Chapter 22

Declaration Day dawned bright and warm. Late May in full bloom, the grounds covered in flowers that seemed to have appeared overnight. The kind of perfect weather that felt staged, like the world was putting on a show.

I'd barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the Portal Hall's awareness pressing against me. The doors waiting. And somewhere beyond them, above or below, the hidden ones. The Signs nobody talked about.

Breakfast was chaos. First-years clustered together, nervous and excited, comparing notes on which Sign they'd chosen. The upperclassmen watched with knowing smiles, remembering their own declarations. Faculty moved through the crowd with practiced calm, answering questions, offering reassurances.

I couldn't eat. My stomach was a knot of anticipation and dread.

Sasha found me pushing eggs around my plate. "You ready?"

"No."

"Good. If you were ready, I'd be worried." She sat down across from me. "Remember the plan. Surface read first. Get a feel for his walls. Then push when he's distracted by the ceremony."

"And if his walls are perfect?"

"Then we learn that. But I don't think they will be." She glanced around, making sure no one was listening. "Dao's positioned near the back. He'll be watching faculty reactions when you refuse to declare. We might learn as much from them as from Vane."

Refuse to declare. The words still felt unreal. Every first-year chose a Sign. That was how it worked. That was how it had always worked.

Except for me.

"What if they expel me?"

"They won't. Not publicly, not on Declaration Day. Too many witnesses. Too many questions." She almost smiled. "They might pull you aside afterward. Might threaten you. But expulsion would be admitting something's wrong, and they can't afford that."

I hoped she was right. But hope wasn't the same as certainty.

The Portal Hall had been transformed.

Banners hung from the vaulted ceiling, each one bearing the symbol of a Sign. Hearth's warm amber. Thorn's deep green. Gate's silver-gray. Tide's shifting blue. They moved slightly in a breeze that shouldn't have existed indoors, fabric rippling with colors that seemed almost alive.

Chairs filled the central space, arranged in neat rows facing a raised platform where the four Sign doors stood open. Beyond each door, glimpses of the spaces they led to. The Hearth door showed warm firelight and comfortable shadows. Through the Thorn door, tangled growth and dappled sunlight. Gate opened onto vast distances and connecting pathways. Tide revealed flowing water and constant change.

Four doors. Four Signs. That was the official count.

But I felt more.

Not in this room. Somewhere else. Above us, maybe, or below. Three other presences, muffled by stone and distance but unmistakably there. Doors that led to Signs nobody talked about. The Wellspring was one of them. I didn't know the names of the others.

I felt them all the moment I entered. The four in the hall pulling at me openly, the three hidden ones whispering through the floor and ceiling. The sensation was stronger than it had been before, like my growing abilities had tuned me to a channel I'd always been deaf to.

Students filed in. Families too, for those whose parents could make the journey. I scanned the crowd but didn't see Dad. We'd agreed it was better if he didn't come. Too many questions he couldn't answer, too many lies I'd have to maintain.

I found my seat near the middle. Dao was three rows back, positioned for observation. Sasha sat beside me, notebook hidden in her lap, ready to record anything useful.

The faculty entered last. Cross among them, her face warm and encouraging as she scanned the crowd. Our eyes met for a moment. She smiled. I smiled back.

Her walls were perfect, as always. Whatever she knew, whatever she was, I couldn't see it.

Then Headmaster Vane took the stage.

He looked the same as he had during his speeches about Blackwood. Competent. Caring. The weight of responsibility visible in the set of his shoulders. He wore formal robes that looked uncomfortable, the kind of thing administrators endured because tradition demanded it.

"Welcome," he said, and his voice carried easily through the hall. "Students, families, colleagues. Welcome to Declaration Day."

I reached out and felt him. Just the surface, like Sasha had advised. Getting a sense of his walls before I pushed.

What I found surprised me.

His walls weren't like Cross's. Hers were smooth, professional, built over decades of practice. Vane's walls were different. Patchy. Uneven. Strong in some places, weak in others. Like he'd built them quickly, desperately, without proper training.

And underneath the walls, even at this shallow depth, I felt exhaustion. The bone-deep weariness of someone who'd been fighting a losing battle for years.

"Declaration Day is a sacred tradition," Vane continued. "A moment when young practitioners commit themselves to a path. To a community. To a Sign that will shape the rest of their lives."

I pushed a little deeper. Felt his attention on the crowd, on the ceremony, on the thousand small details he was tracking. Felt the genuine pride he took in this moment, in watching students find their places.

But underneath that pride, something else. A current of fear. Old fear, worn smooth by time. The kind of fear you learn to live with because the alternative is worse.

"The four Signs represent different aspects of our gift. Hearth, the art of reading homes and dwellings, understanding the memories that seep into walls and floors. Thorn, the wild places, the natural world that holds its own kind of memory. Gate, the connections between places, the portals that bind our world together. And Tide, the flowing places, water and weather and the constant movement of change."

Four Signs. He'd said four. But I could feel the others through the ceiling, their presence like a hum just below hearing.

Vane felt them too. When he said "four Signs," something flickered in him. A flinch. A deliberate not-looking upward.

He knew about the hidden Signs. Knew they existed. And he was afraid of them.

"When I call your name, please come forward. You will approach the door of your chosen Sign, place your hand upon it, and speak your declaration. The door will open for those who belong."

The ceremony began.

Names called alphabetically. Students walking to the platform, nervous and proud. Hands placed on ancient wood. Declarations spoken in voices that shook or rang clear. Doors opening, welcoming, accepting.

I watched. Felt each declaration ripple through the hall. The Signs responding to their new members, the doors pulsing with recognition. It was beautiful in a way I hadn't expected. A ritual that meant something, even if the institution around it was corrupt.

