame at weakness.
Shame at being measured by a system he understood better than many who had surpassed him.
“Does that make your theory wrong?”
Gideon went still.
Silas had not meant it as comfort.
He meant it literally.
“No,” Gideon said.
“Then why would I care?”
That landed.
Gideon looked away.
Only for a moment.
When he looked back, his face had closed again.
“Because a student should know what he is buying.”
“I don't have much money.”
Gideon blinked.
Silas let him suffer for a second.
Then added, “That was a joke.”
“A poor one.”
“I am five.”
“At last, evidence.”
Silas almost smiled.
Gideon opened a drawer.
He removed a narrow form.
Not elaborate.
Academy letterhead.
Private mentorship registration.
Silas looked at it.
“You already had that.”
“This is a school.”
“Meaning?”
“We have forms for regrettable decisions.”
Silas read.
Mentor.
Student.
Instructional responsibility.
Field supervision.
Crest acquisition.
There were more lines than expected.
“What changes if I sign this?”
“You would not sign it.”
Silas looked up.
Gideon pointed to the guardian line.
“Your father would normally approve.”
Silas's stomach dropped slightly.
Garrick was twenty-eight miles away.
“And if he doesn't?”
“The academy permits provisional mentorship for sponsored students if the instructor assumes liability and the village sponsorship does not prohibit it.”
“Does mine?”
“No.”
Silas looked again.
“Who assumes liability?”
“I do.”
“Meaning?”
“If I take you into a licensed hunting zone and you die because I ignored established safety requirements, the academy investigates me.”
“Only investigates?”
Gideon's mouth tightened.
“Among other consequences.”
Concrete.
Good.
“Why would you accept that?”
Gideon leaned back.
“Why do you think?”
Silas considered.
To prove a theory.
To gain data.
To build reputation.
Those were obvious.
Probably incomplete.
“Because you think Wildvine can work.”
Gideon said nothing.
Silas corrected himself.
“Because you think the question has not been answered.”
Something in Gideon's expression eased.
“Yes.”
That was enough.
Silas looked at the form.
Then at him.
“In Briar Glen, what would you call this?”
Gideon frowned.
“I wouldn't.”
“My father taught me smithing.”
“That is not the same relationship.”
“No.”
Silas thought of Blackthorn.
Teacher was not a casual word there.
Neither was master.
A master accepted responsibility not merely for instruction, but for what the student became.
The obligation ran both ways.
He had once understood that relationship too late.
He did not intend to repeat the mistake.
“If I agree,” Silas said, “I listen when the subject is Eidolons, Aether, Crests, and training.”
“Yes.”
“You explain your reasoning when possible.”
Gideon's eyebrow rose.
“When possible?”
“If you say don't touch a poisonous beast, I won't require a lecture before moving.”
“Reassuring.”
“You don't make me expose private family information unless it affects immediate safety.”
Gideon considered.
“Acceptable.”
“You don't report theories about my family as facts.”
“Obviously.”
“And if you don't know something—”
“I say I don't know.”
Silas nodded.
Gideon studied him.
“My conditions.”
Silas waited.
“You do not hide injuries.”
Reasonable.
“You do not conceal Aether instability.”
More difficult.
Still reasonable.
“You do not integrate a Crest I have not approved while under my instruction.”
Silas frowned.
“What if you're wrong?”
“Then convince me before integrating it.”
Silas liked that answer more than obedience for its own sake.
“And if we disagree?”
“You may leave my instruction.”
Clear.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
Gideon's voice became very precise.
“If there is, hypothetically, anything unusual about your Eidolon condition that could kill you during training, I expect enough information to keep you alive.”
The second Eidolon.
Without saying it.
Silas thought of Garrick.
Not to a teacher.
But Garrick had not said Silas could not let a clever man remain correct.
No display.
No name.
No public record.
No betrayal of the actual secret.
Silas nodded once.
“If it becomes relevant to survival.”
Gideon accepted that.
He extended his hand.
Silas looked at it.
No ceremony.
No kneeling.
No grand declaration.
Just terms.
Responsibility.
Choice.
He took the hand.
