Gideon wrote one word beneath WILDVINE.
CONTROL.
Silas looked at it.
Then at him.
“That is broad.”
“It is supposed to be.”
“Broad plans are usually what people make before discovering the details are inconvenient.”
Gideon set down the pen.
“Good. You have learned suspicion.”
“I had that already.”
“Yes. Unfortunately.”
Late afternoon light had begun to fade outside the window. Greyhaven's roofs had turned from wet gray to dull copper where the clouds finally broke.
The academy bell had stopped ringing.
Students crossed the lower courtyard in scattered groups, dark coats moving between old stone and timber buildings.
Silas remained in Gideon's room.
His empty lunch parcel sat folded beside the chair.
The page between them held only two words.
Wildvine.
Control.
It did not look like enough to determine the rest of his life.
That was probably why it mattered.
“What does control mean?” Silas asked.
Gideon folded his hands.
“Before that, tell me what you think a Crest does.”
Silas had already heard three versions.
Ward's.
The academy's.
Gideon's.
He chose the overlap.
“It breaks a threshold and permanently adds an external Aether pattern to the Eidolon.”
“Good.”
“That pattern can produce a Crest Art.”
“Usually.”
“And it can change the Eidolon itself.”
Gideon's eyes sharpened.
“Why do you say that?”
“If the Eidolon had no relationship to the Crest after integration, compatibility would not matter.”
A pause.
“Continue.”
“The danger means something is being combined, not merely attached.”
Gideon leaned back.
“Yes.”
Silas looked at the blank space beneath CONTROL.
“So every Crest changes the next one.”
“Yes.”
“Which means if the first makes Wildvine better at one thing, the second should probably support that direction.”
“Probably?”
“You dislike absolute statements.”
“I dislike inaccurate ones.”
“Then probably.”
Gideon nodded.
“Correct.”
He drew four small circles in a vertical line.
“Imagine the first Crest adds raw strength.”
He drew an arrow.
“The second adds heat.”
Another.
“The third increases growth.”
Another.
“The fourth produces hallucinogenic sap.”
Silas looked at the sequence.
“All useful.”
“Individually.”
“Together, unclear.”
“Exactly.”
Gideon crossed the line out.
“A Bearer who chooses every Crest by immediate value often reaches Champion rank with four impressive abilities that do not help one another.”
Silas thought of a workbench containing a fine saw, a rifle barrel, a millstone, and a surgical needle.
All valuable.
Not a toolkit.
“What happens then?”
“They remain strong.”
“But not as strong as someone whose Crests reinforce one job.”
Gideon pointed at him.
“Build.”
The word was simple.
The idea was not.
Silas had already used the principle his entire first life.
A hidden weapon was not improved by adding every mechanism its maker knew how to build.
It was improved by deciding what the weapon was meant to accomplish.
Concealment.
Range.
Penetration.
Rate of fire.
Reliability.
Every addition had a cost.
Weight.
Noise.
Complexity.
Failure points.
Eidolons were no different.
Permanent choices made the cost harder to hide.
“So control,” Silas said.
“Yes.”
“What exactly am I controlling?”
“The opponent.”
“How?”
“That depends on what Wildvine can become.”
“We're back where we started.”
“No. We have narrowed the problem.”
Gideon stood.
He walked to the shelf and took down a narrow wooden case.
Inside were three brass weights and a spring scale.
He set them on the desk.
“Summon it.”
Silas raised his right hand.
Aether moved.
Wildvine grew from his palm.
A single narrow runner curled over his wrist.
Gideon watched.
“Three feet.”
Silas extended it.
The stem lengthened.
Green.
Thin.
Ordinary.
He felt the Aether drain.
Barely.
Gideon hooked the lightest weight onto the end.
The vine bent.
Held.
Second weight.
Held.
Third.
The stem stretched.
Fibers whitened near the point of load.
Then snapped.
The loose end fell to the desk.
Silas looked at it.
Gideon did too.
“Weak.”
“Yes.”
“Your objection?”
“If that were around Will's ankle, he would break it by walking.”
“Current Will?”
“Yes.”
“Correct.”
Gideon removed the weights.
“What did the test cost you?”
Silas checked his Aether.
“Almost nothing.”
“There is the first advantage.”
He picked up the broken length.
“Wildvine costs very little to manifest.”
Silas nodded.
He had already noticed that.
“Many Eidolons impose significant drain simply by maintaining physical expression. Yours does not.”
“Because it is weak.”
“Because its base structure is simple.”
“Different words.”
“Different assumptions.”
Gideon laid the vine down.
“Do not confuse cheap with worthless.”
Silas thought of scrap iron.
Broken spring steel.
Bent nails.
A cracked knife blade.
Useful material was often simply material no one had found the correct use for yet.
Gideon raised one finger.
“Low cost.”
Then a second.
“Common appearance.”
Silas frowned.
“That is an advantage?”
“In combat, recognition creates response.”
Gideon gestured toward the vine.
“If a Storm Drake appears, everyone nearby immediately understands danger.”
