Echoes Behind Closed Doors

Morning drifted into the academy with a subdued quiet, as if the air itself feared disturbing something delicate. The trees barely rustled. Students moved through the grounds more slowly than usual. Even the fountain seemed to run softer.

Word had spread quickly.
Shizukesa was due before the Guildmasters’ Council.

It was not a meeting any first-year attended willingly. Most students only appeared before the council after some severe breach of conduct or, far more rarely, after demonstrating a dangerous talent.

Rin, Aki and Mira flanked him as they crossed the courtyard. Their formation was almost instinctive by now, protective without drawing attention to itself.

Aki kept close to his left, nervously fiddling with the sleeve of her blazer. “I know the council is supposed to be scary, but surely they cannot do anything too mad. This is a school. They cannot throw you in a dungeon or something.”

Rin gave her a sideways look. “It is a hero academy, not a medieval prison.”

“Still,” she muttered, “they have that room in the west wing no one is allowed to enter. I bet there is something awful in there.”

“Please do not speculate,” Mira said gently. “It will only make Shizukesa anxious.”

Shizukesa paused. “I am not anxious.”

Aki frowned. “Honestly, that is worse.”

They stopped at the steps leading to the Guild Wing. High stone pillars framed the entrance, carved with swirling patterns that resembled blooming flowers and spiralling waves. Above the double doors was a crest made of three interlocking shapes, symbolising the three great guilds.

Students rarely entered this building without invitation.

Kurobane waited by the doors.

His expression, as always, was measured.
But something in the tightness around his eyes betrayed concern.

“Hana,” he said. “Are you prepared?”

“I do not know,” Shizukesa answered honestly.

Kurobane nodded once. “That is still a form of preparation.”

Aki blurted, “Sir, he is coming back to us after this, right?”

Rin placed a hand on her shoulder. Mira’s face tensed with silent agreement.

Kurobane did not answer immediately. Instead, he placed a hand on the ornate door and opened it.

“The council is not your enemy,” he said. “But neither are they gentle. Tell the truth, remain calm, and do not let your petals manifest unless told otherwise.”

Shizukesa followed him in.

The chamber was circular, lit by a skylight that cast a pale, almost stern glow over the room. Three raised seats stood at the far end, each carved from a different material. Marble for the Insight Band. Obsidian for the Bladepoint Division. Polished birchwood for the Lotus Circle.

The Guildmasters sat in silence as Shizukesa entered.

Guildmaster Saito of Insight Band sat in the central seat, posture straight, eyes sharp.

To her left sat Guildmaster Takeo of Bladepoint, a man with grey streaks in his dark hair and the quiet presence of someone who had seen too many battlefield deaths.

To her right was Guildmaster Enyo of Lotus Circle, an elderly woman whose expression was gentle but whose eyes read people like open books.

Shizukesa stood in the centre of the circle, the sound of his breathing faint against the polished floor.

Guildmaster Saito spoke first.
“Hana Shizukesa. You are here because you demonstrated emotional resonance that does not match any recorded spectrum.”

Takeo leaned forward slightly. “A black petal is concerning. A white petal is unprecedented.”

Enyo gave him a long, thoughtful look. “Child, do you know what emotion you felt before either petal appeared?”

“No,” Shizukesa said.

“Not even the white one?” Saito asked.

Shizukesa shook his head. “It felt warm. But I do not know what it meant.”

Enyo’s eyes softened. “Warmth can be many things. Hope. Comfort. Memory.”

Takeo’s gaze sharpened. “Or the calm before breaking.”

Kurobane stepped forward. “Guildmasters, I believe the boy is not intentionally destabilising his output. His core may be layered or fractured.”

“That is precisely the problem,” Takeo replied. “A fractured emotional core can spiral into catastrophic manifestations.”

A faint tightness wrapped around Shizukesa’s ribs.
Not pain.
Not fear.
Something colder.

Saito observed him closely. “Did you hear the voice again?”

Shizukesa hesitated.

Enyo’s tone turned gentle. “Honesty protects you more than silence.”

“Yes,” Shizukesa admitted softly. “It said… let me in.”

The chamber fell completely still.

Takeo exhaled through his nose. “An internal voice with directive speech. That is not a manifestation. That is a presence.”

Mira’s words flickered back into Shizukesa’s mind.

Something is connected to you. Something is searching.

Saito spoke carefully. “Hana. We will conduct controlled exercises to understand your petals. Your guardianship arrangements will also be reviewed.”

Shizukesa stiffened. “Reviewed?”

Enyo tapped her fingers lightly against her armrest. “It is procedure. Students with unstable resonance may be placed under enhanced supervision.”

“Reika looks after me,” Shizukesa said. “She is my guardian.”

“We know,” Saito replied. “And she has done well. This is not a punishment. Simply a measure of safety.”

Takeo added, “For the academy. And for you.”

Shizukesa lowered his gaze. He did not understand the sting in his chest when they questioned Reika’s suitability. But the feeling lodged deeply, refusing to fade.

The guildmasters exchanged a look before Saito rose to her feet.

“We will observe your development closely. You will attend special sessions beginning tomorrow. Your friends may accompany you for now.”

Something in the way she said “for now” unsettled him.

“You may go,” Enyo said softly. “And child… be gentle with yourself.”

Shizukesa nodded.

Kurobane guided him out.

The moment the chamber doors closed, Aki threw her arms around him, nearly knocking him off balance.

“You are back. Thank heavens.”

“Aki,” he said quietly, “I could not breathe.”

“Sorry,” she muttered, not letting go.

Rin stood to the side, arms crossed, trying not to look relieved. “What did they say?”

“That I must attend sessions,” Shizukesa replied. “Tomorrow.”

Mira stepped closer. “Did they say anything about Reika?”

Shizukesa looked away. “They said… they will review her.”

Aki’s mouth fell open. “Review her? Why? She has looked after you for years.”

Rin placed a hand on her shoulder. His eyes were cold. “They are afraid of what will happen if he loses control again.”

Shizukesa felt the weight return inside his chest. Stronger this time. Like something pushing up, pressing against the inside of his lungs.

Mira touched his wrist gently. “We will help you through this. You are not alone.”

Aki nodded fiercely. “Not now. Not ever.”

Rin looked at him with a seriousness that bordered on frightening. “You do not face danger without us.”

Shizukesa nodded, though the weight did not ease.

Reika greeted him with her usual half-sarcastic scolding and immediately began cooking. The warm smell of soy, garlic and simmering broth filled the flat. It coated the air in something comforting, something homely.

She placed a bowl of chicken udon in front of him with a tired smile. “Eat. You look like someone wrung you out and left you on a washing line.”

Shizukesa stared at the bowl for a moment. “The council wants to review you.”

Reika froze mid-sip of tea.

“I see,” she said quietly, lowering her cup. “Then things are moving faster than I hoped.”

She reached over and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “Do not worry about it yet. I will handle them.”

“How?” he asked.

Reika smiled, though it did not reach her eyes. “I have my ways.”

A strange heaviness stirred beneath his ribs again.

Something inside him whispered.

Not words.
Just pressure.
A ripple of something awakening.

Reika misread his expression and placed a warm hand on his shoulder. “Shizukesa. Whatever happens, I am not going anywhere.”

He nodded, though he did not fully understand the sudden tightness in his throat.

If only he knew how fragile those words were.

If only he knew how soon he would lose her.

But for now, she smiled at him through steam and soft kitchen light.

And he clung to that moment without knowing why.