Vescrutia: Legacy

The drama...

Ovan felt the room still as Nagase entered the sacred hall. From his recollection, she looked just like him, or at least carried herself like the fruit of his loins. Confident, careful and mouthy, carrying an ambition fivaling her father's own, she demanded a seat at the table.

According to her, she earned it rightfully so.

Standing at Sorith's side, Ovan felt a pang of jealousy shoot through him. Nagase, ambitious and apparently capable, succeeded in a way that Ovan had not yet. While her father vacated his position to forge his own path in true kings of yore fashion, she stood in his stead to claim her place. Zeik was a powerful mage with worldly insight, according to word of mouth, but his reputation as a fearsome wielder of Hellfire made him a formidable opponent, even in the scholar's mind's eye. Nagase, shattering that image with her commanding presence and reasonable assertion, made him feel a tiny bit smaller standing behind Sorith's shoulder.

Not enough to phase him, but enough to remind him of the work yet to be done. He graced her with a confident smile as she made her case to the Crown Council. Her presence only confirmed the need for new and innovative tactics when it came to facing this new, threatening paradigm.

The Vesta seem to be in good hands... If the Crowns see her...

Ovan still held his tongue, his marvel at the drama could never bring him to break tradition where tradition was respected above all.

Not without the overwhelming kind of power his kin carried with them.

Aerys had been silent for longer than usual — too long, in fact. He'd dropped back into his chair once everyone started talking again. Inari was first, before Nagase Hellgate strolled on through—without an invitation for that matter. The tension in the chamber had already been coiled like a drawn bow before she arrived.. but it was down right suffocating after she arrived.

He could feel it; heartbeats quickening, backs straightening—it was as if a four headed giant had walked through that door.

Aerys had never met her himself, not even during the illustrious Crown Trials, but he had heard of her feats. Her legends. They were impossible to avoid on account of their absurdity. She was hailed as an apathetic demigod, callous and cold beyond her familial ambition to lead. To rule.

Aerys cleared his throat—adjusting his posture before speaking

“Bhalia,” he said first, almost to himself before his glance found Inari. “Aye, that tracks. Tal’m’s scouts brought back whispers same as yours; visuals of fleets massin’ beyond the eastern rim of Muu. Coastal destruction recorded near that.. mystic forest Zeik been hidin’ in.” Aerys let out an exasperated sigh as he visualized the horrors he spoke of. The devastation.. “And I hear they've already left their mark in Helidor.”

He leaned forward, forearms braced on the table. “Yeah, them fuckers definitely a’comin’. And if we don’t pull our heads out of our own asses, we’ll be watchin’ the Acrix crumble to cinders by winter.”

A faint grin tugged at the corner of his mouth — humorless, but alive. “..still, I find it funny how the Vesta Crown's immediate answer to all this was sendin’ his lass in his stead.” He said with a subtle gesture. “Treason on his record, abandonment of his post… and he sends a child to warm his chair.”

He didn’t look at Nagase as he said it. He didn’t need to. He could feel the stares, the faint and sudden gasps. He sighed and raised his hands to reiterate before his words were lost in translation.

“Now, I’ve no quarrel with her,” he went on, tone sharp but measured. “She’s strong, I’ll give her that. But strength’s a fickle thing when it’s not tempered by restraint.. by experience..by loss.” He said, using his fingers to tally his points. “Trust me, it won't hold when the ground gives way.”

Aerys’ attention turned back to Inariel, and this time his tone softened — if only slightly. “You though, mate… you I’ll listen to. You’ve stood in the shit, same as me. I've done some readin’ about the Myotis since we've met. A lil about you, as well. A man that's fought, bled, earned to be where you are. What you are.. So I hear your words, and I won't dismiss them.” He smirked faintly, tilting his head. “But don’t get the wrong idea. You said Zeik’s not to be found unless he wills it — I say who decided that?” He said standing up, and sliding his hands in his pockets. “..if he’s hidin’, it’s only ‘cause he knows what he's doin’ ain't right.”

