The templar who brought him to the tower is named Hector. Skin bronze like armor he has a thin mustache, an aquiline nose. Glinting teeth. Alim feels washed out beside him. A youngest son of Rivaini merchants, Hector explains (one of few templars who don't mind explaining, doesn't mind talking at all), his family converted to Andrastrianism more for convenience than conviction. He's something of anomaly in that respect, someone who took interest in the Chant enough to leave home, devote his life and legacy to faith. A good portion of his earnings are always sent back to Crestwood. It isn't a bad arrangement, but he can't go home again either.
Other templars monitor the conversations, frequently take Hector aside for discussions of their own. Alim, draped in mustard-colored robes, waits on the floor by his post. He pulls the hood over his ears, hides his face. When Hector returns his mouth is tight, twitching. He lowers himself to sit side by side.
"They're afraid of you," says Hector at length. Alim peeks up. The knight watches his colleagues stationed down the hall instead of him. They are not looking now. "Afraid you might become dangerous, that I won't be able to do my job. Ridiculous."
"I don't want to get you in trouble," says Alim quietly, and Hector reaches under the fabric to tousle his hair.
"No," replies Hector, with a smile that seems incomplete, "you're fine. I'm the one responsible. Not you."
"See, our lives belong to them," Jowan explains that evening—perched at the edge of Alim's cot in the wake of so many smothered candles, "but they've been put in charge of our deaths, too." He speaks in a whisper, face obscure and empty beneath the dim. Human eyes do not hold the light. Jowan keeps his elbows tucked close to his body while Alim hugs his knees. "Templars can rip your soul out to leave your body behind like a husk. They'll kill you for a thought they had, worrying 'what if's instead of what is. Mages aren't people to them." After a moment, Jowan topples onto his back, facing the ceiling, cutting off the matress' lower half. Eventually, he adds, "Not so unusual, if you think about it."
In the locked and airless dark, Jowan's bogeyman remains a stranger.
One day, Hector stops acknowledging him.
It's as if he's become mute, or invisible, or maybe dead. When Alim tugs the chainmail at his elbow, Hector only turns away. Saying his name makes no more difference than explaining himself as a student, how he can heal his own body on purpose now and is learning to do it for others. He hasn't broken any rules and his teachers think he's doing alright. He's keeping up better these days. Hector has nothing to say about how Ser Matthew's prank turned out, or if he's beaten Ser Elise in sparring yet. Eventually one of the other knights tells him he can't visit the post anymore. It's not allowed.
Privacy is difficult to find. On short notice the best he can manage is the basement entrance. It gets used by senior mages and knights of rank and not very often for them. He takes his mother's letters with him, which ended after she explained she was moving to Highever. He stares at them until the words blur and lose meaning, the paper shaking in his hands. The air is cold and damp here but the wall behind him is reassuringly solid. He shouldn't be crying anymore at eleven, but tears roll hot down his cheeks and breath hitches in his throat anyway. He tries not to make any noise.
The door opens. Alim covers his mouth with his arm, but can't bring himself to look up.
There are footsteps. Two come with a metallic click, two are softer. Leather on stone.
They round the corner.
"Oh," he hears, a man's voice beginning to creak with age. Alim doesn't move, breathes through his nose. The letters are scattered around him in a small circle. He doesn't want to imagine how pathetic it looks.
"What are you doing down here?" someone else asks—firm, not quite sharply. "This isn't—"
"Greagoir." The first voice is closer now, chastising. Footsteps come to rest just in front of him. He hears joints creak faintly as a figure kneels. There is a rustle of paper. Alim opens his eyes to find gnarled hands collecting his messages. Their task complete, one reaches out to rest a palm on his shoulder. "What's your name, child?"
He lowers his arm from his mouth to answer, and a sob comes out instead. It doesn't stop. "Alim," he manages eventually between gasps, "sorry. I know I'm… I'm not…"
"It's alright, my boy," he hears in that same even, creaking voice. "Quite alright. Why don't we go up to my office instead, mm? This hall hasn't been mopped properly in some time. There are better places if you need a sit."
Alim nods. It feels like his head is too loose on his neck. An arm slips around his shoulders and he finds himself carefully being helped to his feet.
"Irving," says Greagoir, reproachful. What he can make out of the Knight-Commander consists of hard lines, dusty brown hair, broad shoulders. Thin lips. "We need to sort the new phylacteries."
"And we will," Irving replies. He speaks slowly, deliberately. "First, however, this student needs my attention. The phylacteries will still be here in an hour or two. Surely you understand."
Greagoir only sighs, runs a gloved hand over his face. "Just don't be too long."
There was an apprentice named Colin. Eighteen years old with an exemplary record and an affinity for spiritual magic. Telekinetics. Colin's family lived on the shores of Lake Calenhad and visited when they could. They'd been proud of him, for reaching his Harrowing. There was no reason to think he would fail.
The fade is full of demons.
Ser Elise is dead. Colin is dead. Hector performed his duty and slew the abomination where it stood. He'd been particularly upset that he could still see the mage in its face.
Alim says nothing, cradles a cup of tea between his hands. He does not drink.
"It isn't your fault," says the First Enchanter. There are lines in his forehead, grooves in his cheeks. Alim wonders how many people he's watched die. "Ser Hector understands now that even a child like you is at risk. We all are. It is easier this way."
The next time Alim sees Hector, he does not stop.