The white wards steadied.
Not brighter. Cleaner. As if the building had finally decided who it belonged to. Dust lost its nervous shimmer and hung in calm air. Blood looked less like panic and more like evidence.
Bootsteps came down the corridor, unhurried. The Inquisitors already present shifted without being told, opening space as if the hall had been built for the man who entered.
He wore white that worked. Coat to the calf. Gloves that knew both books and steel. No ornament except a small flat sun sewn in silver at his throat. His hair was cut blunt. His eyes held no temperature at all.
The senior Inquisitor inclined his head. "Lord Inquisitor."
The man in white did not answer. He looked at the Imperial Heir first and read what mattered in a breath. Alive. Standing. Account preserved. His gaze moved to Kade, weighed posture and blood spatter, moved to Evelyn and the red streak at her ear, then to Rem and the bandage at his knee and the dagger on his back.
A younger Inquisitor shifted, hand lowering toward his weapon when his eyes fixed on Rem.
Two fingers lifted.
"Interdict Protocol," the man in white said. "White Interval."
The world obeyed.
In the corridor, dust halted mid-fall. A splintered railing stopped its slow tip. Wardlight flattened into a perfect sheet, humming like a thin string. The junior's blade froze a breath out of its sheath. Kade's cloak held in the middle of a ripple. A torch far down the hall turned to a painted shape.
Across the Academy the effect unfolded like a silent bell. A banner on the east parapet stopped snapping in the night breeze. A training spear hung point-out above a practice ring. A loose page in the library paused mid-turn, its corner hovering. A fountain's arc kept its curve in the moonlight, water hanging like glass. A chalk line in a classroom hung between board and hand. A raven above the bell tower held its wings half open against a sky that refused to move.
Breath and heartbeat continued. Eyes still blinked. Every other directed motion was counted and denied.
No one gasped. There was no sound to carry it.
Three long seconds passed like a held note across several hectares.
The man in white lowered his hand.
Motion returned. Dust fell. The banner cracked back into wind. The fountain splashed down. The page settled. The unfinished ripple crossed Kade's shoulder. The junior snapped his hand away from the weapon as if it were hot.
"Status," the man in white said.
Kade answered first, voice level. "Assailants neutralized in this section. Safe room seal was taken from the inside. Unknown actor with authority. One palace guard down."
The senior Inquisitor added quickly. "Multiple anomalous readings. Wards bled into white. Subject Avern displayed erratic behavior consistent with uncontrolled aura or worse. Removal for containment is advisa—"
"Who raised the wards to white," the man in white asked, without looking at him.
"Automated failsafe after royal threat classification," the senior said. "We did not escalate it further."
The man in white did not waste a step. He moved to the shattered threshold of the safe room and looked down with the attention of a jeweler. His gloved thumb traced the hinge plate, then the stone beside it.
"There," he said.
A thin crescent of volatile ink lay in a hairline crack where the frame met dressed stone. He breathed once over it. The crescent bloomed to a full ring for a heartbeat before the air took it. A copied ward key, pressed and lifted, a perfect theft disguised as a smudge.
"And there," he said again, pointing to the jamb. Near-invisible lines formed a mirror glyph that would have caught a ward-signature and printed it backwards when the door opened. The smear had been wiped, not cleaned.
He straightened. "Detain all ward-keys for audit. Freeze the logs for the safe room, the east stairs, and the bell tower ladder. No faculty leaves campus before dawn. Hold the wardmaster for interview at first light."
Kade's jaw locked. "Internal."
"Or worse," the man in white said. "Someone who believes they are internal."
He turned from the door and faced Rem.
"Name."
"Rem Avern."
"Step forward."
Rem did. The dagger dragged at his shoulder like gravity. He felt Evelyn's eyes on the side of his face and did not look.
A flat silver seal rested in the man's left palm, etched so fine the sun-lines looked like frost. He set it to the notch of Rem's collarbone.
The metal should have warmed.
It cooled.
"Do not speak," the man in white said. "Breathe."