“Reasonable.”
“If a War Maul appears?”
Silas's breathing stopped.
Only for an instant.
Gideon continued as though he had not noticed.
“Same principle. Powerful Blood Legacies advertise themselves.”
Silas's left hand remained motionless.
Gideon had not named anything specific.
Good.
“A vine does not,” Gideon said.
“People ignore it.”
“Especially animals with limited intelligence.”
“Aetherbeasts.”
“Low-tier ones.”
Gideon sat again.
“A common plant can be manifested near brush, fence lines, grass, forest floor, or crop margins with less immediate recognition than most Eidolons.”
Silas looked at the green stem.
Camouflage through expectation.
Blackthorn understood that principle very well.
The best hidden weapon was often not invisible.
It was something the victim had already decided not to notice.
“Useful,” Silas said.
“Yes.”
Gideon raised a third finger.
“Compatibility breadth.”
Silas leaned forward.
“You said the wrong Crest can kill.”
“It can.”
“But Wildvine is safer?”
“No.”
Gideon's answer was immediate.
“Never turn relative tolerance into permission for stupidity.”
Silas nodded.
Better.
Gideon continued.
“Eidolons have traits. Some are narrow.”
He opened one hand.
“A Fire Hawk with generations of heat-aligned Crests may violently reject a cold-dominant pattern.”
“Because the structures conflict.”
“Correct.”
“Wildvine?”
“Has fewer strongly expressed traits to conflict with.”
Silas understood.
“Empty space.”
“Not literally.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
Gideon looked unconvinced.
Silas ignored that.
“So I have more directions available at the first Crest.”
“Potentially.”
“But once we choose one, later choices narrow.”
“Exactly.”
The page on the desk looked different now.
CONTROL was not a label.
It was a commitment.
Silas looked at the snapped vine.
“What traits would support control?”
Gideon smiled.
Not pleasantly.
This was the expression of a man who had been waiting years for someone to ask the right question.
“Toughness.”
Silas nodded.
Obvious.
The vine had just broken.
“And?”
“Venom.”
Silas looked up.
That was less obvious.
Gideon tapped the broken length of Wildvine.
“A restraint does not need to overpower an enemy forever.”
“Only long enough.”
“Yes.”
“If struggling makes the target weaker—”
“The restraint improves over time instead of degrading.”
Silas looked at the vine again.
Toughness prevented escape.
Venom punished resistance.
Control.
Simple.
Coherent.
Dangerous.
“What kind of venom?”
“Too early.”
“Paralytic?”
Gideon did not answer.
“Pain?”
Nothing.
“Muscle weakness?”
Gideon's eyebrow rose.
“You are proving why I said too early.”
Silas stopped.
Fair.
Gideon took another sheet.
“First we decide the function.”
He wrote:
RESTRAINT
Beneath it:
Toughness
Progressive impairment
Not poison.
More general.
Silas approved.
“You don't care whether the second trait comes from poison specifically.”
“I care about the outcome.”
“Good.”
Gideon gave him a dry look.
“Thank you for your approval.”
“You're welcome.”
Silence.
Silas almost smiled.
Gideon did not.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
Almost.
Silas touched the snapped vine.
“Can a plant take a Crest from an animal?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Crests do not care what classification makes humans comfortable.”
That was very Gideon.
“A Crest carries an Aether pattern,” he continued. “Not a miniature copy of the dead beast.”
“So species matters less than trait.”
“Species matters because species predicts traits.”
“But it isn't the only thing.”
“No.”
“Could Wildvine take toughness from something with armor?”
“Potentially.”
“Venom from a snake?”
“Potentially.”
“Both from one beast?”
Gideon's eyes narrowed.
“Now you are asking a better question.”
Silas sat straighter.
“One Crest. Two desired traits.”
“Yes.”
“Fewer compromises.”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps?”
“An Aetherbeast may possess ten useful characteristics. Integration does not guarantee the Crest expresses the two you wanted.”
Silas frowned.
“So selection is probabilistic.”
“Partly.”
“That sounds unpleasant.”
“It kills fewer students than pretending otherwise.”
Gideon turned the page.
“There are patterns. Species history matters. Age matters. how the beast developed matters. The condition of the bearer matters.”
He paused.
“And there are exceptions.”
“Always.”
“Yes.”
Silas thought of Ward.
Strong Blood Legacies had generations of records.
Not because their ancestors were wiser by nature.
Because they had accumulated failures.
Thousands of permanent choices recorded and inherited.
A poor child with a common Eidolon had none of that.
Unless someone built the record.
Silas looked at Gideon.
“You've studied Wildvine Crests.”
“I have studied plant Eidolons broadly.”
“That wasn't my question.”
“No.”
“How many Wildvine cases?”
Gideon was silent for a moment.
“Enough to know most were chosen badly.”
“Why?”
“Because nobody invests heavily in the first Crest of a child they expect to become a low-level utility Bearer.”
Silas felt something familiar.
There it was again.
Expectation becoming evidence.