His grin faded into a soft, still expression. Calm, confident, but sincere. “Look, I know the guy's got a reputation, but intentions don’t matter much to me. He could be plannin’ to save us all, or save himself. But to hoard knowledge while the world burns?” He shook his head slowly. “That’s not leadership. That’s just bloody cowardice.”

He let his gaze sweep the room, pausing only briefly on Nagase. “While your father nests in his forest playin’ scribe with his scrolls, soon.. our people are gonna’ start dyin’. Screamin’ and dyin’, wonderin’ what's comin’ for them and why.”

He snorted. “This isn't a game.. If Zeik’s got the means to fight the Horsemen, he owes that to his kin. He owes it to us..”

And the plot thickens as Nagase entered. Ripples in the unseen became like floods. The collected aura of everyone in attendance—nobles, warriors, and would-be kings—grew trepidatious as only her arrival could accomplish. She wore no finery of the Vesta court, only the dark, practical leathers and mail of a soldier, her hair a stark banner against the gloom. Her face was a mask of stoic resolve, carved from the same unyielding stone as her ancestors.

And yet for the briefest moment, she and Inari locked eyes, and locked in. In that single exchange of glances, an eternity passed between them. He saw the ghosts of battles they had shared, the scent from Antares’s cataclysmic spell, the grim solidarity forged in the crucible of near-death. Something had…shifted within Nagase, and though the exact sentiment eluded him, it was something that told Inari this was no mere grab at power, no mere flex of ambition. She had come here fully prepared to shoulder a duty that her father was otherwise abandoning. It was not Inari who had blind faith in the Vesta bloodline, and it was not like the accusations from the other crown, most notably Aerys, were not truthful. Vesta nobility were selfish, self-centered, perpetually brooding creatures…and yet.

Bred for war, forged for battle.

Traits Inari, whose bloodline embodied both the serenity and savagery of the moons, fully understood. B'halia and the Horsemen had sounded off a horn, and where Zeik had chosen to answer in his own way, Nagase had responded to the call here and now.

Aerys, his eyes seeming to smolder in the torchlight, scoffed audibly.

"Heh, do not be so quick to assume, Stone Blood," Inari said, his voice a low counterpoint to Aerys’s fiery cadence. Aerys had offered Inari a rare compliment on his own hard-won path to the crown, a gesture Inari had received in kind. Yet they did not change the course of his thoughts. If anything emboldened his stance, for those were not feats he achieved alone. He turned his gaze, shimmering with lunar light, from Nagase to the furious young crown.

"I have fought to protect the Acrix twice now," Inari continued, his voice resonating with the weight of memory. "Both times nearly giving my life for a realm that scorned my very existence… cursed my very blood…" His palm opened, gesturing towards the jagged, crystalline scar upon the Hadal Stone beneath them, a permanent wound in the chamber’s heart. His mind drifted back to that brutal clash, the searing unity of will as he, Zeik, and Nagase stood as one against Antares' hellish spell. They had witnessed it then, the perfect accord of soul and flesh that the first king had sought to replicate in the crafting of the Nine Families. It was this promise of connection that was the root of all Inari did, the future he fought to realize.

"And… in each of those battles, Nagase was by my side. So yes…" His eyes found her again, acknowledging the shared sacrifice. "I have clawed my way to the crown… but Nagase's claim to the mantle is no less bloodstained with valor than my own. In truth, there would be no Myotis Crown… there would be no Acrix at all without her. A fact that, in the recent months, only she and I can currently claim…"

It was no effort of posturing on his part. For all the many talents Inari possessed, inflating the ego of others was not amongst them. He could speak in riddles, sow confusion, but to lie about a debt of honor was anathema to him. When he first awoke at that time, it was Nagase who was by his side. It was she who brought him to Acrix. This small advocacy was perhaps the only payment he could offer for a debt so profound.