Gideon's grip was dry and firm.
“My name is Silas Hale,” Silas said.
Gideon looked faintly puzzled.
“I am aware.”
“My Eidolon is Wildvine.”
“I am also aware.”
“I have Perfect Innate Aether.”
“Silas.”
“Yes?”
“You are making this unnecessarily dramatic.”
Silas considered.
“Teacher.”
Gideon stopped.
The word remained between them.
A small one.
Heavier than it should have been.
Silas watched something pass behind the man's eyes.
Then it was gone.
Gideon released his hand.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“You may call me that.”
“That was not what I—”
“I know.”
Gideon gathered Ward's report.
“Breakfast ends in seven minutes.”
Silas looked toward the door.
Then back.
“You still haven't answered one thing.”
“Which?”
“What makes an Eidolon worthless?”
Gideon's expression hardened with old conviction.
“Nothing by itself.”
Silas waited.
Gideon looked at the Wildvine entry on the report.
“No Eidolon is worthless. Only a bearer who never learns what it can become.”
Silas was quiet.
The sentence was too broad to be literally true in every case.
Gideon probably knew that.
As a principle, though—
It was useful.
Bad stock.
Good smith.
Wrong heat.
Right purpose.
Silas rose.
“Teacher.”
“Yes?”
“What can Wildvine become?”
Gideon looked at him for a long moment.
Then:
“That is what we are going to find out.”
Better than a promise.
Silas left.
Breakfast had ended.
This was unfortunate.
The kitchen matron gave him a piece of bread anyway.
This was useful.
She also informed him that arriving late tomorrow would result in no bread.
Clear incentives.
Silas ate while walking toward Dormitory C.
The academy courtyard had become crowded.
Students moved between classrooms in dark coats and patched work jackets. A boy with a translucent Hunting Falcon perched on one shoulder hurried past with two books under his arm. Near the stable, an older girl used a spectral Locksmith Key Eidolon to open a jammed tack-room door while three younger students watched.
Eidolons everywhere.
Not always for fighting.
That continued to interest him.
Silas finished the bread.
His threshold remained.
No Crest.
No new Aether growth.
Nothing had changed in his body.
Yet the morning had altered his options more than Awakening Day had after Ward left Briar Glen.
He had a teacher.
That meant access to knowledge.
Knowledge meant better choices.
Better choices meant the first Crest did not have to be the first beast someone happened to kill.
That was enough.
For now.
He reached Dormitory C.
The door stood open.
Inside, six boys had gathered around two beds.
One of them was Will Carter.
Silas had seen him yesterday only in passing.
Today, Will had apparently decided to become relevant.
“You.”
Silas stopped.
Will pointed at the bed beneath the west window.
Silas looked at it.
Then at Will.
“Yes?”
“You took fourteen.”
“Yes.”
“That's my bed.”
“No.”
Will stared.
Silas pointed to the brass number fixed to the frame.
“Fourteen.”
Then to the neighboring bed.
“Thirteen.”
Will's belongings occupied thirteen.
The explanation seemed complete.
Will did not agree.
“I always use fourteen.”
“Then the academy has made a long administrative error.”
A boy near the wall laughed.
Will looked at him.
The laughter ended.
Silas recognized the structure.
Dormitory hierarchy.
Older sponsored boy.
Broad shoulders.
Confidence.
Audience.
Not complicated.
Will looked back at Silas.
“You're new.”
“Yes.”
“New boys don't pick.”
“I was assigned.”
“You're five.”
Silas waited.
Will seemed to expect this fact to perform additional work.
It did not.
“So?”
“So move.”
“No.”
The room became quieter.
Will's face changed.
Not rage.
Embarrassment.
Worse.
An audience made simple problems expensive.
Silas knew that.
He also knew giving up the assigned bed because someone larger demanded it would create a pattern more troublesome than one argument.
Will stepped closer.
He stood perhaps a head taller.
He was also heavier.
Silas looked at his feet.
Balanced badly.
Too much weight forward.
Probably expected strength to solve most problems.
“Last chance.”
Silas sighed.
