Morning in the High Council’s central tower was always a flurry of movement—Espers reporting for assignments, Guides scanning for compatible matches, clerks carrying stacks of sealed files.
Rowan had barely finished dressing when the bond flared, sharp and insistent.
Come to me.
The sensation wasn’t words exactly, but it might as well have been. It pulled at him until he found Alder waiting in the hall, black coat over his shoulders, crimson tie perfectly knotted.
“We have a mission,” Alder said. “Level Six anomaly in District Twelve. You’ll be guiding.”
Rowan blinked. “Today?”
“Right now.” Alder’s tone left no space for argument.
They took the private lift down to the garage, where a sleek black transport was already waiting. As they stepped inside, Rowan caught the faint buzz of comm chatter from the driver’s earpiece.
“Multiple casualties,” the driver reported. “Anomaly’s emitting uncontrolled psychic waves—Espers on site can’t maintain stability.”
“Then we end it,” Alder replied.
The ride was short. District Twelve’s streets were in chaos—cars abandoned, shopfronts shattered, people stumbling with glassy, vacant eyes. The air itself seemed to vibrate, carrying an edge that made Rowan’s skin prickle.
Alder stepped out first, scanning the scene. His presence was enough to part the crowd of uniformed operatives, all bowing slightly as he passed.
“Guide,” Alder said without looking back. “Stay close.”
Rowan followed, keeping his senses open. The psychic disturbance was like a jagged pulse in the distance—loud, uncoordinated, almost frantic. His own ability responded instinctively, threads of calm weaving out in all directions, though it was like trying to smooth ripples in a storm.
They turned a corner, and there it was.
The anomaly was a man—or what had once been a man. His eyes glowed a sickly gold, his body writhing as arcs of psychic energy burst from his skin, shattering the pavement. Two Espers nearby were already on their knees, clutching their heads.
“Back,” Alder ordered them. They obeyed instantly.
Then, without warning, Alder surged forward, his power exploding outward in a wave of black energy that slammed into the anomaly.
Rowan felt it immediately—the storm. Alder’s psychic field flared dangerously, and without a Guide, it would spiral out of control fast.
“Now,” Alder’s voice snapped through the bond.
Rowan closed the distance, pressing his palm against Alder’s back. The link ignited, flooding him with the full force of Alder’s power. It was sharper than yesterday—wilder—but Rowan anchored himself, sending steady pulses through the chain.
The storm raged in Alder’s mind, each surge of aggression threatening to tear loose. Rowan matched it blow for blow with calm, their energies colliding and merging until Alder’s movements sharpened into lethal precision.
Alder’s hand rose, and the black energy solidified into chains—real, physical constructs of psychic force. They whipped through the air, wrapping around the anomaly’s limbs, binding him to the cracked pavement.
The man screamed, the sound splitting through the street like shattering glass—then went silent as Alder’s final surge knocked him unconscious.
The crowd erupted in relieved murmurs. Operatives moved in to secure the scene.
Rowan pulled his hand back slowly, his pulse still racing. The bond between them pulsed once, as if acknowledging what they’d just done together.
Alder turned, meeting his eyes. “You held me,” he said simply.
Rowan swallowed. “I told you I could.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile curved Alder’s lips. “Then maybe you will last after all.”
As they walked back to the transport, Rowan realized something unsettling: guiding Alder in battle felt… intoxicating.
And the worst part was—Alder knew it.
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