Then again, he’s never actually been here. Only seen the pictures.
It isn’t a campus in the old sense. It doesn’t rise in towers or sprawl in grids, but unfolds as if it were a living grove that once studied architecture and decided to keep only what felt good. Structures unfurl from the ground in gentle curves of vine-wrapped steel, anchored into shaped stones that manage to reflect the light. Thin sheets of crystal and glass stretch between branches to serve as roofs that filter sun without dimming it. Leaves drink and refract daylight and cast soft geometric shadows on moss-lined paths. Classrooms perch in low-hanging canopies; swaying gently with the wind. Bridges of interlocking roots and engineered mycelium thread between the trees, connecting buildings with organic grace.
When Halver breathes in, he tastes pollen, old wood, something faintly sweet. Even the very air smells photosynthetic as a chorus of gentle floral notes. Pulses arise faintly from root-veins beneath the walkways that trace subtle paths. Everything shifts with the needs of the moment, as if the the valley itself is nervous. Watching with unseen eyes while Disciples and Elders march as ants do. It reminds him of a time before The Framework in a way. Back when the world still surprised him.
There are no flags. No tier sigils. No diagrams or banners proclaiming refinement milestones and blithe mantras that do nothing to actually soothe the soul. It's just a single wooden sign nailed crookedly into a flowering tree near the entry path:
Halver walks alone. He always does, regardless of how many lie in his shadow. A cough is allowed past his throat and a Silver Mind falls further behind him. Alke's brood knows to allow him to pretend at least.
He passes by relatively unnoticed by the disciples that teem around him. It is to be expected with how much he has repressed his qi. Some glance in his direction, most don’t. A few Elders nod with casual deference as if he’s just another colleage. Fewer still proffer a cursory bow in his direction. Unrecognized as the architect of the thing that holds them all together. Not their Patriarch whose casual exhalation could blow them all into the next region if he so pleased.
As Halver approaches the clearing he appreciates the lack of ceremony. The absence of protocol is appropriate for the setting. Hugs are passed between some of those present. Low, warm laughter. Grief that doesn’t dress itself in black but grows soft in the shade of ancient trees.
Even the ambient qi here is different. Messy. A static scratching out of tune with the discipline that Halver spent a lifetime perfecting. That he is. It's acceptable given the circumstances, he supposes. Just... wild. Emotional.
Honest.
The amphitheater is open to the sky, carved from a natural basin of sun-warmed stone. Vines wind along the seating terraces trailing blooms that shimmer in response to movement. Solar petals follow his arrival with mechanical curiosity, tracking his steps, then fold in uncertainty when he suppresses his qi further still. The seating forms imperfect concentric rings as each bench would be grown rather than built. Naturally uneven seating polished by countless hours of contact.
Dean Rell Yano still manages to spot him from the front row.
The man stiffens for a fraction before rising with too much speed. A graceless stumble with an equally shallow bow is given hesitantly once the elderly looking woman comes to a halt before him.
"Patriarch?" she whispers. Her voice is dry parchment and nerves.
"Dispense the formality. I shall be in the back," Halver replies. "Observing."
Yano exhales, visibly relieved. "The ceremony is over, but of course, Patriarch. As you will."
But even as the words leave her, Halver can see the hands that tremble slightly. Yano flinches as if struck as he turns and takes a seat at random in the outermost ring. She did not truly expect his presence and had not thought to wait. Many had wished for his attendance for countless events, but his Herald was usually sufficient. Today was both auspicious and terrifying for the Dean.
Halver decides that he doesn't care for the irregular seating. The lack of stratified rows, all tangled greenery and worn stone, were from an older era. Memories more carved by time and presence than design. A few students whisper nearby. One shuffles forward as if to ask a question, but withdraws swiftly as one of Halver's shadows shakes their head. Halver pretends not to notice.
A chime rings. Played by hand. Off-beat and decidedly human.
A figure steps forward. Yano moves to stop them, but a fearful glance at Halver's curious eyes stays her hand.
They are awkward. Hair uneven, half-shaved and half-tangled like a bad decision in progress. A folded note is held with both hands as if it might fly away.
Halver blinks.
He doesn’t know who this disciple is, but he is struck by a vague sense of familiarity. No name rises from his mind, so he chooses to wait and see what is to come.
They clear their throat and the air hushes.
"I wasn’t supposed to speak," the disciple says. "but Roan wouldn’t care."
Soft laughter from the audience. A pained look on Yano's face at the indecent level of familiarity and lack of decorum. The failure to address Roan by title.
"He called me Ryn the Iron. Said it like a compliment."
More laughter, but fewer smiles.
"I didn’t understand his classes. Still don’t. But he saw me. Like, really saw me. Not the way that instructors scan your cultivation levels and nod politely before telling you the same thing they tell you every time. I mean he _saw_ me. Even when I didn’t want him to. Even when I avoided eye contact or gave stupid answers or skipped lectures. He never shut the door on me. Not once."
They unfold the note.
Refold it.
Unfold and refold again and again.
"I used to clean his classrooms because no one else would and someone had to. At first, that was all. Just sweep up, take out the tea leaves, adjust the floor panels. He’d always be there late. He never made me leave. Some nights, I’d curl up on the floor behind his desk and sleep there. I didn’t have anywhere better to go. He’d find me in the morning and just... make tea. Never scolded me. Never made it weird."