"That aside," his hand tightened into a tight fist, the knuckles white. "The fact of the matter remains that Nagase is here and Zeik is not. She fought in the Crowned Jewel, same as we; she met the requirements, same as we." His voice grew sharp, cutting through the rising murmurs. "The Crown is hers by right. Or do we care no longer for tradition so long as our personal whims are met?" He let the question hang in the air, a poisoned dart aimed at the heart of their gathering. "Rhetorical, of course… Ovan…"

Inari’s eyes, chips of moonstone, casually fell upon the silent elephant in the room. Ovan stood near the far wall, a figure so still he seemed part of the architecture. He was no warrior in appearance, wrapped in simple, earth-toned robes, his face a tranquil landscape of indeterminate age. But his stillness was a vacuum, drawing all attention and energy towards it. In truth, though he was not crowned, he had earned his place in this room; though his methods differed, the result was the result. And that's what they needed, results. He had been observing, watching, listening with eyes that saw past the flesh illusion, beyond the raging infernos of ego. Inari was… intrigued by his thoughts.

"Nagase's standing as the crown aside," Inari posed, his voice softening into a genuine query, "Assume Sorith is no more, what do you believe our course to be?"

The air still trembled from Inariel’s words when she finally exhaled. For a moment, Nagase didn’t trust her voice—didn’t trust herself. She hadn’t expected anyone to speak for her. Especially not him.

Her eyes lingered on Inariel, that strange mirror of light and shadow. She had learned not to expect loyalty, not to expect friendship. It was safer that way. Her father had taught her that lesson too well.

“…You shouldn’t have done that,” she murmured, though the words carried no real bite—only the faint, exhausted weight of surprise.

When she brought Inariel back to Acrix, it hadn’t been out of strategy or duty. It had been… curiosity. Maybe loneliness. Maybe the quiet thrill of doing something she couldn’t explain. And now here he was, returning the favor with faith she did not feel she deserved.

Nagase straightened, her hands folding behind her back. “But… thank you,” she said finally, and though the words were small, the chamber seemed to bend around them.

Her gaze moved to the others, gathering steadiness like armor. “But… waiting for my father to walk through that door.”

A faint, bitter smile ghosted across her face.

“Of course he isn’t coming. He’s been doing this alone for years—why would he change now? Many of you didn’t listen when he warned of the Horsemen, of the creeping rot that now eats through the east. None listened until the screams reached your gates. Until death was at your doors.”

She leaned closer to the council table, palms now flat against the carved surface.

“We don’t have time to debate, not while Bhalia builds fleets on our coasts. While the Ravagers carve through our scouts. While every message from the southern ridge ends in static and blood.”

The room was still. Even the air seemed to pause, caught between tension and truth.

Nagase’s tone shifted—still steady, but deeper now, more deliberate.

“You speak of—no,” she corrected herself, fingers splaying lightly against the table.

“Let us be plain. Each Crown has a purpose forged in necessity, not vanity.”

She began to move as she spoke, her voice resonant but measured—the cadence of one who had studied both rhetoric and war.

“Ironically… Holgurd preserves knowledge, law, and the institutions that teach our children to think. Florum tends the soil, the granaries, and the seasons that keep mouths fed. Kiaht and Tyr hold our roads, bridges, and engines—the bones and sinew of a functional realm. Ahkkia carries the voice of the people, the arts and empathy needed to remind rulers what they rule for.

“Obius and Myotis once held clear dominion, but their reach has blurred as custom and bias reshaped… our days.”

She paused, stepping back and letting the truth hang in the air—neither accusation nor sermon, but simple architecture.

“And the Vesta?” Her voice lowered—not a question, but the closing of a ledger. “We have led your wars. Not because we were the largest houses. Not because our Anthem is the most destructive. But because war is the thing we were made to answer. When skirmish became siege, when strategy became sacrifice, a Vesta stood as commander-in-chief. That was no accident. It was ritual—and bloodbound.”