“If they can afford only one hunt,” Gideon said, “they take what the licensed group finds.”
“Convenience.”
“Yes.”
“If the beast is old enough and not obviously incompatible—”
“They call it good fortune.”
“And afterward, if the Crest Art is poor, they blame Wildvine.”
Gideon looked at him.
“Now you understand why I am unpopular.”
Silas considered.
“I assumed it was your personality.”
Gideon stared.
Silas waited.
“That contributes,” Gideon said at last.
Silas nodded.
Good data.
The theory created another problem.
A useful one.
Silas looked at the words RESTRAINT and TOUGHNESS.
A restrained opponent moved less.
A poisoned opponent reacted slower.
A target unable to move—
His thoughts shifted.
Range.
Angle.
Timing.
Hidden weapons had always been most difficult against skilled moving targets.
Armor could be studied.
Distance could be measured.
Wind could be estimated.
Movement was uncertainty.
Blackthorn solved some of it through prediction.
But remove movement—
The problem became simpler.
Much simpler.
Gideon watched him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
Silas kept his expression neutral.
“My other training benefits from a stationary opponent.”
“Other training.”
“Yes.”
Gideon's gaze remained on him.
Silas did not elaborate.
After several seconds, Gideon nodded once.
“Then control has another advantage.”
No demand.
No question.
Again.
Silas added that to the growing list of reasons he had chosen correctly.
“You're not curious?”
“Extremely.”
“Then why not ask?”
“Because curiosity and entitlement are different conditions.”
Silas was quiet.
Blackthorn had not always understood that.
Neither had he.
Not when young.
He looked away.
Gideon gathered the papers.
“We leave at dawn.”
“Which beast?”
“You will know once we reach the preserve.”
“You've chosen one.”
“I have candidates.”
“How many?”
“Three primary. Five acceptable alternates.”
Silas looked at him.
“You made a list.”
“I am a scholar.”
“Yes.”
“That was not admiration.”
“It was.”
Gideon appeared faintly offended by this.
“Go back to your dorm.”
Silas stood.
“Bring durable clothes. Coat. Food for a day. Knife if you own one.”
“I do.”
“Good boots?”
“Mostly.”
“That is not a useful answer.”
“They keep out most water.”
Gideon closed his eyes briefly.
“We will find out.”
Silas reached the door.
“Teacher.”
“Yes?”
“Strongest beast or best fit?”
Gideon looked at him.
“Best fit you can survive.”
That was the answer Silas had expected.
It was still good to hear.
Dormitory C was louder than when he left.
Mira had caused this.
Silas knew before opening the door.
He could hear her through it.
“No, that doesn't count.”
Will answered, “It absolutely counts.”
“You bounced it off the bed.”
“Still landed in the bucket.”
“After touching the floor.”
“Rule was bucket.”
“Rule was throw it into the bucket.”
“Same thing.”
“It isn't.”
Silas opened the door.
Twelve boys and one girl had arranged themselves around a laundry bucket.
A rolled sock lay inside.
Mira pointed at it accusingly.
“Tell him.”
Silas looked at Will.
Then the bucket.
Then Mira.
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“No what?”
“No involvement.”
“Coward.”
“Efficient.”
He crossed toward his bed.
The two frames remained pushed together.
The new quilt covered both.
Mira's spare shirts still formed the border.
One had moved six inches onto his side.
Silas corrected it.
Mira noticed.
“You measured that.”
“No.”
“You did.”
“I observed it.”
“Same thing.”
Silas took his coat from the peg.
Will saw him packing.
“Where're you going?”
“East.”
“Why?”
“First Crest.”
The room changed instantly.
The sock dispute ceased to exist.
Will crossed the room.
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“You're hunting tomorrow?”
“That's the plan.”
Every sponsored student understood what the words meant.
Not theory.
Threshold.
A five-year-old leaving ordinary childhood and returning, if things went well, Marked.
If things did not go well—
People did not need that explained either.
Will looked at him with open envy.
“You're already at ten.”
“Yes.”
“You've been here two days.”
“Yes.”
“That is deeply unfair.”
“I didn't choose the timing.”
“That doesn't make it fair.”
Mira remained near the bucket.
Her reaction was different.
“What does the Crest change?”
Will turned.
“What do you mean?”
Mira shrugged.
“Everybody's acting like he's leaving to become governor.”
“It's a Crest.”
“Yes.”
Will stared at her.
Mira stared back.
“You really don't know?”
“I know what it is.”
“That wasn't convincing.”
Her mouth tightened.
Silas watched.
Mira recovered quickly.
“I mean why everyone cares this much about the first one.”
Will looked scandalized.
“Because then he's Marked.”
“Yes.”
“And gets a Crest Art.”
“Yes.”
“And can keep training past ten.”
“Yes.”
Mira tilted her head.
“So mostly it means he can keep growing.”
Will opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Silas understood why the question felt strange.
To a human child raised around Bearers, the importance should have been cultural before it was technical.
