We’re called in after nearly an hour.

  Long enough for the humming to fade, for the bench to stop being comfortable, for anticipation to settle into something heavier and more deliberate. When the secretary finally opens the door and gestures us inside, I’m almost relieved to have the waiting end.

  The office is spartan, but carefully so. Nothing feels neglected or bare. The walls are paneled in wood so dark it’s almost black, though when the light catches it there’s depth there, grain and texture layered like it’s been polished for centuries rather than replaced. The floor, by contrast, is pale blond, nearly white, and the moment my bare feet touch it I feel warmth rise up through my soles. Not imagined. Real. More than the floors in the rest of the complex, even more than the one in our room. It’s grounding in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.

  I register all of that before I really look at the man behind the desk.

  He’s old.

  Actually old.

  Not the cultivated kind of old where lines are chosen and silver hair is an aesthetic decision. This is age that has settled and stayed. His posture is straight, his presence steady, but there’s no disguising it. I can’t help staring for a moment, trying to reconcile what I’m seeing with what I know.

  Grades extend life. Everyone knows that. A Grade F, most people in the multiverse, might live a hundred and fifty years if they’re lucky, maybe two hundred in rare cases. Longer if you’re an elf or something similarly unfair. But this man is D rank. Everyone knows that too.

  That means thousands of years.

  The idea makes my head feel light. A year ago feels distant to me, stretched thin by everything that’s happened since. I can barely imagine being thirty. A thousand years of memory, of seeing civilizations shift and techniques evolve and people repeat the same mistakes with different names… it’s almost too much to fit into one person.

  His desk doesn’t match the weight of him. It’s plain, functional to the point of boredom, the kind of thing you’d find in any administrative office if you weren’t paying attention. Somehow that makes it worse. Or better. I’m not sure.

  Kai and I bow together without thinking about it.

  “Senior,” we say in unison.

  He nods once, a small, precise motion, and gestures to the chairs opposite him. “Sit.”

  His voice is strong. Clear. Unaged in a way that doesn’t quite line up with his face. The incongruity is unsettling.

  He doesn’t waste time.

  “Tell me what troubles you,” he says, folding his hands on the desk.

  I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, the sunlight from a window off to the side bleeding red through my lids. I’m still turning over how to phrase things, how to describe something that felt so immediate and yet so difficult to name, when Kai speaks.

  He always does when it matters.

  “Senior,” he begins, voice steady, measured. He starts with the portal. The failed transition. Our ejection back into the Academy. He summarizes the infirmary stay cleanly, skipping over the worst of it without being evasive, just… selective. He talks about how, since then, we’ve felt paired more strongly than before.

  I open my eyes and watch the old man’s hands as Kai continues.

  Kai explains our bond the way he always does, starting from when we were small, from shared training and familiarity and reliance built over years. Then he describes how it’s changed—how it’s become incessant, how separation isn’t just uncomfortable now but actively destabilizing, how proximity feels demanded rather than chosen. Not emotionally. Structurally.

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  He pauses, breathes, then continues.

  He describes the cultivation attempt. Back to back. Familiar technique. And then the shift. Feeling the other near the soul space. Not inside. Not invading. Just… there. Close enough to disrupt focus. Close enough to be undeniable.

  When Kai stops speaking, the room feels very quiet.

  The senior is nodding slowly, eyes unfocused, as if he’s looking inward rather than at us. His fingers tap once against the desk, not impatiently, but thoughtfully.

  I don’t speak yet. Neither does Kai.

  For the first time since this started, it feels like we’ve placed the weight of it in hands that might actually know how heavy it is.

  He keeps thinking, eyes unfocused, attention turned inward, and the silence stretches long enough for my nerves to notice.

  My leg starts bouncing before I realize I’m doing it, heel tapping softly against the warm wood floor. It’s a habit I’ve never managed to break, especially when I’m waiting on something I can’t influence. The motion builds, quick and restless, until Kai reaches out without looking and rests his hand on my thigh.

