Valttair counted again.
The flow of mana across the battlefield did not lie. Each heir carried a signature he could identify without effort, a pattern ingrained in memory through years of cultivation and observation. He did not need names. He did not need sight. Their presence was as distinct to him as breath.
Eight.
He let the awareness extend once more, slower this time, filtering through the shifting currents of the castle's interior.
Eight.
Sylvar was not there.
His fifth son.
The son of Naevia.
One of the most disciplined among them.
Sylvar's mana had always been controlled, structured, almost severe in its restraint. It carried none of the volatility of Helgar, none of the restless fluctuations of Darion. It was steady, sharpened through repetition, obedient to doctrine. That signature was absent now, not masked, not suppressed, but extinguished.
The conclusion formed without hesitation.
Sylvar had died.