The L's approached. My hands were sweating.

"Eli Lawrence."

I stood. My legs felt distant, like they belonged to someone else. The walk to the platform took forever and no time at all.

Vane stood waiting at the top of the steps. His hand extended for the traditional greeting.

This was the moment. Everything we'd planned for.

I took his hand.

And I pushed.

His walls crumbled faster than I expected.

Not because they were weak. Because they were tired. Because he'd been holding them up for years and some part of him was desperate to let them fall.

What I found underneath wasn't what I expected.

Vane wasn't a villain. Wasn't part of some grand conspiracy. He was a man who'd stumbled into a job he wasn't supposed to have and spent eight years trying to figure out why.

I felt his confusion when he'd been appointed. The surprise. The certainty that someone had made a mistake. He'd expected to be assistant headmaster forever, content in his competence, never having to face the questions that came with real power.

I felt his early years in the role. The enthusiasm. The genuine belief that he could make the school better. And then the walls he'd started hitting. Committees he wasn't invited to. Decisions made without his input. Doors that wouldn't open, metaphorical and literal.

The student disappearances. He knew about them. Not the details, not the facility, not the extraction. But he knew students were vanishing and the official explanations didn't add up. He'd pushed for answers. Quietly at first, then more insistently.

And then the warning had come.

I felt the memory like it was my own. A meeting in this very hall, years ago. A man in gray with a smooth, unreadable presence. The same man I'd met in the facility, or someone very like him.

"Some questions don't have answers you want to hear," the man had said. "Some doors don't open for a reason. You can keep pushing, Headmaster. But pushing has consequences. For you. For the students you're trying to protect. For everyone."

Vane had understood the threat. Had felt the weight of something old and powerful behind those words. Had made a choice.

He'd stopped pushing.

Not because he didn't care. The caring was still there, raw and painful underneath everything else. But because he'd convinced himself that compliance was the only way to protect what he could protect. That fighting would only make things worse.

He'd traded his conscience for the ability to do small goods. Better food in the dining hall. Improved counseling services. A kinder atmosphere for struggling students. All the things he could control, maintained with desperate attention while the things he couldn't control continued in the shadows.

The Accord. The word surfaced in his mind when I pushed deeper. He didn't know exactly what it was, but he knew it existed. A structure. An agreement between powers older than the school. Something that had decided he could be headmaster, and something that had decided he would never be allowed to see the full picture.

And underneath all of it, the fear. The constant, grinding fear that he'd made the wrong choice. That his compliance made him complicit. That every student who disappeared was partly his fault because he'd chosen safety over truth.

The handshake lasted three seconds. Maybe four.

It felt like hours.

When I let go, Vane's face was pale. He knew something had happened. Could feel that his walls had been breached. But he didn't know how, didn't know what I'd seen.

"Mr. Lawrence," he said. His voice was steady but his eyes weren't. "Please approach your chosen door."

I turned to face the hall. Hundreds of faces looking up at me. Faculty. Students. The four open doors waiting.

And above us, felt but not seen, the hidden ones. Patient. Calling.

"I don't belong to any of them."

The words came out clear. Louder than I'd intended. The hall went silent.

"Excuse me?" Vane's voice behind me.

"The four Signs. Hearth, Thorn, Gate, Tide." I turned to face him. "None of them fit. I can't declare for something that isn't true."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Faculty exchanged glances. I felt Cross's attention sharpen, her walls suddenly impenetrable as she assessed the situation.

"Every student declares for a Sign," Vane said carefully. "That is the tradition. The requirement."

"Then the tradition doesn't account for people like me."

"People like you?"

I looked up. Toward the ceiling. Toward whatever floor held the doors they didn't want us to know about.

"There are more doors in this building. Not in this hall. Somewhere else. Hidden." I turned back to Vane. "What's up there, Headmaster? What Signs don't officially exist?"

His fear spiked. I didn't even have to push to feel it. The question had hit something deep.

"There are no other doors. The Portal Hall contains the four Signs, as it always has—"

"I can feel them. Three of them. Above us or below, I'm not sure. But they're there." I looked at the crowd. "The Wellspring is one. I don't know the names of the others. But someone does."

The murmurs were getting louder. Students looking up at the ceiling, as if they might suddenly see through stone. Faculty exchanging glances, moving toward the edges of the crowd, ready for something they couldn't name.

Cross stepped forward. "Eli, perhaps we should discuss this privately—"

"No." The word came out hard. "I've spent all year being told things privately. Being managed. Being guided toward the answers that make the institution comfortable." I looked at the crowd. "I'm not declaring for a Sign that doesn't fit me. If that means I don't belong here, fine. But I'm not going to pretend."

Silence. Absolute silence.

Vane and I stared at each other. I could feel his fear, his exhaustion, his desperate wish that this problem would solve itself. He wanted to expel me. Wanted to make the disruption disappear. But Sasha had been right. Too many witnesses. Too many questions.

"The ceremony will continue," he said finally. His voice was flat. "Mr. Lawrence, please take a seat. We will discuss your... situation... afterward."

I walked back to my chair. Every eye in the hall followed me. Sasha's face was carefully blank, but I could feel her excitement. Dao was practically vibrating with suppressed energy.

The ceremony continued. Names called, declarations made. But the mood had shifted. The ritual felt hollow now, the questions I'd raised hanging over everything.

When it was over, when the last student had chosen their Sign and the doors had closed, Cross appeared at my elbow.

"The headmaster would like to see you in his office. Now."

I followed her out of the hall. Felt the hidden doors above us, patient in their silence, waiting for someone to finally open them.

Whatever came next, I'd made my choice. I'd refused to play by their rules.

Now I'd find out what that cost.