The Sanctuary

Cerin left before dawn. No fanfare, no escort. Just the weight of a fortress watching from behind stone walls. The pass stone hung under his shirt, the copy of the recording sealed in a double-wrapped leather tube strapped to his back. And under his arm, the map—faded but still legible, inked with destinations that hadn't been named aloud in over twenty years.

Leon watched him ride until the eastern ridge swallowed him.

Then he turned back to the hall.

The fortress was stirring. More eyes. More questions. Even neutral ground had limits.

By noon, four more envoys had arrived. One from the Order of Sight, two from minor Northern Circles, and a cloaked rider whose origin none could verify. They didn't speak much. Didn't protest either. Just listened. And watched.

Leon stood before them once again.

The sword repeated its memory.

The halls echoed with silence.