The Council Chamber always smelled like sanctified dust.
Lyric had been here before, but never like this. Not alone. Not summoned at night.
The glyph-lit floor beneath his boots flickered as he stepped inside. Each tile held a law—etched by saints, whispered by gods, burned into stone with ink from memory. They glowed faintly when read. Dimmed when doubted.
He didn't need to look up to know he was being watched.
High on the dais sat six figures, draped in veil-bands and ceremonial silver. Members of the Spiral Council—lawkeepers of the divine-marked, arbiters of oaths and heresies. Their eyes were hidden, their mouths sealed behind woven threads.
Only the Archon of Cael, rigid in golden threads and ivory brocade, spoke.
"Lyric Varnyx of House Velastra. You stand before the Spiral to answer a summons under seal of silent judgment. Do you understand the weight of this rite?"
Lyric bowed. "I do."
His voice didn't echo.
The chamber suppressed sound like a tomb.
"Your mark," said the Archon, "was observed flickering during a sanctioned duel. Unstable glyphs are subject to inquiry. You know this."
He nodded once. "Yes, Archon."
"What do you remember of your Rite of Ink?"
Lyric paused. His pulse skipped.
"I received the Velastra sigil. I was seven."
"And nothing else?"
"No."
A pause.
The Archon's fingers tapped something hidden beneath her robes—a rhythm not random.
Another councilor leaned forward. His voice was dry parchment. "There are rumors of a second glyph. Ghosting beneath the first. Do you deny this?"
Lyric opened his mouth, then closed it.
The itch beneath his collar burned. But he said nothing.
The Archon tilted her head. "We have not accused you. Only asked. But the world has no place for those who carry forbidden ink."
He stared at the floor. The tile beneath him pulsed gently—the glyph for silence.
And then something shifted.
A veil in the air rippled.
A thread of ink twisted behind the dais like smoke in reverse.
A whisper—too soft to hear but too loud to ignore:
"Don't answer. Not yet."
Orryn.
His voice was memory now. A presence without shape. He hadn't spoken in years. Not since the second mark had gone still.
Then—
BOOM.
The chamber doors exploded open, ward-runes shattering like glass.
A figure stood in the doorway, backlit by torchlight and lightning.
Blood dripped from one gloved hand. Not his own.
His ivory coat was spattered red, torn across the shoulder. The sigil of House Cael gleamed on his chest—bright against the ruin.
His soul-sigil flickered behind him like a halo of gold.
But only once.
Then dimmed.
"Vhentyr Cael'theron," someone whispered.
He didn't bow. Didn't speak.
He walked through the storm of broken wards. Each footstep marked the sacred floor with blood.
He stopped before the Council.
"This judgment is void," Vhentyr said, voice like cold iron. "Until I've seen what he bleeds."
The Council froze.
Lyric didn't breathe.
Vhentyr turned his head.
And smiled.