The circle of light narrowed.
Each step Leon took toward its centre felt heavier than the last—not with weight, but with judgement. The air had changed. Not thick. Not cold. But reverent, as if even breath dared not cross the wrong name.
Ashveil trembled in his hand.
The spectres ringed him now. Half-armoured ghosts, their faces carved from echoes and memory. Some looked like old paintings in House Thorne's halls. Others, like soldiers long wiped from history.
One leaned on a broken spear. One was missing half a face.
All watched him in silence.
Marien hovered at the edge, held back by an unseen line.
"They only see you," she whispered.
The Vault spoke again.
"Heir, your house has bled. Through betrayal. Through denial. And Through exile. The living cannot bear the weight alone. Speak to the line. Justify your place."
A spectral figure stepped forward—tall, broad, with eyes like Leon's.
