But every time Asta thought about trying to explain,about the shadow, about the voice calling him master, about the way it had felt both terrifying and oddly right,the words stuck in his throat. How could he explain something he didn't understand himself? How could he tell Jabber about a power that scared him as much as it intrigued him?No. Better to keep it secret for now. At least until he understood it better, until he could control it or predict it or even just comprehend what it was.They finished their meals in that comfortable silence. Asta mopped up the last of his stew with the remainder of his stale bread, savoring the warmth in his belly. Jabber ate slowly, methodically, each bite careful and measured. His face had to be hurting,the swelling was definitely worse now, and that bruise looked painful,but he gave no indication of discomfort."We should probably head to the training yard soon," Asta said, glancing at the large timepiece mounted on the dining hall wall. It was

Asta said urgently, supporting Jabber's weight as he helped him sit. "Are you okay? Talk to me,bro"Jabber's head lolled slightly, his eyes unfocused, but he managed a weak nod. "M'fine." He mumbled, the words slurred. "Just... used too much. Need... minute..."Flora and Mira had rushed over as well. Flora knelt beside them, her hand going to Jabber's wrist to check his pulse. Her face was tight with concern."His heart rate is elevated but steady." She reported. "Jabber, can you hear me? How many fingers am I holding up?"She held up three fingers in front of his face. Jabber's eyes struggled to focus, then: "Three.""Good. That's good." Flora sat back slightly, though she kept her hand on his wrist, monitoring his pulse. "You pushed too hard. Manifesting that much flame, especially when you couldn't control it properly,it drained you severely.""Told you." Jabber mumbled, but there was no accusation in his tone. Just weary resignation. "Told you it was dangerous.""You al

Someone whispered, the words carrying in the suddenly tense atmosphere."Yeah, it must be him." Another voice responded, slightly louder. "Who else would it be? This is the Xavier mansion, after all. He's the heir.""But he has no flame!" A third voice cut in, sharp with confusion and perhaps a hint of derision. "Everyone knows he failed the crystal test. He's flameless. How can someone lead an entire clan of flame wielders without wielding a single spark himself? It's absurd!""Maybe the mask is hiding something? Maybe he awakened his flame after all?""Don't be ridiculous. If he'd awakened any flame, especially the Xavier flame, it would be all over the empire by now. News like that doesn't stay secret.”The masked figure seemed unbothered by the speculation swirling around him. He reached Elder Morvain's side and stopped, standing perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back in a formal at-ease position. The dragon mask stared out at the assembled clan leaders with those em

"Fifty years later, my ancestor Lyra Xavier faced a different kind of threat. Not beasts, but corruption from within. Three of the five Council Elders had been bribed by foreign powers, selling secrets, weakening defenses, preparing the empire for conquest. Lyra could have looked away, could have kept silent to preserve peace, to avoid causing upheaval.”“Instead, she walked into the Council chamber alone and burned the corruption out root and stem, replacing the traitors with honorable leaders, even though it nearly started a civil war. But she did it because it was right, because the Xavier flame doesn't just destroy enemies,it purifies, it cleanses and it illuminates truth in darkness."More nods now, several clan leaders leaning forward with renewed interest."One hundred and twenty years ago." Cassian continued, his voice rising. "My ancestor Marcus Xavier was challenged by seven rival clans who believed the Xavier dominance had gone on too long, that their power had made them

The formal proceedings had ended perhaps an hour ago, but the Xavier mansion's great hall showed no signs of emptying. If anything, the atmosphere had transformed from tense formality into something more relaxed, more social,though no less politically charged.Servants in crisp uniforms moved through the crowd carrying silver trays laden with crystal glasses filled with wine from the Xavier cellars,vintage bottles that had been aging for decades, their labels bearing dates from before Asta was even born. The eternal flames in the chandeliers had been dimmed slightly, creating a warmer, more intimate lighting that softened the harsh edges of the earlier confrontation.The clan leaders had shed some of their formal rigidity, though not their clan attire. They stood in small clusters scattered throughout the hall, glasses in hand, voices rising and falling in the complicated dance of political conversation. Alliances were being quietly reinforced, deals were being subtly negotiated, in