“That phrase usually means the person saying it has run out of arguments.”
Will shoved him.
Silas moved.
Not backward.
A half-step to the side.
Will had committed more force than necessary.
Silas caught the wrist.
His other hand touched the elbow.
Falcon Grasp.
Not the full Blackthorn form.
His body was too small.
The angle remained.
Force was force.
Silas turned.
Will's shove became his own throw.
The older boy went past him.
Hit the edge of bed fourteen.
Then landed face-first on the mattress.
The dormitory went silent.
Silas released him.
“That's my bed.”
Someone made a choking sound.
Will rolled over.
His face was red.
“You—”
He got up fast.
Better than expected.
This time he did not shove.
He swung.
Wide.
Silas moved inside the arc.
His right hand caught Will's forearm.
Left at the shoulder.
Step.
Turn.
Will realized too late that Silas did not intend to contest strength.
He braced.
That helped.
Silas changed direction.
The principle was almost identical to Garrick's linked hammer blows.
Never spend force twice.
Will had already created momentum.
There was no reason to create more.
Silas redirected it.
Will's feet left the floor for a very short and undignified moment.
Then he landed across bed thirteen.
His bed.
An improvement.
A blanket collapsed under him.
Someone laughed.
This time nobody stopped.
Will stared at the ceiling.
Silas waited.
After several seconds, Will sat up.
He looked less angry now.
More confused.
“What was that?”
Silas straightened his sleeve.
“A throw.”
“I know it was a throw.”
“Then why ask?”
Will looked at the other boys.
One of them said, “Crest Art.”
The room changed.
Curiosity replaced amusement.
Will looked sharply at Silas.
“You've got a Crest?”
“No.”
“That was an Art.”
“No.”
Another boy moved closer.
“You're the Perfect Innate kid.”
Information again.
Silas had been at the academy less than a day.
This was becoming impressive.
“Yes.”
“With Wildvine.”
“Yes.”
Will stood.
His anger had almost disappeared.
“How can you use a Crest Art without a Crest?”
“I didn't.”
“Then what was that?”
“A physical technique.”
Will frowned.
“No Aether?”
Silas considered.
He had used a trace.
Not enough to matter.
His Blackthorn circulation was almost always present beneath deliberate movement now.
But the technique itself did not depend on a Crest.
“No Crest.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
Better.
Will was not stupid.
Silas revised him upward slightly.
“A little Aether supports movement.”
“Then it's an Art.”
“No.”
Will crossed his arms.
“You just said Aether.”
“Using Aether doesn't make something a Crest Art.”
“How do you know?”
Silas opened his mouth.
Stopped.
That was irritating.
He did not.
Not formally.
Ward had used the term.
Gideon had mentioned Crest development.
But Silas had not yet been taught the exact distinction.
He closed his mouth.
Will smiled.
“See?”
“I know the technique existed before I had a Crest.”
“You're five.”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been practicing?”
Silas considered several bad answers.
“Long enough.”
“That means you don't want to say.”
“Yes.”
Will looked at him.
Then at the bed.
Then back.
“Do it again.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You already know it works.”
“I wasn't ready.”
“You started the fight.”
“That doesn't mean I was ready for weird.”
Silas thought about that.
Fair.
“Later.”
Will's eyes narrowed.
“That's not no.”
“No.”
“That one was.”
Silas put his bag beneath bed fourteen.
Will watched.
The hierarchy question had not entirely disappeared.
It had merely changed shape.
Finally Will said, “Dorm C has rules.”
“Good.”
“You listen to the senior sponsored student.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
Silas looked around.
The other boys suddenly found objects to examine.
Interesting.
“What does that mean?”
“Work rota. Water. Cleaning. Coal. Lights.”
Reasonable.
“Anything else?”
Will hesitated.
“New students usually do what I say until they know how things work.”
“That sounds less reasonable.”
“You want to fight again?”
“Not especially.”
Will looked relieved for half a second.
Silas continued.
“But if that's the rule, yes.”
The relief vanished.
One boy laughed again.
Will stared at Silas.
Then, unexpectedly, he grinned.
“You're a problem.”
