The chamber was quiet, lit only by the faint shimmer of ambient aether running through the filigree-etched walls. This was no throne room—no grand hall designed for spectacle. It was worse.
Private.
Still.
The kind of room where silence spoke louder than banners.
Stacks of documents lay spread across the obsidian desk in front of him, arranged with surgical neatness. Diagrams of mana-weapon channels. Lists of names—students, instructors, guild envoys, foreign observers. Handwritten margins trailed with sigils and personal notes.
And in the center: a profile.
Lucavion.
No crest. No known patron. No bloodline of record.
But the ink over his results was still wet from recalibration—adjusted to account for confirmed irregularities, and still he sat at the top.
Across from the desk, kneeling on the floor, was Khaedren.
Forehead to marble.
Not in gesture.
In penance.
