Isolation wasn't silence.
It was the sound of footsteps that never reached your door.
It was the hum of wards that never slept.
Erian learned that quickly. After the incident in the Council chamber, the academy divided the eastern observatory into sealed quarters—one for him, one for Aster. The rooms were separated by layers of reinforced mana glass and spellwork so dense that even the air felt heavy.
Yet somehow, he could still feel him.
At first, it was faint: a pulse at the edge of thought, a quiet reminder that somewhere, beyond those walls, Aster was breathing too. But as the hours stretched, that pulse began to echo. His heartbeat, his exhaustion, the cold calm that Aster wore like armor—it all slipped through the bond in fragments, like whispers from a dream.
Erian sat by the window, his notebook open, pages filled with sketches of constellations he didn't remember drawing. The Heart's resonance—the phenomenon that had awakened during the storm—was written all over the diagrams. But every line curved back to one truth he couldn't ignore:
Aster's core was reacting to his.
He traced the pattern again, half in thought. "If the resonance follows emotional rhythm…" he murmured, "then maybe it isn't just pain that connects us."
A flicker.
Something sharp brushed the edge of his mind—like the chill before lightning.
A voice followed, low and restrained, but undeniably familiar.
You're overthinking again.
Erian froze. "Aster?"
No answer. Only the quiet pulse of shared mana. Then, faintly, a sigh.
You shouldn't try to reach me. It draws too much from your core.
He swallowed hard, heart racing. "Then stop listening."
A pause. The faintest ripple of amusement.
You started it.
He exhaled shakily, pressing a hand against the window. "So this really works. The resonance... lets us talk."
Not talk, came the reply. Feel. The words are just what your mind shapes from it.
Erian leaned back, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. "That's… terrifyingly poetic for someone who threatened to break a Council barrier two days ago."
There was no verbal answer, but the warmth that brushed against his consciousness carried a silent retort—half irritation, half reluctant humor. For a heartbeat, it almost felt normal.
Almost.
Then the warmth dimmed again.
Erian sensed it before he heard it—an echo of weariness, like cold water spilling through the bond. He closed his eyes, and the image came unbidden: Aster sitting alone in his cell-like chamber, surrounded by sigils that burned faintly against the walls. The silver in his eyes dulled, his expression still but not peaceful.
"You're not sleeping," Erian said softly.
Habit.
"You mean punishment."
The silence that followed was answer enough.
Erian hesitated. Then, before he could think twice, he reached out—not with magic, but intent. A simple gesture in the bond, a pulse of quiet reassurance. The same warmth Aster had given him during the storm.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the bond softened.
Not open, not bright, but no longer cold.
You shouldn't waste energy on me, Aster murmured. Your core hasn't stabilized.
Erian smiled faintly, eyes still closed. "If it keeps you from turning into a block of ice, I think it's worth it."
There was another pause—longer this time. When Aster's reply came, it was quieter.
You're strange, Erian Thale.
He chuckled softly. "You keep saying that like it's a bad thing."
It's not.
The words lingered in the air, heavier than they should've been. And then, before Erian could reply, the bond dimmed again—fading into that quiet rhythm they both had begun to understand.
He stayed awake long after that, sketching the constellation again and again until the stars began to blur into one another. The line between magic and feeling was thinner than he'd ever believed.
And somehow, despite the chains of the academy, despite the layers of silence, Erian didn't feel alone anymore.
By the third night, Erian had stopped pretending to rest.
The isolation cells were too bright to sleep, and too quiet to think. Every sound—the flicker of the lamps, the soft hum of the barrier wards—seemed designed to remind him he was being watched. Even the stars above the glass dome looked different, distant, as if they too were trapped behind invisible walls.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, a pile of open books and scattered crystals surrounding him. His notes were messy, filled with overlapping diagrams of mana flow and emotional resonance.
One phrase appeared again and again in the margin:
Resonance is empathy given form.
He wasn't sure whether it was something Professor Kael had once said, or something that had slipped from Aster's memory into his own.
