Chapter 5: The Inquisitor’s Warning

The frost on the library window didn’t just melt; it wept, fat droplets racing down the glass as Dorian’s hand remained inches from my waist, the heat between us a physical, pulsing thing. 

I forced my breath to go shallow, the scent of cedar and sharp, biting ozone—his magic’s signature—filling my lungs. We were standing in the ruins of the restricted section, the floor littered with the singed remains of the Ledger of Arcanum, and for a fleeting second, the rivalry that had defined my decade felt like a brittle mask I was ready to drop.

Then, the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall shrieked open. 

Dorian recoiled as if I’d set his robes on fire. He turned his back to me, the blue-white glow of his hands fading into the gloom of the stacks. I smoothed the front of my silk tunic, my skin still prickling where his proximity had teased the air. 

"Chancellors," a voice rang out, cold and flat as a slate headstone. "I find it remarkably poetic that the two of you are found in the dark, surrounded by ashes."

High Inquisitor Vane didn’t walk so much as glide across the threshold. His uniform was the color of a bruised sky, heavy with the silver sigils of the Ministry of Concordance. Behind him, two sentinels stood like iron statues, their faces obscured by the shadow of their helmets. Vane’s eyes, a pale, unblinking gray, darted from the scorched floor to the frost clinging to the higher shelves.

"Inquisitor," Dorian said, his voice regaining that effortless, aristocratic chill. He stepped forward, placing himself slightly ahead of me—a gesture that felt less like protection and more like a tactical wall. "We weren't expecting a Ministry audit until the equinox. You’re early."

"I find that expectations are often the first casualty of a failing peace," Vane replied. He reached out a gloved hand, picking up a charred fragment of parchment from the floor. He rubbed it between his fingers, watching the soot drift to the rug. "The Accord was signed with the blood of both your houses to ensure stability. Yet, the reports reaching the capital speak of... volatile surges. Fire and ice dancing in the streets of the lower ward."

"A pedagogical demonstration," I said, stepping around Dorian. My voice was steady, though my heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "The merger requires our students to understand the friction between opposing elements. It’s a controlled curriculum, Vane."

Vane turned his gaze to me. It felt like a physical weight, a pressure behind my eyes. "Chancellor Mira. Always so quick to flare. But control is a delicate illusion, isn't it? Especially when the Ledger of Arcanum—the very document meant to bind your magical signatures into a shared ley line—lies in pieces at your feet."

I felt the blood drain from my face. Dorian’s posture went rigid. 

"The Ledger was damaged during a resonance test," Dorian lied, the words smooth and chilled as a winter stream. "A temporary setback. We are already reconstructing the binding spells."

"Is that so?" Vane moved closer, his boots clicking rhythmically on the stone. He stopped inches from Dorian, looking up at him with a thin, bloodless smile. "Then you won't mind if I stay to oversee the process. The Ministry is concerned that the 'Starfall Accord' is becoming a romanticized fantasy rather than a political reality. There are those on the Council who believe the two of you are not merging your schools, but sharpening your knives."

Vane reached out and adjusted the collar of Dorian’s robe with a terrifying familiarity. "If this merger fails to produce a unified output by the week's end, the Ministry will revoke the charter. Both academies will be dissolved. The students will be redistributed to the border camps, and the two of you..." He paused, his smile widening. "The two of you will face a hearing for the treason of wasted potential."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Vane didn't wait for a rebuttal. He signaled to his sentinels and swept out of the room, leaving the scent of stale incense and the threat of execution hanging in the air.

I waited until the sound of his footsteps died away completely before I let out the breath I’d been holding. I slumped against a mahogany desk, my legs suddenly like water. 

"He knows," I whispered, looking at the blackened remains of the book. "He knows we can't get the signatures to lock."

Dorian didn't answer immediately. He walked to the window, staring out at the twin spires of the academies—one wreathed in the orange glow of eternal summer, the other shimmering under a permanent dusting of snow. "He doesn't know everything, Mira. He suspects we are still divided. He’s trying to provoke an outburst to justify a takeover."

"He doesn't need to provoke it," I snapped, the heat rising in my chest. "We are divided. Look at this place. My students are complaining of frostbite in the dining hall, and yours are fainting from the heat in the training rings. We’re not merging; we’re colliding."

Dorian turned. The moonlight caught the sharp angle of his jaw, the silver in his hair. "Then we stop colliding. We have six days. If Vane wants a unified output, we give him something so undeniable he has no choice but to retreat."

"And what would that be?" I asked, my voice dripping with skepticism. "A combined fire-and-ice gala? A synchronized swimming display?"

Dorian crossed the room in three long strides, stopping right in front of me. He didn't touch me this time, but the air between us vibrated. "The Aethel-Bond. The ritual of the Dual Throne. It hasn't been performed in three centuries because it requires the Chancellors to bridge their cores completely. No secrets. No barriers."

I felt a cold shiver that had nothing to do with Dorian's magic. The Aethel-Bond was a myth, a bedtime story told to apprentices. It was said to combine two mages into a single conduit of power, but the cost was absolute vulnerability. To do it with Dorian—the man who had spent ten years mocking my techniques, the man who represented everything I’d fought against—was unthinkable.

"You’re insane," I said, though my mind was already racing through the logistical possibilities. "The feedback loop alone could incinerate the entire campus."

"Only if we hold back," Dorian said softly. He reached out, his fingers brushing the pulse point at my throat. His touch was no longer cold; it was searing. "Are you afraid of the fire, Mira? Or are you afraid of what happens when the ice finally melts?"

I looked into his eyes and saw something there I hadn't expected: not arrogance, but a desperate, glittering hope. He wasn't just trying to save his school. He was trying to reach me.

I reached up, grabbing his wrist. My skin burned against his, a herald of the storm to come. "Fine. We do it your way. But if you try to freeze me out once we're bonded, Dorian, I’ll burn the memory of you from the world."

He leaned in, his breath ghosting against my ear. "I'd expect nothing less."

He pulled away, heading for the door to prepare the ritual chamber. He stopped at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder. "And Mira? Fix your hair. You look like you've been rattled."

I reached up to find a stray lock of hair had escaped my tight bun, curling wildly near my temple. I smoothed it down, watching him disappear into the shadows. I should have been terrified of Vane. I should have been worried about the Ministry.

Instead, all I could think about was the way Dorian’s thumb had lingered on my throat, and the fact that by tonight, there would be nowhere left to hide. 

I turned back to the window. In the courtyard below, Vane was looking up, his gray eyes fixed directly on my silhouette, his hand resting significantly on the hilt of his ceremonial sword.