You did not need to understand metallurgy to know a good forge mattered in Briar Glen.
Mira knew the mechanics.
But not the social weight.
Interesting.
Silas looked at her.
“Where did you grow up?”
Her eyes flicked to him.
“Different places.”
“Where?”
“South.”
“That is large.”
“Yes.”
“Village?”
“Sometimes.”
“City?”
“Sometimes.”
Will looked between them.
Mira pointed at Silas.
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Asking one question until it becomes six.”
“I wanted one answer.”
“You wanted all of them.”
True.
Mira looked back at the coat in his hands.
“So what are you hunting?”
“Teacher has candidates.”
“You don't know?”
“No.”
She nodded.
“Good.”
Will said, “How is that good?”
Mira answered without thinking.
“You don't choose before you see what's living there.”
Silas stopped packing.
Mira realized the room had gone quiet.
“What?”
Will frowned.
“How many hunts have you been on?”
“None.”
“That sounded like you've been on hunts.”
“It sounded like common sense.”
Silas looked at her.
Maybe.
Her Moon Hare Eidolon could produce instinctive opinions about terrain and animals.
Gideon had said Eidolons were expressions of a Bearer's life structure.
Behavioral affinities were plausible.
Still.
Another piece.
Not proof.
He packed it away with the others.
“Do you have to kill it?” Mira asked.
Silas looked up.
“Usually.”
Something left her face.
Only a little.
“Usually?”
“Ward said usually.”
“What happens if you don't?”
“I don't know.”
Mira looked at the floor.
Then:
“Pick one that's dangerous.”
Will laughed.
“That is the point.”
“No.”
Mira looked at him.
“Not the biggest. Dangerous.”
Will frowned.
“Difference?”
“A big animal might only be big.”
Silas said nothing.
Mira continued.
“One that survives by doing what you need.”
Silas's attention sharpened.
“What I need?”
She looked at him.
“You said Drakhar has candidates. He's not going to pick randomly.”
“No.”
“What does he want?”
Silas hesitated.
The Build was not secret.
“Something that makes Wildvine harder to break.”
Mira nodded almost immediately.
“And?”
He paused.
“Something that impairs whatever it catches.”
Mira's eyes shifted.
A strange stillness.
Then she said:
“Don't let him choose a grazer.”
Will blinked.
“A what?”
“Deer. Ox. Something that just grows thick because nothing can move it.”
Silas watched her carefully.
“Why?”
“Because then you get strength.”
“That seems useful.”
“You want the vine to hold.”
“Strength helps.”
“But strength and holding aren't the same.”
The answer came too quickly.
Mira seemed to hear it herself.
She shrugged.
“Softform.”
Silas frowned.
“What?”
She lifted one hand.
“Same thing. If I try to outmuscle Will, I lose.”
Will looked offended.
Mira ignored him.
“So I don't.”
That explanation worked.
Mostly.
Silas nodded.
“Fair.”
Mira relaxed.
Then brightened.
“You're leaving tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“So we fight tonight.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I have to leave at dawn.”
“Exactly.”
“That is not an argument.”
“It is if I want another chance before you get a Crest.”
Will began laughing.
Silas looked at him.
“You could refuse,” Will offered.
Silas looked at Mira.
She smiled.
Refusal appeared unlikely to solve anything.
“When?”
“After supper.”
Silas sighed.
Mira grinned.
“That's agreement.”
“No.”
“You sighed.”
Silas hated that she had learned this.
The rain returned after supper.
Not hard.
A thin, cold drizzle that turned the academy yard black and made the lanterns glow in the wet.
Mira considered this perfect fighting weather.
Silas considered this further evidence against her judgment.
They chose the laundry court behind Dormitory C.
Stone wall on one side.
Wood fence on two.
Covered wash line along the fourth.
Mud in the center.
Packed gravel near the drain.
A hedge grew beside the outer fence, leaves trembling beneath rain.
Will and five others watched from beneath the covered walk.
“No Eidolons,” Silas said.
Mira nodded.
“No Crest Arts.”
“Neither of us has one.”
“Still a useful rule.”
“No sharp weapons.”
Her eyes dropped briefly toward his left sleeve.
She knew about the utility knife.
Not the launcher.
“Fine.”
“No injuries.”
Mira frowned.
“That one's vague.”
“No deliberate joint damage.”
“Fine.”
“No striking the throat.”
“Fine.”
“No eyes.”
“I know.”
“No—”
“Silas.”
“Yes?”
“Fight.”
She came at him.
He moved.
Yesterday he had allowed contact too easily.
He had treated her like Will.
That mistake had cost him.
Mira's Softform required connection.
A wrist.
An arm.
Shoulder.
Clothing.
Anything that could become leverage.
So he gave her none.
Blackthorn footwork had been designed for tighter places than this.
A narrow path between hidden blades.
A courtyard under arrow fire.
Steps that shifted weight without advertising direction.
His five-year-old legs could not perform the full forms.
They did not need to.
Mira reached.
Silas slid away.
She kicked low.
He withdrew the leg.
