The Conclave did not wait.
On the morning of the first bell, the Grand Hall was filled.
Representatives of the Nine Orders occupied their seats—regal, robed, adorned in history. glory and iron. The Head of Blades, the Speaker of Runes, the Keeper of Judgment. Each one flanked by envoys, each with their own guard, seal, and scepticism.
Marien stood at the entry corridor with Kellen, watching the slow swell of murmurs build like storm winds on stone. Leon did not enter with them. He came alone.
When he stepped into the hall, every conversation fell silent.
He didn't bow. Nor pause. He walked to the center platform, unarmed and unarmored, but nothing about him was unprepared.
"This gathering," said the Arbiter of Balance, voice echoing through crystal-bound runes, "has not convened in nearly a generation. And yet, one cadet's flame draws us here. Why?"
Leon met his gaze. "Because the flame wasn't mine alone."
