The circle burned with light. Six mages formed a ring around him, each weaving threads of detection, clarity, and truth. Soul magic wasn't common. It scraped into the very heart of a being and laid it bare.
Langston met the General's gaze.
"You'll see," he said. "I have nothing to hide."
The spell activated.
Pain tore through him—ripping through fur and flesh, diving into the soul where memories lived.
He didn't fight it. He let them see.
The screams of his mother. The black-furred familiar who turned on their own kind. The betrayal. The fire. The vow he made as his clan burned: *I will not let their legacy end with ash.*
And then—the image of Ryan, bandaging him, speaking softly, risking everything.
The magic receded.
The mages knelt in silent awe.
"He speaks truth," one murmured. "He carries light. And ancient flame."
The General's voice was tight. "He stays. But he'll be watched."
Langston turned toward Ryan.
So will you, little ember.