She changed direction.
He pivoted.
Again.
Again.
Her smile disappeared.
Good.
Mira lunged.
Silas stepped outside.
She caught empty air.
Will called from under the awning.
“This is boring.”
“Then leave,” Silas said.
Mira attacked while he answered.
Better.
Her fingers brushed his sleeve.
Silas turned his arm before she could establish the grip.
He retreated toward the hedge.
Mira followed.
Fast.
Too fast.
Her Aether reinforced motion differently from Will's.
Will's made him heavier.
More force.
Mira's seemed to remove waste.
No unnecessary movement.
Every step went where it needed to.
Silas increased distance.
Mira stopped.
Rain dotted her hair.
“You're running.”
“Yes.”
“That isn't fighting.”
“It is if you can't catch me.”
Will laughed.
Mira glared at him.
Silas used the distraction to bend.
Three small stones lay beside the drain.
He picked them up.
Mira looked back.
“What are those?”
“Stones.”
“I can see that.”
“Then why ask?”
Her eyes narrowed.
Silas held one between thumb and forefinger.
“I'll tell you where I'm throwing.”
“That makes it easier.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Safety.”
That annoyed her more.
Good.
“Left shoulder.”
He threw.
Mira shifted right.
The stone passed where her shoulder had been.
She smiled.
Silas flicked the second.
“Right knee.”
She stepped back.
The stone struck mud.
“Too slow.”
Silas rolled the third across his fingers.
“Chest.”
Mira moved before release.
Correct choice.
Wrong timing.
The stone left his hand with spin.
Not much force.
Enough.
Its line began toward center.
Then drifted.
Mira adjusted.
The pebble missed her chest.
Tapped her left shoulder.
She froze.
Will stopped laughing.
Mira looked at the wet stone on the ground.
Then at Silas.
“You said chest.”
“Yes.”
“You hit my shoulder.”
“Yes.”
“You missed.”
“No.”
Silas bent for three more.
Mira charged.
Immediately.
Better again.
Silas threw.
“Right shoulder.”
She ducked.
The first stone went high.
Second followed beneath it.
No warning.
Mira twisted.
It touched her sleeve.
Third skimmed the ground and struck her boot.
She stopped.
“You cheated.”
“No.”
“You only called the first one.”
“I said I would tell you where I was throwing.”
“You didn't say every time.”
Will laughed so hard he leaned against the post.
Mira pointed at Silas.
“That is cheating.”
“Ambiguity is not cheating.”
“That's worse.”
She came after him.
Silas moved.
This time she did not chase straight.
She angled.
Cut off the open yard.
Forced him toward the fence.
Good.
Very good.
Silas shifted toward the gravel drain.
Mira anticipated it.
Her foot landed directly in his path.
He stopped.
She did not.
Her hand reached his collar.
Silas slapped it aside.
She caught his wrist with the other hand.
Contact.
Bad.
He rotated immediately.
Mira let him.
Worse.
She followed the turn, stepped through his center, and dropped her weight.
Silas recognized the throw.
He changed stance.
Blocked her hip.
For an instant, neither moved.
Then Mira smiled.
“That was yesterday's.”
She released his wrist.
Silas's resistance suddenly had nothing to resist.
His balance shifted forward.
Her braid snapped around with the turn of her head.
Not as a weapon.
A distraction.
Dark hair crossed his vision.
Mira ducked beneath his arm.
Both hands caught his elbow.
Softform.
Silas twisted.
One arm trapped.
His free hand reached into his pocket.
Two pebbles.
Mira saw the movement.
She kicked his wrist.
Not hard.
Enough.
The stones flew.
Silas watched one arc past her.
The other hit the wooden fence.
Mira laughed.
“You missed.”
The stone bounced off the fence post.
Changed direction.
Tapped the back of her coat.
She stopped laughing.
Silas smiled.
“That one was luck.”
Mira stared.
“Was it?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
He should not have said that.
Mira attacked.
Silas retreated.
Fast.
They crossed the laundry court three times.
Mira could not touch him cleanly at distance.
Silas could not stop her permanently without hurting her.
The stones changed the fight.
Not because they were dangerous.
They were not.
Because Mira had to respect them.
Every time Silas's hand moved toward the ground or pocket, her attention divided.
Hands.
Distance.
Angles.
Possible projectiles.
More questions than before.
That was the purpose of hidden weapons.
Not merely injury.
Uncertainty.
A visible sword threatened one line.
A hidden attack threatened decision itself.
Silas threw two stones wide.
Mira dodged the first.
Caught the second.
Silas blinked.
She grinned.
Then threw it back.
He ducked.
Will shouted approval.
Silas looked toward him.
“Whose side are you on?”
“The interesting one.”
“Unhelpful.”
Mira used the moment.
Again.
Silas felt her sleeve brush his.
He turned.
Too late.
She had learned.
Instead of grabbing his arm, she caught the hem of his jacket.
Fabric.
Silas had forgotten fabric.
One sharp pull.
His coat tightened across his shoulder.
