The Council's decree still hangs in the chamber air when the guards move to flank me again. Their boots scrape the obsidian floor, echoing like the tolling of bells. My shadows twitch in annoyance, but I reel them back. Not yet.
Rhosyn falls into step at my side, her face tight with control. I feel the weight of the Council's stares on my back as I'm led out of the chamber. None of them speak, but their silence is heavy with intent: they'll be watching.
We pass through the Tower's inner halls. The corridors here are taller than any cathedral, lined with silvered wards etched into black glass. They flicker when I pass, threads snapping faintly like stretched fabric. It makes the guards uneasy—they keep glancing at the walls as though they'll collapse.
Rhosyn says nothing until we've climbed two more flights of stairs and passed through a set of carved doors. Only then does her voice come low, edged.
"You drew their attention, Vessel."
"Veyra," I correct softly, without looking at her.
Her gray eyes flick toward me. She doesn't argue.
"The Tower has many enemies," she continues. "And many allies who fear what they don't control. Show too much, and they'll call you monster. Show too little, and they'll think you weak."
She's warning me. But beneath it, there's something else: a grudging respect.
They lead me into a wide courtyard open to the sky. Training grounds. The stone is scarred with cracks and burns from spells cast long before me. Rows of initiates—young men and women in Tower uniforms—pause their drills to stare.
Whispers ripple through them, quick and sharp.
"That's her?""The one from the gate?""SSS+… no way. It doesn't exist.""She doesn't look like much…""Quiet! Don't let the Arcanists hear you."
I walk steady, but every word feeds the fire under my skin. Their disbelief. Their dismissal. Familiar poison, the same I drank every day in my first life.
A boy with a staff snickers openly. "Probably some fluke. She'll burn out in the first trial." His friends laugh, eager to agree.
I turn my head. Just enough that his eyes meet mine.
Shadows stir faintly around my ankles. His laughter dies in his throat. His friends pull him back. The whispers stop.
I face forward again. My lips twitch into the faintest smile.
At the far end of the courtyard, a side gate opens. From it steps a group dressed differently—scarlet and silver instead of black and copper. Their insignias mark them as another faction. Nobility, maybe. Their leader, a tall young man with hair the color of burnished bronze, looks me over as though appraising a weapon. His smile is cold, precise.
"So this is the Tower's new prize," he says, loud enough for all to hear. "The Abyssal stray."
His entourage laughs softly behind him. His eyes, sharp and golden, don't leave mine. There's no fear in them. Only challenge.
Rhosyn bristles, but the man bows mockingly. "Forgive me. My name is Darius Kael. You'll remember it after you fail."
His words echo like a gauntlet thrown.
I don't answer. I don't need to. The shadows coil at my heels, and for a heartbeat the courtyard dims as though the sun blinked. His smirk falters before he masks it.
Rhosyn pulls me onward before it escalates. We enter a smaller chamber, quiet, candlelit. A scribe waits with a scroll and a shallow bowl filled with black water.
"The Council has ordered your trial," he says, his voice flat. "Tomorrow at dawn. The Trial of Concord. You will face it alone. Survive, and Bastion will recognize your rank. Fail, and the Tower will decide your end."
He dips the quill, scratches my name onto the parchment.
Veyra Ambrose.
The ink glows faintly, sealing my vow.
I feel it coil in my chest like another chain—but not a binding one. A promise. A target.
Rhosyn studies me as the scribe withdraws. "Sleep, if you can," she says. "Tomorrow decides whether Bastion calls you Empress… or execution."
She leaves me in the chamber. The door closes with a heavy click.
Alone, I press my palm to the cold stone floor. The hum inside me answers instantly, shadows seeping from my skin like eager beasts.
Tomorrow. A trial. A chance.
I whisper into the dark: "I will not be weak again."
The shadows curl tighter, as though they heard and believe.