Chapter 18: Burning Bridges

The silver ink of the treaty didn’t just smear under Mira’s thumb; it hissed, the parchment curling into a black, scorched ribbon before the Council’s very eyes.

“Mira, control yourself,” Dorian’s voice was a shard of ice cutting through the humid tension of the High Chamber. He didn’t look at her. He didn't have to. He was too busy staring at the High Inquisitor, his spine a rigid line of defiance that looked dangerously close to snapping.

Mira didn't pull her hand back. The heat wasn't an accident; it was an eviction notice. “Control is for people who still believe there’s a system worth following, Dorian. They aren't asking for a merger. They’re asking for a lobotomy of the elemental arts.”

The High Inquisitor, a man whose soul seemed composed entirely of dust and bureaucracy, leaned forward. The magical dampeners in the room hummed, a low-frequency vibration that made Mira’s teeth ache. “The Starfall Accord was designed to ensure safety. If the Red Hall pulse-mages and the Frost-Bound cantors cannot exist in a unified syllabus without burning the curriculum—literally—then the Ministry will simply revoke the charters for both.”

Dorian’s fingers twitched on the mahogany table, a frost-pattern blooming briefly over the grain before the dampeners choked it out. “You’re threatening centuries of lineage because of a friction we are already resolving. The students are adapting. It is the Council that is lagging.”

“The Council is protecting the realm from an unstable union,” the Inquisitor replied, his eyes moving between them, searching for the crack in their facade. “There are rumors, Chancellor Thorne. Rumors that the rivalry between you and Chancellor Vane has shifted into something… less professional. Something that compromises the neutrality of the Accord.”

Mira felt the heat in her chest spike, a jagged flare that the dampeners couldn’t quite touch. She turned her head, finally meeting Dorian’s gaze. His eyes were the color of a frozen lake just before the spring thaw—beautiful and terrifyingly deep. 

“Our personal lives are not the Ministry’s jurisdiction,” Dorian said, though his voice lacked its usual glacial certainty. 

“They are when your combined resonance blew out the windows of the East Wing last Tuesday,” the Inquisitor snapped. “The merger is suspended. Effective immediately, the schools will be separated by a mile-high tethered ward. You have twenty-four hours to begin the dissolution.”

The silence that followed was heavy with the scent of ozone and dying dreams. Mira stood, the chair scraping hoarsely against the stone floor. She didn't wait for Dorian. She didn't wait for a dismissal. she walked out of the chamber, her boots clicking a frantic rhythm against the marble, her blood humming with a singular, violent purpose.

She was halfway across the Bridge of Sighs when a hand caught her elbow. The touch was cold—deliciously, dangerously cold—and it sent a jolt through her that nearly took her knees out.

Dorian swung her around to face him. The wind whipped his dark hair across his brow, and for the first time since she’d known him, he looked unraveled. “Mira, stop. If we fight them now, we lose everything.”

“We’ve already lost, Dorian! Did you hear him? They’re going to build a wall. They’re going to turn our students back into soldiers of separate camps. We spent six months teaching them that fire doesn't have to consume ice, and ice doesn't have to quench fire.” She stepped into his space, her breath coming in short, hot gasps. “I won’t let them tear it down.”

“Then what is the plan? You just scorched the physical copy of the Accord in front of the most powerful men in the kingdom.”

“The plan is to stop playing by their rules.” Mira grabbed the lapels of his heavy wool coat. “They think our resonance is a defect. They think the fact that we can’t be near each other without the world shaking is a weakness.”

Dorian’s hands came up to cover hers, his palms pressing her knuckles against his chest. He was heart-stoppingly close. “Isn't it?”

“No,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on his mouth. “It’s a power source. If they want to see what happens when we refuse to be separated, let’s show them.”

Dorian’s expression shifted, the caution dying away to be replaced by a predatory sort of hunger—not for her, though that was there too, but for the same rebellion. “You want to bridge the schools permanently. Without the Ministry’s anchors.”

“I want to fuse them. So deeply that no ward in the world can unpick the stitches.”

He let out a breath that came out as a white mist. “It will burn us out, Mira. A permanent resonance bridge between a fire core and an ice core... it’s never been done. It’s theoretical suicide.”

“I’ve always preferred the spectacular to the safe,” she said, her thumb brushing the line of his jaw. “Haven’t you?”

Dorian didn't answer with words. He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers. The air between them began to shimmer, the heat of her skin and the frost of his meeting in a chaotic swirl of vapor. The bridge beneath them groaned. High above, the crystalline wards of the city began to vibrate, singing a high, mournful note.

“Twenty-four hours,” Dorian murmured against her skin. 

“We only need one,” Mira replied.