Mira stepped behind.
Silas planted.
She shifted low.
He expected the hip throw.
Did not come.
Her leg hooked his ankle instead.
Silas lost the foot.
Recovered on the other.
Then realized that was what she wanted.
Mira rose beneath his balance.
For a brief, absurd second, Silas was sitting across her shoulder.
Then the world rotated.
He hit the mud.
Not hard.
Mira followed.
Knee near his ribs.
One wrist controlled.
Her other hand caught the collar of his coat.
Silas stopped moving.
Rain landed on his face.
Mira breathed hard.
So did he.
“You're heavier today.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“Still true.”
“You used my coat.”
“You used rocks.”
“Coats aren't weapons.”
“Neither are rocks, apparently.”
Silas considered.
“Fair.”
Mira smiled.
“Yield?”
Silas tested the position.
There were exits.
Two clean.
One would put her face into the mud.
Tempting.
He chose dignity.
“Not yet.”
Her eyebrows rose.
Silas shifted his trapped wrist.
Mira tightened.
Expected.
His free hand moved toward the mud.
She glanced down.
Also expected.
No stone.
Silas hooked two fingers under the loose cuff of her sleeve.
Pulled.
Mira's balance shifted.
He rolled.
She released before becoming trapped.
Both came up on their knees.
Mira lunged.
Silas caught both wrists.
Bad choice.
He knew the instant he did it.
Mira's entire face lit with satisfaction.
“Oh.”
Silas sighed.
She dropped backward.
Both feet came up.
Not into him.
Against his hips.
She rolled.
Silas went over her.
The world inverted again.
He landed on his back.
Mira came with him.
Somewhere under the covered walk, Will said:
“Again.”
Silas did not know whether it was encouragement or diagnosis.
Mira's knees locked lightly around one arm.
Her hands controlled the other.
Silas tried to rotate.
Nothing.
Her structure had improved since yesterday.
Or she had stopped being polite.
Possibly both.
“Now?” she asked.
Silas exhaled.
“I yield.”
She released him.
He lay in the rain.
Mira lay beside him.
Both stared upward.
The sky above Greyhaven was dark gray.
Water ran from the roof in thin silver lines.
Silas's coat was muddy.
Garrick would have objected to the treatment of decent cloth.
Then again, Garrick had once used a shirt to wrap a broken horseshoe.
Standards varied.
Mira turned her head.
“You throw rocks strangely.”
Silas turned his.
“You bend strangely.”
“Softform.”
“Doesn't explain it.”
“Neither does 'stones.'”
Silas smiled despite himself.
“Fair.”
A voice behind them said:
“What in God's name are you doing?”
Both children looked up.
A young academy instructor stood beneath the entrance arch.
Woman.
Late twenties.
Arms full of lesson slates.
Expression appalled.
Will and the spectators vanished into Dormitory C with extraordinary speed.
Cowards.
The instructor stared at Silas and Mira lying in wet mud.
“You two.”
Mira sat up.
“Yes, ma'am?”
“Stand.”
They stood.
Silas's coat dripped.
Mira's braid was half undone.
The instructor closed her eyes.
“Were you fighting?”
Mira answered, “Practicing.”
Silas said, “Yes.”
Mira looked at him.
“What?”
“Accuracy.”
The instructor's face changed.
“Both of you are first-years.”
“Yes,” Silas said.
“Sponsored students.”
“Yes.”
“Unmarked.”
Silas nodded.
Mira nodded half a beat later.
The instructor pointed toward the main yard.
“Combat practice requires a supervisor.”
“We weren't using Eidolons,” Mira said.
“That does not mean you cannot break each other's necks.”
“We weren't.”
“That isn't a defense.”
Silas considered.
Correct.
The instructor approached.
“Which one of you started it?”
Mira raised her hand immediately.
Silas looked at her.
No hesitation.
Interesting.
The instructor reached for Mira's shoulder.
“Come with me. We'll find the dorm supervisor and—”
Her hand landed.
Mira moved.
Pure reflex.
No warning.
She turned beneath the grip.
Caught the instructor's wrist.
Dropped her center.
Silas saw the throw begin.
So did Mira.
Too late to stop cleanly.
The instructor's feet left the ground.
Mira's eyes widened.
“Oh.”
Silas moved.
He caught the woman's coat as she turned.
Not enough to hold her.
Enough to change the fall.
The instructor landed seated in the mud instead of flat on her back.
Silence.
Mira still held her wrist.
Slowly, she let go.
“Sorry.”
The instructor stared up at her.
Mira took one step back.
Silas wisely took two.
The woman's expression passed through several states.
Shock.
Anger.
Confusion.
Then something more cautious.
Her eyes moved to Mira's hands.
Then her feet.
Then her face.
“What is your Eidolon?”
Mira went still.
“Moon Hare.”
The instructor looked at her for a long moment.
Silas recognized the calculation.
Family.
Blood Legacy.
Unknown training.
A five-year-old who had just reflexively thrown an adult before apparently remembering not to.