Either way, it gave him an idea.
He took a deep breath and pressed both palms against the rune-sealed floor. The air shimmered faintly. A network of light pulsed under his fingers, responding to the rhythm of his heartbeat.
The isolation barrier was meant to block physical contact, not emotional energy. The Council had underestimated the Heart's connection—how much it relied on harmony, not force.
Erian closed his eyes.
He let the bond awaken, not through words, but through feeling—like opening a door with no handle, just a memory of warmth.
The air trembled, and then he felt it.
Cold first, sharp and clean. Then a faint pull, like a current beneath water. The familiar weight of Aster's presence, distant but unmistakable.
He focused harder, calling out silently.
Can you hear me?
For a moment, nothing. Then a faint ripple brushed against his thoughts.
Erian?
His breath caught. Yes. I found a way through the seal.
You shouldn't have tried. The Council could sense it.
Let them, he said softly. I just needed to know you're still here.
The connection steadied, weak but clear enough to feel warmth bleeding through. He saw a flicker of silver—Aster, sitting against a crystalline wall, head tilted back, eyes closed.
"You look exhausted," Erian murmured before realizing he'd spoken aloud.
A faint hum of amusement echoed in response. You can see me?
"Barely," Erian said, smiling faintly. "It's like watching a reflection in rippled water."
He reached out instinctively, and though his fingers met only air, a faint shimmer of silver light sparked where his hand passed.
Aster opened his eyes fully then, the bond stabilizing enough for his voice to come through with clarity.
You shouldn't waste energy on this.
"Maybe," Erian replied, his voice softer now. "But you always say that about everything that matters."
The silence that followed was long and fragile. Then Aster asked, almost hesitantly, Why do you keep doing this?
Erian blinked. "Doing what?"
Reaching out. Even when it hurts.
He hesitated. "Because that's what you did for me."
That simple answer seemed to shake something loose in Aster's composure. His usual stillness faltered for a heartbeat. Through the haze of the bond, Erian could feel the conflict beneath that calm—fear, guilt, something far older and heavier than he could name.
"Do you ever get tired of carrying it alone?" Erian whispered.
Aster didn't reply right away. When he finally spoke, his tone was quieter than Erian had ever heard. Every day. But letting anyone close makes it worse.
"Then I'll stay at the edge," Erian said gently. "Close enough to remind you you're not alone, far enough not to break you."
Aster's hand moved slightly, fingers brushing the air in front of him. The faint silver glow of the bond pulsed once, stronger this time—like a heartbeat shared between them.
You really are impossible, Aster murmured.
Erian smiled. "And you keep saying that like it's a bad thing."
A low breath escaped Aster—half sigh, half laugh—and for a moment, the quiet between them didn't feel empty anymore.
Then the glow around Aster's chamber flickered sharply. A warning rune pulsed red across the wall.
Erian's chest tightened. "They noticed the connection."
End it, Aster said firmly. Now.
"I can suppress it—"
No. The force in Aster's tone left no room for argument. If they trace it back to you, they'll do more than isolate us.
Erian hesitated, his fingers trembling. He could already feel the strain burning in his veins, mana coiling painfully beneath his skin.
He met Aster's eyes through the faint shimmer. "Then promise me something."
What?
"Don't shut me out completely. Even if they keep us apart. Even if they try to make us forget."
Aster's expression softened. For once, the coldness faded entirely, replaced by something raw and unguarded.
You think I could forget you now?
The connection flared once—bright, blinding, almost warm enough to burn—then collapsed in on itself like a wave retreating from shore.
The light vanished. The silence returned.
Erian fell back, gasping, sweat dampening his temples. The barrier runes glowed faintly gold before fading again.
The room felt colder than before, but inside his chest, the echo of that final pulse still lingered—steady, defiant, alive.
Somewhere beyond the walls, he knew Aster felt it too.
Even divided by light and law, they were no longer two separate beings.
They were the same song, split between two hearts.