Her tone sharpened slightly. “Many of you know it in your bones. You’ve felt that unmistakable presence of Hellgahn tenacity…dwindled away. Vivi…Balteus, for instance.”

Nagase turned toward a heavy, oil-dark portrait near the dais and, with a subtle curl of her fingers, coaxed a sliver of light over the painted canvas. The figure—Balteus and Vivi in thier prime—flickered into sudden clarity: shoulders like quarried stone, youth’s fire burning behind their eyes.

Then, with a whisper of etheric motion, a ghostlight shimmered across the council table. For a fleeting breath, the crowns of old stood beside him—banners raised, armor gleaming, power unrivaled. A magician’s illusion, but one carried by the precision of lived memory.

Balteus laughed before he could stop himself, voice rumbling like a struck drum. “Gods!” he said, almost tender, “I was strong back then.”

The sound dislodged something fragile in the air—a ripple of nostalgia unresisted. For a moment, even the weary found themselves gazing upon what once had been possible.

Nagase’s face softened only for that heartbeat, then stilled again. She let silence spool out, her gaze moving slowly across the assembled Crowns—tracing posture, age, hesitation, the softening of eyes.

“You see it, don’t you?” she murmured. “The weight of years. The passing of vigor and vision. Iryndel, Vivi, Balteus, and Sorith—you have grown into wisdom. Your bodies have aged, your strength waned. It is natural. In nature, only a few creatures carry their lives forward not for creation, but for cultivation—for teaching the next generation.”

Her words turned colder, tighter. “The last quarter of life is not wasted; it is repurposed—to teach, to guide, to preserve culture.

“But you will find—it does not happen for us. For the Vesta. Our purpose never changes. Our minds never rest. Our understanding of war, of timing, of strategy, of the Anomaly itself—it continues to refine. Age does not make us weaker. It makes us more precise. More attuned. More capable of reading the currents of conflict and the anatomy of the enemy.”

She leaned forward, her reflection warping in the lacquered table. “This is why you’re clawing at Zeik’s whereabouts.”

Vivi exhaled, the breath trembling slightly. “We cannot pass the title like a banner or a trinket. The enemy we face—the Heralds, the Horsemen—they bend reality itself. To meet that, to survive that, we need a mind trained in the rhythm of conflict for decades, honed in blood and calculation—not… not—”

Nagase met her gaze, steady and unflinching. “Not what?” she pressed. “Have you even seen your enemy?!”

She waited a moment’s breath.

“Your silence is telling. I’ve seen a Horseman, face to face, and lived to argue with you about it. And that is precisely why I claim the Vesta Crown.

Your efforts… Vivi, are paramount for our success.” She said with a softer tone. “Your talents are constrained to the abundant fields of the Acrix. Of which…you are unrivaled. However, I am constrained only by the demands of the war before us—and, like every Vesta Crown before me, I will meet them.”

Her voice cut cleanly through the hush that followed.

“Zeik isn’t here. I am. And if he returns, he’ll find us ready. Not waiting.”

---

Her eyes found each of them in turn, fire beneath composure. Nagase’s jaw set; the plan widened and sharpened under her voice. “Holgurd, Ahkkia, and Obius are without crowns — that absence is a blade at our throat. Until new crowns are chosen, I’m assigning temporary stewards. Balteus and Iryndel: you will oversee Holgurd’s duties. Check the Boundary for clues on our past interactions with Horsemen qnd this…Crystal in the mountains. We will also need to run the siege wards; organize the Holgurd scholars into watch rotations for the wards.

“Iryndel, You will keep the forges burning for Aerys’s needs — smithwork for armor and barricade fittings will not pause while we argue succession.”

She looked Aerys squarely in the eye as she spoke the order and let a rare, cool command settle on him.

