They didn't let him rest.
Before dawn had properly warmed the cobblestones, a summons had already arrived. This one wasn't vague. No unnamed courier, no whispered suggestion. It bore the academy seal—black ink, silver trim, formal. Inside, a single line:
Report to the Crest Chamber. In one hour.
Leon folded the note once, twice, tucked it into his sleeve. He'd never been to the Crest Chamber. Most people never had. Only upper tier ranks, heralded duelists, or cadets on the cusp of something more.
He arrived with time to spare.
The building was older than the others, stone darker, almost blue under the morning light. A guard waited at the door, helmet tucked beneath one arm. He gave Leon a long look—no words—then stepped aside.
The interior smelled like old parchment and colder steel. Walls lined with flags, each bearing a different crest. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Names and bloodlines Leon didn't recognise. A hall of dead ambitions and living legacies.
