When Leon emerged from the Vault, the stone walls of the lower sanctum no longer felt oppressive.
But they did feel heavier.
Not with magic.
With expectation.
Marien walked beside him, silent since the door closed behind them. The others—cadets, instructors, the wounded—parted without a word. Others watched with wide, unreadable eyes.
The sigils that once sealed the Vault flickered one last time, then went dim.
By the time they reached the surface, dawn had broken.
But the light didn't feel warm.
It felt like a witness.
Waiting at the foot of the upper terrace, robed and ringed in guards, stood the Highmaster's Council.
Five figures. Each cloaked in black and silver. None smiling.
Highmaster Idran stepped forward.
"You've returned, Leon Thorne," he said, voice calm. "And it seems you've passed the Vault's judgment."
Leon nodded.
"I have."
Marien's hand brushed his. He didn't flinch.
Idran's gaze swept them both. "And yet the Crest flared for two."
