The trial circle still smolders. The stone is split, blackened. Faint threads of broken wards sputter like dying embers, their song silenced by me.
For a long moment, the courtyard is silent. Everyone—initiates, guards, merchants, nobles—simply stares.
Then the whispers begin.
"She broke it—""The circle collapsed—""No one has ever—""She fed on it—ate the magic itself—""SSS+… it's real…"
Fear ripples through the crowd, subtle at first, then spreading like fire on oil. Mothers clutch children. Initiates edge back, their weapons trembling in their hands. Nobles trade frantic glances, lips moving with hurried speculation.
Above, the Council's cloaked figures lean forward in their thrones. Some look hungry. Others look ill.
"She is dangerous.""She is unprecedented.""She cannot be allowed to roam.""She must be bound.""She must be used."
Their voices cut into one another, overlapping like knives scraping against glass.
The eldest councilor's voice finally booms above them, dry and iron. "It is decided. Bastion recognizes Veyra Ambrose, vessel of the Abyss, rank SSS+. She is to be watched. She is to be tested further. But she will not be executed."
The words should still the crowd. They don't.
I step forward out of the circle. Shadows trail from my heels, faint smoke curling and dissipating before it touches the stone. People stumble back without meaning to, opening a path for me. Their eyes are wide, a mixture of awe and terror.
Recognition, yes. But more than that—fear.
I breathe it in.
That's when he moves.
Darius Kael leaves his perch on the terrace, not in a rush but with the practiced precision of someone used to all eyes following him. His entourage flanks him, nobles in silver-threaded scarlet. They whisper to one another but he silences them with a flick of his hand.
His boots strike stone as he descends the steps, each step deliberate. Golden eyes fix on me, unwavering, his smirk carved sharp. When he reaches the courtyard floor, he doesn't stop until he's ten paces away.
The crowd holds its breath.
"So it's true," he says, voice carrying clear. "The Abyssal Empress herself stands in Bastion."
The word Empress lands heavy. Whispers spread like sparks: Empress… Abyssal… Empress…
Darius tilts his head, studying me openly. "You devoured the wards. You shattered what was meant to bind you. That is strength… but raw. Unshaped. Strength without discipline becomes destruction." He spreads his hands. "Tell us—do you mean to be Bastion's shield… or its doom?"
The Council watches in silence, letting this play. The crowd leans closer, hungry for my answer.
My voice comes calm, even, but it cuts like steel. "I intend to never be weak again. Bastion may decide what that means for itself."
The shadows coil around me in agreement. The air thickens. A few guards raise their spears instinctively, then think better of it.
Darius's smirk deepens. "Defiance. I expected no less. But remember this, Empress: power alone does not make you remembered. The Kael line has carried Bastion for centuries. If you think shadows and fire will be enough to eclipse that, you will learn quickly how far you still have to climb."
He takes one step closer, just inside the edge of my aura. The air presses between us, clashing currents. His golden eyes narrow, but he does not break gaze.
It would be so easy to let the shadows surge, to drown him where he stands. The thought coils hot in my chest. Instead, I smile faintly.
"Climb?" My voice drops low, dangerous. "No. I will devour."
The word hangs in the air like a blade. For the first time, his smirk falters—only slightly—but enough. He steps back, cloak flaring as he turns on his heel.
"Then let Bastion see which of us it crowns," he calls, his voice sharp, meant for the crowd. His entourage follows, whispers buzzing.
The Council disperses soon after, their arguments unfinished. Some leave in silence. Others mutter about binding, control, assassination.
The crowd trickles away more slowly. Their eyes never leave me. Fear has already spread. Fear will linger.
Rhosyn approaches last. Her gray eyes are hard, but her voice comes quieter than before. "You've won recognition," she says. "But recognition is a blade. Double-edged. Today they fear you. Tomorrow, they may try to own you… or end you."
She pauses. For a moment, her expression softens, like she's choosing words carefully. "Rest while you can. You'll be tested again. And next time… it won't be spirits you face."
She leaves with the last of the guards.
I remain standing in the ruined circle, the shadows curling tighter, listening to the silence.
Recognition. Fear. Rivalry.
All of it is power.
And I will never be weak again.