Rem breathed.
There was no heat. No pressure. Only order, imposed with clean hands. A thought passed through him like a probe on glass. Not a search. A measurement.
The man removed the seal and turned it once between two fingers. He did not look at it when he spoke.
The senior waited, careful. "Your reading, Lord Inquisitor."
For a fraction of a heartbeat, something changed in the man's face. Not much. A change in the eyes, a thing too small for most people to read. Kade saw it. The Prince saw it. Evelyn saw it. Rem felt it.
"Negative," the man in white said. "No heretical taint. No construct. Acute aura dysregulation under injury and shock."
The senior started. "A thermal inversion on the seal suggests—"
"It suggests what I said it suggests," the man replied, still mild. His gaze moved to the Heir instead of the senior. "By Imperial mandate, Your Highness remains under my protection until extraction."
The Prince inclined his head, very slightly. "Acknowledged."
The man in white reached into his coat and drew a slim white card with a seal tab. He wrote three words in a square hand, closed the tab, pressed a thumb to lock the cipher, and slid the card back inside.
"Public summary," he said without emphasis. "Aura dysregulation post-trauma." A beat. "Addendum restricted to Crown."
He looked back to Rem. His attention did not flare. It narrowed.
"You will wear a monitoring brace for thirty days," he said. "You will not enter consecrated ground without clearance. You will attempt no ritual of any kind. If you feel unwell, you will inform Lady Verran first."
Rem frowned. "Why her."
"Because she knows what your face looks like when you are about to lie to yourself."
His eyes moved to Evelyn. "You will remain within arm's reach for the next hour."
She met that with a steady chin. "Understood."
"Observer," the senior tried again, but the man in white had already decided.
"Adjunct Vale," he said.
A figure stepped from the rear rank, young and precise in whites with silver detailing. A bright barrette held back a sweep of hair. She dipped her head to the Prince, to Kade, and flashed a quick smile at Rem that felt like a lamp switched on.
"Adjunct Lysanne Vale, reporting. I will be very normal, very quiet, and absolutely everywhere you are."
Evelyn's eyes narrowed a fraction. Lysanne did not wither. She tilted her head, cheerful and unapologetic.
"You will embed with His Highness's academic cohort," the man in white said. "Class, yard, mess. You will monitor the subject's physiology and the group's environment. You will file sealed briefs to me, not to the Academy."
"Understood," Lysanne said. She lifted a slim case. "Brace."
A pale band clicked shut around Rem's wrist. It hummed once against skin, cool as a thought, then went silent. The metal did not glow. It felt like a lock on a door he could not see.
"Lord Inquisitor," the senior pressed, trying the line one more time, "the protocol concerning anomalies present recommends immediate containment outside Imperial grounds. In light of the assault on His Highness, removal of the subject and isolation of all associates would be prudent."
"No," the man in white said, still even. "The Heir survives. The Academy returns to function by dawn. The subject remains under observation on site. You will not remove him. You will not classify him as an asset."
The senior held very still. "On whose authority."
"Mine," the man in white said. He inclined his head almost imperceptibly toward the Prince. "And his."
The Prince's mouth flattened, not with resistance but with calculation. "By my authority as Imperial Heir, I accept the arrangement and the observer."
Kade exhaled once, long and thin, as if someone had finally allowed it.
The man in white pivoted a degree back to Rem. For a moment the air between them sharpened like a blade laid flat.
"If anyone asks what happened tonight," he said, "the Heir survived an incompetent attempt. Aura misfires are common after blunt trauma. That is all."
He turned. As he crossed the wardline, the white glow did not flicker. It settled deeper, a clean seam of light that made even broken stone look squared. He did not look back.
Kade watched him go, voice low. "That could have gone another way."
"He lied," Evelyn said. The words were quiet and certain.
The Prince did not pretend otherwise. "Yes."
"About what," Rem asked.
"About whether your problem is ordinary," the Prince said.
Lysanne stood very straight, hands folded behind her back, eyes bright and hard to fool. "I will log dysregulation for the record and keep my notes neat."