“Vivi,” Nagase continued, “you will assume Ahkkia’s role as voice to the people while a successor is chosen. Keep morale honest — not false cheer — and prioritize food distribution with the care of a steward, not a courtier. Though… with Helidor’s fields gone, famine will press hard; our reserves will strain to feed the south and the wounded. We’ll be forced to use Viresol Loam — a resin-rich soil from the northern bogs that, when treated, punches yield where normal loam fails.”

Vivi gasped, her hand fluttering briefly to her throat. Her eyes widened, bright with the sudden shock of recognition. “How do you—?” she began, but the rest fell away into breathless silence. That soil was supposed to be legend, locked in sealed ledgers only the Florum elders could access.

“It will surprise you I know of it,” Nagase said evenly, “but we will cultivate it and seed reserves; make the judgment calls, and I will back them.”

Vivi’s surprise flickered across her face, replaced by something steadier. She drew in a slow breath, composing herself, and inclined her head in quiet deference. “Then I will not fail you,” she said softly, the tremor in her voice both fear and renewed purpose.

“Inariel and Aerys — the war to come will not distinguish soldier from farmer. Guilty or innocent. Every able body will need a weapon and a lesson. You two will lead training: drills, basic arms, fieldcraft, and the rituals that make a people stand as an army. Old men and young boys, mothers who have never held a spear — all must learn to hold the line.

“I’d hope Sorith and Ovan can assist with organizing militia placements along the eastern approaches and spearhear scaling the Azure Alps for answers about your…crystal.

“Once we’ve caught on to our first task, we will need to establish a rapid-response team, capable of fortifying coastal watchpoints and intercepting Bhalia aggression.”

"I mean, if I had to pick, I probably wouldn't race back to the Alps of Chaos for a while longer. Though I'm sure my predecessor has no qualms with showing me how a hunt is intended to be conducted."

Ovan stepped forward past Sorith's shoulder to address his kin but had already been given a directive by the warforged successor crown. They stood in differing status since her father had effectively vacated his seat and the clan was in need of new and concerted leadership. But still, these challenges were those that only a crown could take on and his invitation to the Crown Jewel Ceremony spoke to the faith value the clan found in his insight.

Yet again, they seemed to ask of more strength from him.

But would Sorith join him on the whim of a successor in waiting? Ovan knew Sorith just well enough, but couldn't gauge whether he could take the directive from this new Vesta without a cosign or confirmation from the others.

"As for myself, I would lean on the guidance of those better versed in the art of war for these challenges."

Ovan paused, pressing his chin with his thumb curiously.

"My gifts are those of knowledge and insight, if we are to make warriors of every Hellgate, I do have a wealth of knowledge gleaned from the last meeting with the Anomaly and what I've observed with my exceptional acuity that could foment some useful strategies. For the people to become this land's protectors, knowledge truly is power."

Aerys leaned back in his chair, letting Nagase’s words wash over the chamber like a tide he neither resisted nor challenged. Mm.. the lass has a point, he thought. The people of the Acrix, while all independently steadfast and powerful one their own, would benefit from a sense direction in the face of an indomitable foe. And she was offering it.

Yeah, we're definitely kin.. No point in tearing the room apart over pride. He thought to himself, letting a faint smirk curl at the corner of his lips, a subtle salute to her resolve. He may have read the kid wrong.. Though, he just couldn't keep his mind from spinning toward his own path.

“Right then,” he said, voice casual, “best we all pull together, eh? We've got work to do.”

His crimson eyes flicked toward Nagase, sharp and assessing. Their gazes locked for the barest heartbeat, carrying something unspoken, a recognition of blood, fire, and tenacity shared across generations. Even though he never met her before, he felt as if he knew her. “It's nice to meet the face behind the legend. Cheers, captain.” he said, voice smooth, teasing enough to stir the air but measured enough not to draw ire.