  The contact is light. Casual. Thoughtless.

  I still instantly.

  Not gradually. Not by effort. The agitation drains out of me like someone opened a valve, leaving behind a quiet, steady awareness of where I am and who I’m with. I don’t even need to look at Kai to know he felt it too.

  The instructor notices.

  His gaze drops briefly to Kai’s hand, then back to our faces. He nods once more, slow and deliberate, as if confirming a theory rather than reacting to what he’s seeing.

  “Curious,” he says at last.

  He leans back slightly in his chair, fingers steepled, expression thoughtful rather than alarmed. “This is not my area of expertise. What you’re describing is not a cultivation issue.”

  That lands heavier than I expect.

  He pauses again, searching memory rather than notes. “However,” he continues, “I have heard of this before. In stories. Records. Accounts that most people dismiss.”

  He studies us openly now, not unkindly, but with a level of attention that makes my skin prickle.

  “It is exceedingly rare,” he says. “And dangerous. I have seen it referred to as a Paired Bond. Two people. One soul.”

  My breath catches despite myself.

  “Not literally,” he adds, as if anticipating the reaction. “You remain individuals. But you balance each other completely. There is no room for dominance or submissiveness. No permanent leader, no follower. Balance is not encouraged—it is required.”

  He gestures lightly with one hand. “Such pairs are rumored to be devastating in combat. Impossible to negotiate against. Their internal alignment makes them… difficult to deceive, difficult to pressure. Some accounts describe them as exceptional merchants, diplomats, tacticians.”

  His mouth quirks faintly. “They are also said to combine schools of magic in ways that defy established doctrine.”

  He lets that sit, then exhales.

  “As I said,” he continues, “it is vanishingly rare. More rumor than recorded reality.”

  His gaze sharpens slightly as he looks between us again. “I have read your records. You are well beyond your peers. Most cultivators do not attempt Grade E before their twentieth birthday. You are barely sixteen.”

  That part I know. Hearing it said out loud still makes my shoulders tense.

  “The next fastest,” he adds, “are Finn and Banks. Whom I believe you have met.”

  Kai’s hand tightens just slightly on my leg. I don’t comment.

  The instructor falls silent again, longer this time. The weight of what he hasn’t said presses harder than the words already spoken.

  “There is another side to this,” he says finally. “A failure state.”

  I straighten despite myself.

  “A Failed Pair,” he continues. “Individuals who begin as a Paired Bond but lose balance. One becomes too dominant. Or the other too dependent. One voice outweighs the other. Harmony collapses.”

  His eyes are steady. Unflinching. “You may disagree with one another. That is not the danger. Discussion does not weaken such a bond. Debate does not harm it.”

  He leans forward slightly.

  “Contempt will,” he says. “Resentment will. Unspoken imbalance will collapse it faster than almost anything else.”

  The words sink deep, settling somewhere uncomfortably permanent.

  “The deeper the bond develops,” he adds, quieter now, “the harder it will be to break. If it can be broken at all.”

  He pauses.

  “Forever,” he says, “is a long time to be together.”

  Silence fills the room again, thicker than before.

  “I am nearly ten thousand years old,” he says, almost conversationally. “I have chosen to end my path. Hence the appearance.” A faint smile touches his mouth, not bitter, not amused. Simply factual.

  He looks at us with something like sympathy. “If you continue forward. If you aim for the peak. You may be together for millions of years.”

  He lets that stand without embellishment.

  “I cannot help you,” he says at last. “Not beyond this warning.”

  His expression hardens just slightly. “Others may try to unravel what you are. Curiosity is dangerous when paired with ambition. Be cautious with your secrets.”

  He stands. We rise immediately, bowing deeply. He returns the gesture with measured respect, and that alone tells me how seriously he’s taken this.

  We leave the office quietly.

  The halls are still empty, sunlight slanting through high windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Our footsteps are soft. Unhurried.

  We don’t speak on the walk back to our quarters.

  There will be time later. Forever, after all, is a long time.