Ian stopped.
The siblings nearly ran into his back. Their faces… spoke volumes. There was no celebration. No cheers.Only calculation.
And something Ian had forgotten how to muster.
Fear. His eyes narrowed. Will they be trouble?
He wasn't certain yet.
But he was ready.
——–
They stood before the organizers like figures pulled from the edge of myth and madness—Ian, Lyra, and Caelen.
Dust-streaked. Blood-smeared. Haunted.
And yet—alive.
The assembly before them was anything but ordinary. Clad in robes of deep obsidian, crimson silk, and ash-gray runecloth, the First Circle Coordinators stood in a broad arc, flanked by lesser officials, scribes, and veiled adjudicators.
Each bore a sigil of authority—sewed in gold, silver, bone, or shadow-metal—denoting their dominion over the Reach.
None of them spoke at first.
They studied Ian.
Some with wonder.
Some with barely masked fear.
Others with the curled lips of disgust.
The silence was still—until Ian stepped forward.