She pulled back, her eyes glowing with a subterranean gold light. She began to walk toward the Great Hall of the combined academy, each step leaving a charred footprint on the ancient stone. Behind her, the air grew brittle and sharp as Dorian followed, the temperature plummeting until the very moisture in the air turned to falling diamonds.

They reached the central courtyard, where the students were gathered in hushed, terrified clusters. They had heard the news. They were already packing bags, looking at their rivals-turned-friends with the sorrow of the soon-be-bereaved.

Mira climbed the steps of the Sun-Dial, the highest point in the yard. “Listen to me!” her voice echoed, amplified by a flicker of hearth-fire magic. “The Ministry thinks they can divide what we have built. They think they can force us back into the dark.”

Dorian stepped up beside her, his presence a stabilizing weight. He raised his hand, and a pillar of pure, translucent ice rose from the ground, catching the dying sunlight. “They believe our magic is a weapon to be stored in separate armories. Tonight, we prove it is an architecture.”

“Every student,” Mira shouted, her hands beginning to smoke. “Every mage, every cantor. Focus on the center. Don't fight the opposite element. Feed it. Give your fire to the frost; give your frost to the flame.”

One of the younger fire-users, a girl no older than sixteen, looked up with wide eyes. “But Chancellor, the feedback will kill us.”

“Not if we hold the center,” Dorian said, his eyes locking onto Mira’s. 

They reached for each other. 

The moment their palms met, the world vanished. There was no courtyard, no Ministry, no impending doom. There was only the roar of a furnace and the silence of a glacier. Mira felt her skin beginning to blister, then instantly heal as Dorian’s cold rushed into the wounds. He gasped, his own body shivering as her heat forced the blood through his veins at a manic pace. 

The resonance began as a low thrum in the earth, and then it became a scream. 

Around them, the students began to cast. Red and blue, orange and white—the colors swirled into the air, spiraling toward the two Chancellors at the heart of the storm. The separate buildings of the academies began to groan on their foundations. The stone wasn't breaking; it was softening, flowing like wax. 

Mira felt her consciousness expanding, stretching across the grounds. She felt the warmth of the kitchens, the chill of the scrying chambers, the heartbeat of every terrified student. And she felt Dorian. He was the anchor, the sub-zero foundation that kept her from dissipating into pure energy. 

*I have you,* his voice echoed in her mind, a thought made of crystal. 

*Don't let go,* she pleaded. 

*Never.*

The light became blinding. A pillar of violet fire shot into the sky, piercing through the city’s clouds, visible for fifty miles in every direction. It wasn't a fire that burned; it was a fire that forged. The two schools, once separate estates divided by a valley, began to slide toward one another. The earth buckled and groaned as the very geography of the realm was rewritten by their sheer, stubborn will.

The Ministry’s dampeners shattered in the distance, the sound like a thousand mirrors breaking at once. 

Then, the world went black. 

Mira woke on her back, staring up at a sky that was no longer empty. A shimmering, iridescent dome pulsed above them—a permanent Aurora Borealis trapped in a web of golden light. 

She turned her head. Dorian was lying inches away, his breath shallow, his hair dusted with silver rime. He looked like a fallen god. 

She reached out, her fingers trembling, and touched his cheek. He groaned, his eyes fluttering open. He looked past her, at the horizon. 

The two academies were no longer two. They had fused into a single, seamless fortress of obsidian and ice, sprawling across the valley like a sleeping dragon. The gates were gone, replaced by an archway of living glass.

“We did it,” Dorian whispered, his voice a wreck. 

“We’re fired,” Mira said, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in her throat. 

“Probably imprisoned.” Dorian managed a weak, lopsided smile that made Mira’s heart do a slow, painful roll. He reached out, his hand sliding behind her neck to pull her down. 

The kiss tasted of ash and snow, of victory and the terrifying unknown. It was the taste of a bridge burned so thoroughly that there was no way back, only forward into the fire.

A shadow fell over them. Mira looked up to see the High Inquisitor standing at the edge of the crater they had created, his face pale with a mix of fury and genuine, unadulterated fear. Behind him, a battalion of Ministry Enforcers stood with their staves raised, but they weren't moving. They were staring at the new sun that had risen in the middle of their kingdom.

“You’ve committed an act of magical sedition,” the Inquisitor said, his voice trembling. 

Dorian stood up, his movements slow and graceful, pulling Mira up with him. He didn't let go of her hand. Together, they turned to face the law, their shared magic humming between their joined palms like a coiled spring.

“No,” Mira said, her voice ringing out across the newly forged courtyard. “We’ve just finished the first lesson.”

The Inquisitor stepped forward, his hand dropping to the hilt of his null-blade, and the iridescent dome above them flared a warning, violent purple.