The distortion settled, and the floor beneath Verena's boots shifted with a faint grind of stone over stone. The doorway dissolved behind them, leaving her, Beatrice, and Saphira in what could only be described as an astral amphitheater. The circular space stretched wide, tiered rows of jagged crystalline seats spiraling upward into darkness, as though they stood inside the hollowed ribcage of some ancient, long-dead star beast.
Above them, constellations twisted unnaturally—familiar patterns rearranged into unfamiliar, fragmented sigils. It set Verena's teeth on edge. Nothing about this space felt steady. Even the air buzzed with a low frequency, a hum of celestial magic so dense it practically pressed against her skin.
Beatrice whistled, low and impressed. "Trial Two's really going for the dramatics, huh?"