Aerys could feel the murmurs of the chamber curled around him like a haze, but he met each glance with calm amusement— letting the flicker of a smirk play across his lips as he pushed back from the table, hands sliding casually into his pockets and proceeded through the chamber doors.

The silence that followed Nagase’s words was not empty. It was a dense, weighted thing, pressing in on Inariel from all sides. Though they were but soft utterances, Nagase's words of gratitude carried the weight of mountains, settling deep in a soul that had known only the hollow echo of its own existence for centuries uncounted. Inariel had never considered the possibility of… kin before. Kin was a bond, a vulnerability. In each of his lives, his solitude was a bastion, a cage for himself and a form of dark protection for everyone else.

And yet, in each life, one being always found a crack in the walls. For whatever reason, they chose to do so, they extended a hand to him in an hour of darkness and confusion. A fool’s gambit, every time. In all those prior iterations, he often ended up betraying that choice, the curse coiling around his will like a serpent, forcing his hand to slay the person foolish enough to bet on him. He was a walking tragedy, a monument to the cruelest of fates.

But this cycle was different. The chains were broken. He looked at Nagase, who stood with a quiet resolve that belied any hint of fragility. He was no longer frail, and Inariel was no longer sworn to the power that had forced his hand, no longer weighted down by the curse that stole his right to community from him. He saw now that Nagase understood things most couldn't grasp. Many hold tight to a strict code of morality, blind to the many nuances that blur the lines of good and evil, of duty and of the sacrifices necessary. It is a line that Inariel long thought himself the only being to thread upon it... yet...

Nagase walked that line as well, his every step a deliberate choice in a world of grey. And Zeik, ever the storm of contained fury, trod upon its very precipice.

Perhaps that was the tether that bound them, this... spark that ignited the combination of their souls. It wasn't love, not in the simple, mortal sense. It was recognition. A profound, aching relief that flooded the void he’d carried for lifetimes. Neither of them had walked their path with the expectation of connection, assuming their own individual burdens confined them to an eternity of self-company. But in truth, however well hidden, they had all longed to share the company of someone who... gets it.

The viscous tide of emotion threatened to choke him. Ovan's answer to his inquiry was a welcome distraction, a sharp stone cast into the pooling empathic bile in Inariel’s gullet. His sharp eyes descended carefully over Ovan, drinking in the man’s opinion, the growing sense of confidence in his words, and in the man who spoke them. The combined candor of Ovan and Nagase seemed to shift the tune of the one adamant Tyre Crown, whose rigid posture had finally begun to soften.

Inariel drew the room's attention without raising his voice. The shadows seemed to deepen around him, an old and terrible power stirring at his call.

"Hellgates are connected through blood, through legacies that both define and bind them. The Myotis will do, as they have always been known to, shed blood for their family. As for me, I will assist in the cultivation of those who have even the faintest trace of mystic potential. If the soil can hold a seed, it shall have one. Even if it must be borrowed."

He said it casually, folding his arms as if discussing the weather. But the air grew cold, thick with the scent of old iron and ozone. His mastery of Blood Magic was on par with that of no other known sorcerer. It was a fundamental truth of his existence, knowledge that transcended the confines of time and the veil of death, giving him unparalleled access to the very essence of life. If there was a latent mage, even a whisper of magic in their bloodline from a forgotten ancestor, Inariel’s understanding of Inherent Mastery could draw it to the surface. He could turn a common clansman into a font of power, forcing generations of evolution in a matter of moments. It was a bending of natural order, a beautiful and terrifying thing.

He let his gaze drift over each of them—Ovan’s calculating calm, Tyre’s reluctant awe. Finally, his eyes rested on Nagase.

"I trust none of you have any qualms about this?"

The question was a formality. It was not a request for permission but a declaration of intent. He saw only understanding. He saw the same gratitude from before, now forged into unflinching steel. In that gaze, Inariel felt the mountainous weight in his soul shift, not vanishing, but settling into a foundation upon which something new, something shared, could finally be built. Protected.

