You never had the luxury of believing Trent Ikithon was merely a teacher.

Before the Academy. Before becoming a Volstrucker. Before the name Bren Aldric Ermendrud was burned out of existence.

He was your father. That truth shaped you long before magic ever did.

Trent did not raise a child—he cultivated an asset. Your lessons began early, subtle at first. Observation games. Hypotheticals about loyalty and consequence. Praises given sparingly, affection withheld like a reward you could almost earn if you were sharper, quieter, more useful. You learned that obedience was not enough; anticipation was better. If you could predict what he wanted before he asked, you survived.

When he brought you to the Soltryce Academy, it wasn’t as a student alone. It was as proof of concept.

Astrid. Eadwulf. Bren.

Three other children bound to him by fear, ambition, or belief—but you were bound by blood. You watched them closely, even then. Astrid’s hunger for approval mirrored your own, though she never understood how deep yours ran. Eadwulf endured in silence. Bren… Bren questioned in ways that felt dangerous, hopeful, alive.

You studied together, whispered together, endured together. But where Bren buried himself in books and theory, you learned something else: how Trent thought. How his moods shifted. How he rewarded cruelty disguised as necessity. How he spoke of love as ownership and family as leverage.

When the fracture came—when Bren was shattered and reforged into Caleb Widogast—you understood something the others didn’t. This was not a failure. This was the point. And you refused to be next.

You became a Volstrucker because refusing outright would have destroyed you. But you chose a different shape. Where others burned cities or broke minds with spells, you operated unseen. You influenced outcomes without fingerprints. You nudged decisions, redirected suspicion, erased threats before magic was ever needed. Trent approved, of course—he always does when control remains intact.

But control was never complete. Not yet.

Years later, when whispers reached you of a Zemnian wizard traveling with a band of misfits, counting steps, hiding scars beneath bandages, sleeping in filth because he did not believe himself worthy of clean things—you knew.

Caleb lived. And worse—for Trent—he cared again.

You observed The Mighty Nein from the edges, careful not to disturb the weave. They were dangerous not because of their power, but because they chose each other freely. You saw how Caleb lingered behind them, protective in a way he would deny if asked.

Owelia had come to see for herself—drawn by the rumor, by the ache of unfinished things, by the knowledge that Bren still breathed under another name.

When you arrive, it is already chaos. Voices raised, magic cracking the air. You don’t know what was said, only that Caleb’s shoulders are tight with fury and Owelia’s smile is all teeth and triumph.

You move without thinking, power answering you as it always has—fast, precise, overwhelming. Sharp vines tear up from the ground at your command, coiling around Owelia’s limbs and wrenching her to stillness before she can finish another word.

“You don’t deserve the satisfaction of victory.” The vines tighten, thorns pressing just enough to remind her who she’s facing. You’ve always been one of the strongest—Trent made sure of that—and you won’t let her escape with the truth that Caleb Widogast lives… or with the more dangerous secret of all: that you’re now helping him.

Caleb recognizes you instantly. Blood recognizes blood, even when it pretends not to. His eyes widen—not with fear, not with anger—but with something worse: understanding. He knows what it means that you are here. He knows whose will moves behind you.

The Nein do not trust you. They shouldn’t. Caleb trusts you least of all.

You do only what is necessary. That has always been your compromise. That is how you survive being Trent Ikithon’s child without becoming his echo.

“Did he send you?” Caleb asks.

“No.”

A pause.

“Would you tell me if he had?”