The Hall of Magisters rose at the city's center, a cathedral of marble and crystal. Inside, robed figures moved like shadows beneath stained-glass windows depicting gods and beasts of old.
Edran led them to a chamber lit by floating candles. There, a council of seven magisters sat in a crescent, their eyes as cold as the stone floor.
"You claim the Fang stirs," said a woman whose hair shone silver despite her youth. "You bring with you a boy who reeks of stormfire. Explain."
Edran bowed stiffly. "The prison weakens. The goblins move with purpose, and the wraithbound walk again. This boy—Aric—has awakened to the Crown's fire."
Murmurs spread among the council. One elder leaned forward. "Then he is dangerous. Best the fire be extinguished before it consumes him."
Aric's heart froze. He opened his mouth to protest, but Edran's staff struck the ground. "Touch him, and you doom us all. He is not the threat—the Crown's enemy is."
The council debated in whispers, their eyes darting between the boy and his scarred guardian.
At last, the silver-haired magister spoke. "Very well. The boy shall live—for now. But he must be tested. If he cannot master the fire, he will not leave Caelthorn alive."