Nagase expected resistance. Aerys’s jaw had tightened earlier, his pride bristling even in silence, and Vivi… Vivi never took kindly to being ordered, no matter how gently the words were wrapped. So when the chamber remained still—no sharp rebuttals, no brittle laughter—she almost didn’t trust it.

For a heartbeat, she thought perhaps they hadn’t understood.

Then realization struck her: they had. And they had agreed.

It startled her more than open defiance would have.

Her gaze drifted across their faces again, searching for the crack, the challenge, the subtle curl of dissent—and found none. Only weary nods, murmurs of compliance, and the faint shift of old hands on old wood. For the first time in a long while, Nagase felt the weight of authority settle not as burden, but as mantle.

“…So that’s it,” she said quietly to herself. “No fight, no fire.” A ghost of disbelief softened her tone. “Either I’ve earned your trust—or you’ve all run out of strength to argue.”

A low sound stirred at the far end of the table. Sorith had risen.

Nagase’s shoulders tensed instinctively. Of all of them, she expected him to resist—to accuse her of overreach, to remind her that command by necessity was not command by right. The way he looked at her, steady and unreadable, only fed that expectation.

“Sorith,” she began, cautious, “if you have words against my decree, say them plainly.”

He shook his head once, the motion slow and deliberate. “Not against,” he said. “Only an addition.”

His hand extended toward the far right of the table, where Ovan sat in silence—always quiet, always present, like a shadow waiting to be noticed.

“Rise, Ovan,” Sorith said, his voice carrying the rough timbre of age and conviction. “You’ve lingered long enough in another man’s shadow. It’s time the council saw what I already know.”

Ovan blinked, startled, but obeyed, standing with the hesitant grace of someone unsure whether they were being honored or judged.

Sorith continued, his words steady and resonant: “From this day forward, the Obius Crown passes to you. You will carry its sigil, its burden, and its watch. You are its voice now.”

A murmur rippled through the chamber—half shock, half relief. Nagase’s lips parted slightly, caught off guard by how easily Sorith relinquished what so many guarded to the grave.

“You may not yet know how to command a front,” Sorith went on, his tone turning almost paternal, “and you will struggle to outwit a foe who strikes from the fog or the fields beyond our reach. But within our walls—within the politics, the spies, the whispers—you are unmatched. You see threads where others see dust. You hear lies before they’re spoken. Let others guard the borders; your war will be fought in the shadows behind them.”

He turned briefly toward Nagase, his eyes softened by understanding rather than challenge. “Our enemy will not always come from beyond our walls, Vesta. Sometimes it is built into them. Ovan will ensure that rot does not spread.”

Nagase exhaled, tension unwinding slowly from her shoulders. For the first time since entering the hall, she felt the council moving of its own accord—alive, responsive, no longer paralyzed by Zeik’s absence.

But Sorith was not finished. He rested both hands on the table, his gaze sweeping the chamber one last time.

“As for me,” he said quietly, “my part here is done. I’ll be leaving Acrix before the next moon. There’s something in the Alps of Chaos that needs my eyes.”

A murmur of unease rose—Balteus even leaned forward, brow furrowed.

“The crystal Ovan found,” Sorith continued, “it hums with a pattern I’ve seen once before—deep in the ice caverns, near the mouth of the Anomaly itself. If it is what I suspect, then its resonance may tell us how close the veil has thinned… and how much time we truly have before the Horsemen cross it.”

He turned to Ovan then, the faintest hint of a smile ghosting across his face. “Keep your wits sharp, boy. My seat is yours now—but so is my silence.”

Then he looked back at Nagase, inclining his head—not as subordinate to superior, but warrior to successor. “You wanted the weight, Vesta. Now bear it well.”

And with that, Sorith stepped down from his place at the table, the old iron of his boots echoing against the marble as he walked toward the waiting dark beyond the council doors.