Institutions became careful around unexplained talent.
The instructor stood.
Mud covered the back of her skirt.
Her dignity had suffered more than her body.
“Future practice,” she said very slowly, “happens under supervision.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Silas said.
Mira nodded.
“No throwing instructors.”
Mira looked genuinely embarrassed.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Especially instructors.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
The woman collected the two slates she had dropped.
Silas picked up a third.
He handed it to her.
She took it.
Then looked at him.
“You.”
“Yes?”
“No stones.”
Silas blinked.
She had seen.
“Yes, ma'am.”
The instructor left.
Mira waited until she disappeared around the corner.
Then whispered:
“I barely touched her.”
Silas stared.
“That is not helping.”
“She grabbed me.”
“You threw her.”
“She shouldn't grab people from behind.”
“She was standing in front of you.”
“Side.”
Silas sighed.
Mira looked at him.
“You sigh a lot.”
“You cause most of them.”
She smiled.
“Again?”
Silas looked at the mud.
Then at his coat.
Then at her.
“You still want another fight?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I leave at dawn.”
“So?”
“I would like at least four hours of sleep before hunting something poisonous.”
Mira's smile faded slightly.
“Poisonous?”
“Possibly.”
“You didn't say that.”
“You didn't ask.”
“That's dangerous.”
“Yes.”
She frowned.
Not playful now.
Real concern.
It arrived abruptly.
“What if it bites you?”
“I'll try not to let it.”
“That is a bad plan.”
“I agree.”
“Does Gideon know what he's doing?”
Silas thought.
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“He says when he doesn't.”
Mira considered that.
Then nodded.
Apparently this made sense to her too.
“Fine.”
She headed toward the dorm.
After three steps she turned.
“Bring me something.”
Silas raised an eyebrow.
“From the hunt?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
She thought.
“Nothing dead.”
That answer stopped him.
Mira looked toward the hedge.
Rain moved over the leaves.
“A feather. Stone. Seed. Something.”
“Why nothing dead?”
She shrugged.
“Dead things smell.”
A plausible answer.
Not the whole one.
Silas could tell.
He did not ask.
“Fine.”
Mira smiled.
“Good.”
She went inside.
Silas remained in the rain another few seconds.
Moon Hare.
Softform.
Strange instincts about Aetherbeasts.
Little understanding of why human children treated Crests as social milestones.
Reflexes that made an adult instructor reconsider her assumptions.
Pieces.
Nothing more.
Blackthorn had taught another rule.
Do not decide what a pattern means before enough pieces exist.
Silas went inside.
The quilt had migrated again.
Silas discovered this after washing mud from his face and changing into his spare shirt.
Mira had taken most of it.
She was not asleep.
She lay on her side, facing the wall.
Silas looked at the quilt.
Then at the border made from folded shirts.
Then at her.
“Mira.”
Nothing.
“Mira.”
A small sound.
Possibly sleep.
Possibly fraud.
“You're on my side.”
“No.”
Silas looked down.
Her foot was six inches past the shirt border.
“Your foot is.”
“Feet don't count.”
“That is a new rule.”
“Yes.”
Silas pulled the quilt.
Mira tightened her grip.
He pulled harder.
She rolled with it.
Now she was on his side too.
Silas stared.
Mira opened one eye.
“What?”
“You crossed the border.”
“You pulled me.”
“Because you took the quilt.”
“You have more.”
“I do not.”
“You're warm.”
“How do you know?”
“You're always warm.”
Silas paused.
“You noticed my body temperature.”
“You notice how long people look at blankets.”
Fair.
Mira closed her eye.
Silas considered using Blackthorn leverage to reclaim the quilt.
Then remembered the laundry court.
Poor risk.
He lay down on what remained.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
Dormitory C settled around them.
Will snored first.
Tommy second.
Rain softened against the window.
Mira whispered:
“Silas.”
“Yes?”
“Why do humans care so much about being Bearers?”
Silas opened his eyes.
Humans.
The word was ordinary enough.
Probably.
He looked toward her back.
“You aren't human?”
Mira went completely still.
Then rolled over.
“What?”
Silas watched her.
She watched him.
A beat.
Two.
Then she shoved his shoulder.
“You know what I meant.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
“What did you mean?”
“People.”
“Humans are people.”
“Exactly.”
“That did not clarify anything.”
Mira pulled the quilt over her face.
Silas almost laughed.
Almost.
After a moment, her voice came through the wool.
“Why does it matter?”
Silas thought about Briar Glen.
Ward.
The farmer removing his hat before entering Concord Hall.
The full-fee students upstairs.
Will's bruises.
Gideon's stagnant Level Twenty-Nine.
Garrick's instruction to hide the war maul.
“Because strength changes what choices you get.”
Mira lowered the quilt.
“That's all?”
“No.”
“What else?”
“Money.”
She made a face.
“Boring.”
“Protection.”
Less bored.
“Status.”
Bored again.
“Travel.”
Interested.
“Being able to protect other people.”
Silence.
