The basement felt different.Colder.Heavier.Like the shadows were listening now.Rick sat on an overturned crate, breathing unevenly as Lyra and Oberon watched him with matching tension—one worried, the other calculating.The Summons Seal still tingled faintly in his chest, as if a frostbite-shaped mark had been tattooed into his bones.Rick rubbed the spot.“I can’t believe this is happening… Three days? And then what? They drag me to their tower? Judge me? Kill me?”Oberon raised a brow.“Possibly all three. Mandate traditions are flexible that way.”Rick glared at him. “You’re not helping!”Lyra shot Oberon a lethal look.“Say one more thing like that and I swear I will choke you with your own scarf.”Oberon cleared his throat and straightened the very scarf in question.“Fine, fine. I’ll be constructive.”He knelt in front of Rick, a rare seriousness in his eyes.“Listen carefully. The Summons Seal is not an invitation. It’s a claim. When it activates in three days, one of two t

Rick stepped onto the glowing pathway, its warm light humming beneath his boots. The void around him shifted again—darker now, thicker—as though the shadows themselves were watching.He exhaled sharply.“Dad…”He’d seen the silhouette. He hadn’t imagined it.That height. That posture. That presence.His father had vanished years ago—without explanation, without goodbye. A ghost in his life. A scar that never healed.And now the Primordial Court was tossing his image around like bait.Rick clenched his jaw.“Fine. If you want answers, Rick—keep moving.”The light-path stretched into a tunnel formed of floating runes—each glowing faint blue, ancient, spiraling in slow motion. The tunnel curved endlessly, like walking inside a living spell.Then came the whisper:“Do not trust the paths, Rick Vale.”Rick snapped his head up.Not his father’s voice.Not the trial voice.This one sounded… fractured. Like it came from someone speaking through broken mirrors.Rick slowed.“Who’s there?”The

The white-symbol door opened without resistance.Not slowly…Not with dramatic shaking…But quietly.Almost gently.Rick stepped through—and immediately felt a shift.No more subway.No more shadows.No more chains.He stood in a long corridor of pale stone, illuminated by soft silver light. The walls, floor, and ceiling were carved from the same smooth material, etched with runes that pulsed like a heartbeat.Rick frowned.“This place feels… alive.”As he walked, the runes warmed, glowing brighter with each step he took. The corridor hummed in response, like it could sense him.His instincts prickled.This was the real Trial.The chains, the construct of his father—they were just the opening act.Rick kept moving, footsteps echoing quietly.Then he heard it—A faint tap…Like someone walking behind him.He turned instinctively.Nothing.The corridor stretched endlessly back.Rick narrowed his eyes.“I know that sound. Don’t play with me.”He continued forward.Another step behind him

Rick stepped forward.The glass behind him dissolved into mist, peeling away like fading smoke, and the platform beneath his feet hummed with a low, ancient pulse. The chamber—if it could even be called a chamber—shifted again. Walls were no longer walls; they swayed like liquid shadow, rearranging themselves in slow, deliberate movements, as though reacting to his presence.The Veil recognized him.And now… it was watching.Rick inhaled sharply. The air was cold, but not the physical kind—this cold crawled beneath the skin, whispering thoughts that weren’t his own.A summons isn’t an invitation.It’s a test.He remembered the voice from the mirror. The Overseer of Refractions. The one who had called his name. The one that shattered every reflection of him except one—the real one, apparently.The path in front of him stretched into a corridor made of floating, irregular stone slabs suspended over a void of shifting, starless darkness. Below, things moved—massive, slow, and patient. Th

Rick’s hand tightened around the pendant instinctively.The masked figure stood only a few feet away, its presence heavy enough to warp the air. The mask was carved from something that looked like bone—but pulsed faintly like it was alive. Its eyes were empty, two bottomless voids that didn’t reflect light.Rick swallowed.“Who… are you?”The figure tilted its head slightly, the movement eerily smooth.“I am a Warden of Passage,” it said, voice layered—one tone human, another echoing like something ancient spoke through it. “One of the few who can greet the Awakened.”Rick blinked.“Awakened? Me?”The Warden nodded once.“You were summoned by the Veilmark. You survived the Measuring. You crossed the Gate. This Domain responds to only one type of traveler, Rick Vale—one touched by the Veilborne bloodline.”Rick froze.Bloodline?“Hold on,” he said, raising a hand. “Start slower. I’m not from here. I didn’t even know this place existed an hour ago.”The Warden didn’t move.“The Veil cho