The door swung inward.
Light hit him first.
Not the harsh white glow of training circles. This was softer, almost silver, like it had passed through clouds and leaves before reaching the room.
Raizen stepped in.
The space was bigger than Atman's office, but it felt emptier. No trophies. No medals. No crowded shelves. Just clean wood, a plain desk pushed to one side, a few neat stacks of paper.
And the window.
It took the whole far wall.
Roots had grown into a frame, weaving and knotting together, forming an arch that opened straight into the sky.
The glass window was open, and whoever the black cloak was, stood on the window frame.
Not in front of it. On it.
Boots on the thick roots, cloak shifting lightly in the breeze. The hood was still hiding everything.
Raizen stopped just inside the door.
For a moment, no one said anything.