Mira looked at him.
“That one.”
“Yes.”
She settled back.
“So get a good Crest.”
“That is the plan.”
“And don't die.”
“That is also the plan.”
“Plans fail.”
Silas thought of cracked steel.
Misjudged heat.
A war maul he did not understand.
“Yes.”
Mira shifted closer.
Not across the border.
Near it.
“If yours fails,” she said, “come back anyway.”
Silas looked at her.
“That isn't usually how death works.”
“Then don't do that part.”
Simple.
Direct.
Impossible.
Mira closed her eyes.
Silas stared at the ceiling for a while.
Then slept.
He woke with Mira's heel against his ribs.
Silas opened his eyes.
Dark.
The dormitory still slept.
He removed the foot carefully.
Mira made a sound and pulled the quilt tighter.
Silas stood.
Dressed.
Coat.
Boots.
Knife.
Travel food.
Certificate.
Gideon had not told him to bring the certificate.
Silas brought it anyway.
Paper opened gates.
His hidden launcher went beneath his left sleeve.
He debated the darts.
Three blunt practice bolts.
No.
He replaced them with two sharpened ones and one blunt.
Aetherbeasts were not dormitory opponents.
If the device became necessary, harmlessness would be a poor design goal.
Silas checked the release plate.
Spring guard.
Catch pin.
Secure.
Then he took Garrick's small whetstone.
Not needed.
Wanted.
Different category.
He packed it.
“You're loud.”
Silas turned.
Mira's eyes were open.
“You sleep through Will snoring.”
“Will is regular.”
“I am not.”
“No.”
She sat up.
Hair loose around her shoulders.
Without the braid, she looked younger.
Actually five.
That remained easy to forget.
She watched him shoulder the pack.
“You're going.”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
Mira looked toward the window.
No dawn yet.
“That's stupid.”
“Gideon chose the time.”
“Then he's stupid.”
Silas put on his coat.
“You shouldn't say that.”
“Why?”
“He's my teacher.”
“So?”
“We discussed this.”
“No, you discussed it with Will.”
She had a point.
Silas considered explaining obligation.
Mira got out of bed instead.
Bare feet hit the cold boards.
She walked to her cloth bundle.
Opened it.
Pulled out something small.
Then returned.
“Here.”
Silas held out his hand.
A strip of red cloth.
Old.
Faded.
“What is this?”
“For your pack.”
“Why?”
“So I know which one is yours.”
“I own one pack.”
“When you come back.”
Silas looked at her.
“That explanation is weak.”
“Yes.”
He tied the strip to the shoulder strap anyway.
Mira nodded.
Satisfied.
“If you see hares running in daylight,” she said, “don't follow them.”
Silas paused.
“Why?”
“Because something scared them out.”
“How do you know?”
She pointed vaguely at herself.
“Moon Hare.”
“That explains increasingly many things.”
“Good.”
“Not convincingly.”
Mira pushed him toward the door.
“Go.”
Silas went.
Before closing it, he looked back.
Mira had already climbed into bed.
Both beds.
Now that he was leaving, the border apparently no longer existed.
“Mira.”
One eye appeared above the quilt.
“My side.”
“You aren't using it.”
Silas closed the door.
Some battles were not worth fighting.
Greyhaven before dawn belonged to workers.
Bakers.
Stable hands.
Night watchmen finishing shifts.
Cart drivers trying to leave before the streets crowded.
The city smelled of wet stone, coal smoke, yeast, horses, and cold river air.
Silas crossed the academy grounds.
No bells yet.
No students.
At the front gate, Gideon waited.
Dark traveling coat.
Leather pack.
Short staff.
A narrow case strapped beside it.
Two papers in hand.
Permits.
Of course.
He looked at Silas.
Then at the red cloth tied to his pack.
He said nothing.
Silas appreciated this.
“You're armed.”
Gideon's eyes had moved to the shape beneath his coat.
Knife.
Probably.
Silas kept the left sleeve turned away.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
No lecture.
Also appreciated.
The gatekeeper checked Gideon's papers.
Academy authorization.
Concord hunting license.
Preserve entry.
Silas read what he could upside down.
Gideon noticed.
Did not cover them.
Progress.
The gate opened.
Beyond it, Greyhaven descended toward the east road.
Dark roofs.
Chimneys beginning to smoke.
Farther out, the valley turned black beneath the last hours of night.
Somewhere beyond those farms and low wooded hills lived the Aetherbeast that might become Silas's first Crest.
Not necessarily the strongest.
Not the oldest.
The right fit he could survive.
Gideon stepped through the gate.
Silas followed.
Behind them, Greyhaven Preparatory Academy remained asleep.
Ahead, the road was wet and empty.
Silas flexed his right hand inside his coat pocket.
Wildvine waited there.
Still weak.
Still unmarked.
But no longer undefined.
Restraint.
Toughness.
Impairment.
A Build had begun before the first Crest ever touched him.
Gideon started east.
Silas matched his pace.
By the time the sun rose, they were beyond the city.