The Glass Labyrinth tested more than balance. It tested whether you could pretend the world had no edges.
Kaelen stood at the entrance, breath slow and even. The Wardens were listening for any hitch that meant panic. To him the obsidian walls glowed — faint amber cracks where old torchlight had once bled through. He saw the palm-smudge on the left panel, the hairline fracture three paces ahead.
He could have walked it blindfolded in heartbeats. Instead he waited.
He dragged his heel in the proper Seeker's Scuff. Reached out, palm open, brushing a wall he had already mapped. No grace. Just the stuttering caution of every other blind boy.
Left. Four paces. Pivot.
Near the center he let his knee clip the glass on purpose. A low grunt of frustration — perfectly timed. The crowd's tension eased. To the veiled thousands he was just another pilgrim fighting the dark.
High Warden Silas stood on the dais, head tilted, ear-cups extended. Halfway through the trial he raised one gloved hand.
"A ripple passed through the Quiet," he announced, voice flat and official. "Faint. Likely wind in the upper shafts. No deviation detected."
The crowd murmured approval. Silas lowered his hand.
"Kaelen of the Weaver's House has navigated the Void. He remains in the Grace of the Dark."
Kaelen bowed, lashes hiding the amber eyes that saw everything.
Grace of the Dark, he thought. More like the safety of a cage.
He slipped back into the crowd, heart hammering from the weight of the lie, not the trial.
The Summit at Aethelgard
Five hundred miles north, the City of Iron Ribs pierced the clouds.
In the Hall of the Sundered Crown the air turned heavy. A subsonic vibration rattled every silver chalice on the long stone table.
The Echoes had come.
They were not shapes. Just distortions — cold wind, ozone bite, pressure against the ears.
Malphas spoke first, voice rolling like distant rockfall.
"We felt a ripple in the Quiet last night. Small. Brief. It may have been nothing."
Cora's presence stung like invisible needles. "Or it may have been the Lens. A child born with the old sight. We cannot be certain."
Malphas pressed heavier on the floorboards. "The Blinding was absolute. No soul has carried true sight in five centuries. This could be echo-memory. A dying priest's dream. A trick of the wind."
King Valerius sat motionless on his scarred throne, milky eyes unblinking, armored bulk filling the hall. He traced the throne's edge with one calloused thumb.
"I have no reports of any Seer," he said, voice low and flat. "My people remain blind and obedient — exactly as the pact demands."
He paused, letting the vibration settle.
"But if one does walk among us… kill him. Quietly. Before the ripple becomes a roar."
Valerius's hand closed on the broken sword relic bolted to the wall. Knuckles white.
"The sun is a lie we buried long ago. I will not let any fool dig it up."