Kade's glance flicked to the band on Rem's wrist. "If the brace bites, I take your arm before they take your head," he said quietly. "Do not make me earn that line."
"Not planning to," Rem said.
"Good," Kade said. "Walk."
They moved.
On the way out, the man in white's orders rippled through the faculty like clean cuts. The wardmaster arrived, pale as chalk, clutching a roll of keys. Two professors argued in a doorway with their voices kept carefully low.
"We do not close the Academy for shadows," said the one with silver pins on his collar.
"We close when shadows open the doors," said the other. "Seal the east stair. If a child dies because you wanted to look brave, I will nail your calendar to the wall and count to your retirement out loud."
The wardmaster flinched when he heard his title. Demeanore had already passed, but his decisions stayed in the air like chalk dust.
They took the long cross-hall that opened to the grand vestibule. Beyond the arches, responders flooded the concourse. Medics moved with boxes, faculty with lists, guild adjuncts with clipboards and shallow eyes. The wardlight stayed white but less harsh here, like paper under clean hands.
The Prince walked at the center with Kade a half pace behind his shoulder. Their voices were low, their steps exact.
"Tomorrow morning," Kade said, "you will get three public moves. One, incompetence narrative against the Academy. Two, petition to transfer your protection to the Temple entirely. Three, whisper campaign to hang this on House Verran."
"Counter," the Prince said. "We praise the responders and the ordinary. We decline the Temple's sudden generosity. We note the internal breach and keep it boring. If they want a spectacle, they can hold a festival without me."
"Name a villain," Kade said.
"Not yet," the Prince said. "I need a story, not a martyr. People say they respect me. They respect what might happen to them if I die the wrong way at the wrong time. I am not giving them a right way."
Kade's mouth tilted once. Approval, sand-dry.
They cut through a side passage toward the mess hall. The emergency shutters were up. Lamps burned. Someone had dragged two urns of tea to the front and declared a line. The big room smelled like starch and sugar and adrenaline wearing off.
"Calorie intake," Lysanne said, bright again. "Supervision thrives on snacks."
She slid a plate toward Rem. Cake. Somehow there was always cake at the end of a disaster.
"I do not need cake," Rem said.
"You need sugar stabilizers," she said. "Medical literature is undecided on frosting, but I am an optimist."
Evelyn's mouth thinned. "He needs water and quiet."
"Water, quiet, and cake," Lysanne said. "Balanced triangle."
Rem took the fork because arguing took more energy than cake. He ate like someone had reminded him he was allowed to. The room buzzed around them. The normal felt like a spell no one had to cast.
The band around his wrist vibrated once.
Cold, like a coin held too long.
Lysanne's smile vanished between one breath and the next. She set two fingers lightly on the band. "Look at me," she said, voice low and even. "In four. Out six."
Evelyn's hand found the back of Rem's neck, firm as a command. "Here," she said. "Anchor here."
He did. The cold hummed, then faded. His breath counted out. In four. Out six. The room came back into focus one edge at a time. He lifted the fork again. It shook once, then steadied.
Lysanne let go first and stepped back half a shoe. "Logged," she said, bright returning like a light turned up. "Micro event. Resolved with anchor and breath."
Evelyn did not move her hand for a heartbeat longer. When she took it away there was a red print where her fingers had been.
"You are fine," she said.
"Maybe not the cake," Rem said.
"Finish the cake," Lysanne said, scandalized. "I have to write I tried."
They left the mess and crossed the courtyard. A cluster of students had gathered near the notice board, eyes wide, mouths busy. Rumor flies faster than alarms. Posters had peeled in the damp air. Someone had scrawled a name in charcoal and someone else had underlined it twice.
Rem saw his letters and did not stop. Lysanne's eyes flicked once. She smiled without teeth. Evelyn stepped to the board as if to read it, took the charcoal note, and folded it without breaking stride. When she dropped her hand the folded scrap was gone.
"Do not feed it," she said.
