The moment the Summonforge shut down, Root couldn't move.
Not from pain. Not from fear.
From recognition.
What he'd just seen—those memories, those fragments—weren't visions of another person. They were versions of himself. Different echoes. Different "Roots." But they all carried the same sigil. The same summon. The same failure to survive…
Until now.
Veyr hovered nearby, unusually quiet. The soft pulse of his chest glyph dimmed, like a heartbeat in mourning.
"You said this wasn't the first time," Root muttered. "That I wasn't the first."
"I lied," Veyr said, voice faint. "You were the first. You just… didn't make it the first time."
Root stood slowly, feeling the static in his limbs settle. Not pain—more like the residue of corrupted data syncing for the first time in years.
"Then how am I still here?"
Veyr didn't answer right away.
He floated to the far edge of the forge chamber, resting one hand on the wall. His fingers phased through it.
"Because they rewrote you."
"The Crown?"
"No. The system. And not to save you. To test me."
That made Root pause.
"You're saying… I'm not the anomaly."
Veyr turned, mask angled low.
"You were. But after you broke, they decided to keep the summon and reprogram the summoner. They ran simulations. Trials. Memory wipes. Code rebirth. Same bond. Different Root."
Root's throat tightened.
"How many times?"
"I don't know," Veyr said. "I was locked out after the fourth. But you're the only version that made it this far without being terminated."
"So I'm not Root."
"You are now," Veyr said. "Because this time, you survived the rewrite."
The system doesn't choose favorites.
It chooses constants.
And in every version of Root, there was one constant it could never erase:
The bond.
Root and Veyr.
A mistake that couldn't be deleted.
A summon the system wanted to understand.
And a boy who kept glitching his way back to the truth.
Root hadn't fully processed what he saw in the forge.
Didn't have time to.
Because the moment they stepped back into system-monitored corridors, a message pulsed in the air like it had been waiting for them to resurface.
[ Faculty Override: Compulsory Summons – Level Red ]
Location: Crown Chamber Delta
Subject: Root (Riftborn)
Escort: Denied
Note: "Bring the summon. We need to talk."
Veyr blinked twice.
"Oh. Delta? They skipped straight to red-tag chamber invites? That's usually reserved for civil war summoners and exiled crownwalkers."
"Sounds cozy," Root muttered.
"Or pre-duel execution," Veyr added helpfully.
Root ignored the possibility.
As they walked, the lights in the corridor shifted—not flickering, but dimming in an intentional way. The system was focusing attention, guiding movement. Not hostile… yet.
When the doors to Crown Chamber Delta opened, Root felt it instantly:
Pressure.
Not magical.
Political.
Three figures sat in a half-circle of high-backed chairs. Their robes shimmered with embedded sigils, but none wore their rank openly. That meant one thing:
Privileged Authority.
The kind that doesn't obey the rules because they write them.
The one in the center—a tall woman with silver-laced gloves and no visible summon—spoke first.
"Root. Or whatever your real designation is. We don't have time for introductions."
"Good," Root said flatly. "I don't have time for lectures."
The woman smirked. She liked that.
"You're not here to be punished. You're here to be offered something."
Veyr floated just behind Root's shoulder, silently watching.
"We know what you are," she continued. "Not just Riftborn. Not just Hollow-touched. You're a failed recursion loop that made it through deletion with your summon intact."
"And that makes you dangerous."
Root didn't blink.
"So what do you want?"
The woman raised her hand.
A system window pulsed into life behind her, displaying Root's collapsed throne trial. His sync. The deletion attempt. And then—the glitch.
"You're stable. That alone is worth more than half our asset class. But what we want is simple: we want you to work for us."
"Doing what?"
"Tracking other errors. Riftborn. Rogue summons. Players who didn't come out of the Rift quite right."
Root said nothing.
"You'll be given clearance. Mobility. Access to sealed files. And a guarantee: we don't touch your summon… and no one touches you."
Veyr leaned in, whispering:
"They're offering you a leash that looks like a throne."
Root took a breath.
"And if I say no?"
The room dimmed slightly.
The woman smiled.
"Then we let the other factions know what survived the forge. And we watch what happens next."
The air in Crown Chamber Delta grew colder.
Not literally.
But in tone.
The silence wasn't patience—it was containment. The three Privileged Authority members were used to fear. They were used to compliance. They expected hesitation. Consideration.
Root gave them none.
"No," he said.
The word wasn't loud.
But it landed like a system error.
The silver-gloved woman blinked once. Slowly.
"Is that… your final answer?"
"You don't get to offer me immunity from the cage you helped build," Root said. "You want to control Riftborn anomalies? Start with yourselves."
One of the other officials, a man with a voice like polished stone, leaned forward.
"If you reject this offer, you'll be marked. Not as a threat. As an asset out of control."
"Then mark me," Root said. "And get in line."
The room tensed.
Veyr, floating beside him, clapped softly.
"Oooh. I felt that in my non-existent bones."
The woman's fingers flexed, subtle pulses of sigil code flickering beneath her gloves.
Root didn't move.
"You think you've won something?" she asked.
"No," Root replied. "I think you're still asking the wrong question."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Which is?"
Root's eyes narrowed.
"What happens when the system watches a mistake… and learns it doesn't want to fix it?"
Then the sigil on his chest pulsed.
So did Veyr's.
A ripple of null energy leaked from the bond—so small it barely distorted the light.
But the room noticed.
All three officials recoiled at once—instinctively.
"You feel that?" Veyr whispered, his voice silk and static. "That's not a threat. That's your authority failing to register."
Root stepped backward toward the doors.
"You want to monitor me? Fine. Watch closely."
"Because the next time you summon me in," he said, voice steady, "you better ask yourself if you're ready to be rewritten too."
The doors opened.
He walked out.
And none of them tried to stop him.