“Order a full sweep of the facility. We require a clean trace of every ward, every imprint left in the stone, every drop of dried blood or weft-caught cloth. And every discarded hair.”
The room fell to a hush.
The Priest signed with hesitation, 'Your Radiance, days have passed.'
“We are aware,” Auryn nodded, eyes still forward. “But you will submit regardless.”
Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The royal “we” carved the command into air like an engraving. She turned toward the altar next, fingertips brushing a segment of disrupted mana still caught in the warded pattern on the floor.
It trembled beneath her touch.
Kailorien stepped forward then, his voice low beside her ear. “You knew to ask about the hair.”
“Of course,” she said. “We have spent decades in the courts of the ones who set such traps.”
His lips quirked. But the smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Not yet.
Auryn turned from the blood-streaked loom with regal precision, the silver of her braid catching in the Polis-light. Her expression didn’t waver. Not even when she passed the faint scorch mark where the intruder had fallen.
“We will speak now with the Selen priests regarding the Cycle of Growth,” she decreed, and the attendants nearby bowed so deeply their palms brushed the floor.
Kailorien moved to follow—but paused before crossing the threshold of the Lustrate’s arched doors.
Something tugged at him.
His gaze lifted to the curve of the upper frame, where his old containment ward had once flared. The runework was gone. Not shattered. Not carved out.Unmade.
A Sovereign Rank seal. One of his own creation. Requiring not just mana, but blood and authority to bypass. Even Zarrek, trained in Runesgrams and sigil-tongue from childhood, could not have unraveled it without days of deconstruction.
Yet Auryn had done it in a breath.
He stared at the space for a long time.
She's not just adapting,he thought as he turned to follow her to her next destination.She’s ascending.
The chamber reserved for priestly counsel smelled of incense and lotus ash. Auryn stood at its center, surrounded by hanging scrolls and mana scry-plates still pulsing with ceremonial light. Several high priests had gathered already, cloaked in pale linens marked with Selen’s curling sigils.
They greeted her with low bows, signing prayers and half-formed apologies for one thing or another—none of which she acknowledged.
“We understand the Cycle of Growth approaches,” she said without preamble. “And that the Grand Festival has been set for the third moon. We would be briefed on the rites planned for Our station.”
There was a pause—confused glances exchanged behind ceremonial masks—then one of them stepped forward. 'Your Radiance. It is unusual for the Sokâr to request briefings in advance. But of course, we would be honored to present the schedule.'
Auryn inclined her head once. “We prefer to be prepared.”
The priests bowed, but before they could continue, a soft chime rang from the entryway—the mana-braided sound that always preceded the arrival of a Companion. The air changed, pluming with Sahtra smokethe color of violet dusk, carrying with it a cloying, dizzying scent meant to relax the mind and lower inhibition.
A hush fell over the chamber as Zeera entered, her dark hair oiled and bound tight, not a single strand left loose. The gleaming emerald on her choker pulsed with light. Her silks were cut close to the body—revealing, elegant, designed to shimmer under fluxlight. Four Attendants trailed behind her, each in matching crimson livery, their eyes averted. They moved like a trained flock, always behind, always watching.
Zeera swept into a bow before Auryn, her voice like smoke.
“Your Radiance,” she purred. “Forgive the interruption. I was in the area and thought to check on the Lustrate. I hope my presence does not disturb your…recovery.”
Auryn did not move.
Zeera straightened slowly, eyes glittering.