"Was not planning to," Rem said.
Past the arches, the night pressed down. Clouds locked the stars out. The fountain that had been a glass arc when the world held still threw water again. For a second the spray blew cold as if winter had licked the stone and then decided against it.
A groundsman stood with both hands on a broom like a staff. He watched the white glow breathing in the windows and shook his head. "That white is not Temple," he said to no one. "Not tonight."
They took the last corridor to the front steps. The doors stood open. Night air moved over stone and through bruised flowers. The white remained at their backs. The sky beyond the parapets was a lid of cloud, heavy and blank.
The Prince stopped and faced the responders who had gathered without quite daring to come close. "There will be an official statement by morning," he said. "Until then you will be tired and useful. The Academy thanks you for both."
Heads dipped. People scattered to tasks they could name.
Kade leaned close to Rem without changing his posture. "The next days will be full of congratulations and knives. Smile for the first and keep your head for the second."
"Copy," Rem said.
"Language," Kade said, deadpan.
Rem almost smiled. He did not. His eyes found Evelyn instead. There was grit in her hair and a red line along her jaw. She met his gaze without flinching.
"You look like you fell down stairs," he said.
"You look like you tried to break them," she said.
Lysanne cleared her throat, careful not to wedge herself between them and somehow still there. "I am required to log your first hour post-brace. Please remain within one arm of Lady Verran while I calibrate baseline. Proximity improves data integrity."
Rem lifted his wrist so she could see the band. "Does it hurt."
"It judges," she said. "Different sensation."
"Great," Rem said.
"Better than dead," Kade said.
The Prince touched two fingers to his temple, a private salute without ceremony. "Thank you for not freezing twice."
"If something comes for you, I break it," Rem said.
"Measure what you break," the Prince replied. He paused. "Lady Verran."
"Your Highness," Evelyn said.
"Keep him where he belongs," the Prince said. "In his own skin."
"I will," she said.
The Prince left with Kade and the remaining guard. The white wards thinned behind them like fog deciding to be air again. Voices rose and fell in the dark, orders and confirmations and names. Somewhere beyond the east parapet, the banner began to move again, a soft repetitive crack in the wind.
They did not go home. There was no home here. They followed the quiet spine of the building back toward the student wing. Lysanne walked with a half skip she did not quite let herself show.
"I will be very normal and absolutely everywhere you are," she said, sunny and matter of fact.
"You are calling that normal," Evelyn said.
"For me it is," Lysanne said. She lowered her voice for Evelyn alone. "If he blanks again, you lead, I follow."
"Good," Evelyn said. One word, flat.
A runner cut across the courtyard with a leather pouch under one arm, hood up against a night that was not raining. He did not see them. He headed through the back gate and vanished toward the river road.
Miles away, a bell tinked against a glass door with flaking paint. A sleepy apprentice opened it and took the pouch and did not ask questions he did not want to be paid to answer. In a clinic that looked like a book had learned how to be a building, Livesey unsealed the note with clean hands and read with eyes that did not blink.
He folded the paper once and slid it under the corner of a chipped plate. He put three things in a bag. He stood in the doorway a heartbeat and looked at the bed in the back room that was not slept in when Rem was at the Academy.
"Hold on, kid," he said to the empty air, and blew the lamp out.
Back at the Academy, the white along the ceilings finally decided to be only light. The halls learned how to be corridors again. The mess closed and reopened for dawn crews. The bells tried to decide whether to call this an emergency or a success and did neither.
Rem lay down at last. The mattress felt too clean. He listened to the building settle and to the bracelet. It cooled once against his skin, a quiet, almost polite reminder that something had been locked and would stay locked.
He closed his eyes and saw a silver seal that should have warmed and did not. He saw a man in white who could stop a school from breathing for three seconds and call it a note. He saw the smallest shift in that man's eyes, the one only four people had seen.
Somewhere, under an Imperial cipher, a line had been written because he existed.
When he speaks, the Empire writes. Tonight, the Empire lied for me.