The white glare of the gate faded into the cool air of the upper city outpost.
Mana hum bled into the walls, then quieted as the stabilizers dimmed behind them.
Two lines of uniformed personnel waited just beyond the platform—straight-backed, crisp in their ceremonial blacks, the sigils of the Elford crest stitched in silver across their chests.
As soon as Dominic stepped forward, they bowed in unison.
"Master Elford," the lead officer intoned, voice steady, deep enough to carry over the echo of boots on polished stone.
Then, their gazes shifted to Damien. The movements weren't as deep this time, but the respect was still there— practiced, automatic.
"Young Master," they said together, the words clipped, precise.
Damien caught the faintest flicker of curiosity in one or two pairs of eyes—people trying not to stare at the fact that he was walking unaided, whole, and very much alive after fifteen hours in the Cradle. He let it roll past him without a word.