“I've heard.”
Will pointed at bed fourteen.
“Keep it.”
“I intended to.”
“Don't make me regret it.”
“How would that work?”
Will opened his mouth.
Stopped.
“Forget it.”
He turned to the others.
“All right. Move.”
The crowd broke apart.
Silas began unpacking.
Behind him, Will said, “Hale.”
Silas looked over.
“What?”
“What do you call that throw?”
The formal Blackthorn name would mean nothing here.
Worse, names created trails.
He thought of the motion.
Redirect.
Borrow.
Turn.
“Nothing.”
Will frowned.
“It has to have a name.”
“Why?”
“So I know what beat me.”
Silas considered.
That was a deeply human requirement.
“Leverage.”
Will looked offended.
“That's a terrible name.”
“It isn't a name.”
“Exactly.”
Silas returned to unpacking.
After a moment Will asked, “You really don't have a Crest?”
“No.”
“What level are you?”
“At the first threshold.”
Will became still.
“Ten?”
“Enough Aether to be there.”
“Perfect Innate.”
“Yes.”
Will looked at him differently.
Not admiration.
Calculation.
Good.
Then his expression became stubborn again.
“When I hit ten, I'm getting a Crest.”
“Congratulations.”
“My Eidolon is a Warcat.”
Silas paused.
That explained some confidence.
Animal Eidolon.
Likely combat-oriented.
Will crossed his arms.
“Once I have a Crest, that trick won't work.”
Silas looked at him.
“Probably not the same way.”
Will blinked.
He had expected denial.
Silas had no reason to give it.
A Crest changed capability.
That was the entire point.
“Then you'll lose,” Will said.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
Silas finished folding one shirt.
“If I know your Crest Art and you don't know what I can do, maybe not.”
Will stared.
Silas looked up.
“Information matters.”
Something from this morning echoed in his head.
An Eidolon was not a verdict.
A Crest was not merely more strength.
Every choice changed later choices.
Will had just expressed the ordinary version of the same belief Gideon spent his life arguing against.
Better Eidolon.
More Aether.
First Crest.
Therefore victory.
Simple.
Comforting.
Probably wrong often enough to be useful.
A younger boy near the stove spoke.
“So was that a Crest Art or not?”
Everyone looked at Silas again.
He sighed.
“I said no.”
“What is a Crest Art, then?”
Silas paused.
Annoyingly, that was now his question too.
He looked toward the door.
Somewhere across the academy, Gideon Drakhar possessed an answer.
Probably six answers.
Three exceptions.
And a book no one else wanted to read.
Silas smiled.
“I'll ask my teacher.”
Will frowned.
“You've got a teacher already?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Silas secured the latch on his trunk.
“Gideon Drakhar.”
The room went silent for the third time that morning.
Will's expression changed completely.
Not fear.
Disbelief.
“The mad scholar?”
Silas looked at him.
“Careful.”
It came out quieter than he intended.
Will noticed.
So did everyone else.
Interesting.
Silas had known Gideon as Teacher for less than an hour.
Apparently the obligation had already begun.
Will raised both hands.
“All right.”
A pause.
Then:
“He is, though.”
Silas considered the mountain of books.
The blunt manners.
The argument with accepted theory.
Possibly.
“That isn't evidence.”
Will groaned.
Silas sat on bed fourteen.
Outside, the academy bell rang.
Class.
Around him, boys grabbed coats, slates, and books.
Will reached the door first.
He looked back.
“Hale.”
“Yes?”
“If Drakhar explains Crest Arts, you tell me.”
Silas stood.
“Why?”
“Because I asked.”
“That is not a reason.”
Will grinned.
“You'll fit in fine.”
He ran into the corridor.
Silas followed more slowly.
His right palm remembered the cool weight of Wildvine.
His left remembered something else.
One public.
One secret.
And now a teacher clever enough to know there was a missing piece without demanding to see it.
That altered the balance.
Not enough to make the secret safe.
Enough to make the future more interesting.
Silas closed the dormitory door behind him.
For the first time since Awakening, the path ahead did not merely contain a threshold.
It contained instruction.