Ryn’s voice trembles, but they push forward.
"We had tea almost every day. He liked it too strong. Bitter. Said sweetness was a distraction." A smile flickers. "But he always added honey when he thought I wasn’t looking. He'd say, 'Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.' He was funny like that. Serious in front of everyone. But with me? I dunno. He was just Roan."
They glance down at the ever folding and unfolding note again, but still don’t read from it.
"He wasn’t like the other Elders. Not all... polished and floating three inches off the floor, glowing with perfect posture and judgment in their eyes. He was grounded. Messy. Real. He remembered people’s names. He remembered mine. That’s not a small thing when you’re barely even Iron. When you’re no one."
Ryn wipes their nose on their sleeve without shame. Yano's face is ashen and they take a seat to avoid passing out.
"He told me resonance wasn’t about achieving harmony. It was about choosing not to run from dissonance. That was his whole thing. Holding the off-notes. Bearing witness. He said the world’s too focused on perfection. That we should learn to hear the ugly parts, too. That they matter."
They pause. Close their eyes.
"He said all systems fail. But people don’t. Not if you’re willing to stand beside them."
They open their eyes again, blinking hard.
"My name’s Ryn. I cleaned his classroom. I drank his tea. I listened to his rants about cultivation math and ancient philosophy and the time someone tried to ban sandals in the sanctum. He was loud and weird and tired all the time. And I think he was the best person I’ve ever met."
Just a breath. A shared breath.
Four In. Two held. Five out.
Then the chime again. Two soft notes. Improvised.
Ryn's eulogy ends in that ritual and they walk out of the amphitheater. The rest of the students disperse quickly as well; seeds shaken loose.
Halver stands.
Dean Rell Yano manages to pull herself together, but Halver is already moving. He does not speak to or approach the Dean. He just stares at the sign hammered so inelegantly in the tree at the entrance. It doesn't fit its surroundings, so it is removed and handed over to an awaiting shadow.
Halver waves his hand and becomes a shimmer of light.
Where once stood Halver Quinn, Patriarch of The Collective, now stands a different man entirely. Hair long and shock-white. Beard scraggled at the edges. Back slightly stooped. Eyes cloudy with the illusion of age. His robe shifts to muted browns and mossy grays, like bark and earth had dressed him.
A wandering Elder visiting the Outer Sect.
His shadows depart with Dean Yano and the sign.
A wandering Elder walks the Crescent Valley again.
Children cultivate in small groups under a spattering of sun-filtered groves. Some sit in circles, legs crossed, hands glowing. Others move through stances that guide the qi through the blood. Tedious tasks that establish a foundation. As the wandering Elder steps along the paths he watches a few give up. Slouch. Look frustrated at their hands. One breaks into quiet sobs. Some argue and threaten to give each other pointers as if to conceal their shame with violence.
He watches as the rest give up too.
Something is wrong.
The drive is missing.
Not the ambition to climb tiers or accumulate techniques. Something deeper. There is a hollowness here that roars with a lack of hunger. The kind of drive that once crackled in the marrow of initiates as they clashed with one another for the scraps of minimal resources that promised growth and power. The refusal to remain ordinary, to rot in a lower state. He sees postures falter too easily. Sees breathwork abandoned halfway through a cycle. Sees arguments that lead to walking away rather than a resolution.
He crouches by a moss-rimmed training stone, invisible. Two young cultivators argue over a misalignment in stance.
"Just lean back more," one says.
"That's not how Elder Vell taught it."
"How Elder Vell taught it, *Senior*. Doesn't matter, Master Vell's dead and you're still an Iron."
The other storms off. The first just scoffs and goes the opposite way.
A wandering Elder continues down the paths.
Another group attempts a stabilization spiral. Three minutes in, the youngest weeps openly when her rhythm breaks. No one comforts her. They disperse, frustrated as if her failure was the cause of their own. Mantras are left half-whispered.
Where is the resilience? Where is the willingness to fail gloriously?
The wandering Elder finds Ryn by accident as he is rounding the curve of a yet another sun-dappled path beneath a flowering vine bridge. Ryn the Iron is dragging a crate of nutrient-infused soil toward the greenhouse dome, clearly struggling. No qi infuses their muscles to provide the strength needed to lift and carry the crate. Instead they drag. Hands hooked under a frayed rope, shoulders hunched, heels skidding against stone. Every few steps, the crate catches on a root or bump in the path, and Ryn yanks it loose with a grunt that echoes faintly off the curved canopy above. Sweat clings to their neck. Halver watches as they pause halfway there, kneeling beside the crate, forehead against its rim. Each inhalation is ragged but follows the pattern. Four in, two held, five out. Slowly, they rise and keep pulling. The greenhouse accepts the crate with a low hiss as its doors part.
The wandering Elder isn't sure why, but he chooses to observe Ryn at work. A childish thing to do; watching an ant struggle with its load. Even more childish still to do it while invisible.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
A solar catch panel, high on one of the residence towers is fouled by moss and fine pollen. Ryn climbs the service ladder one rung at a time, hands trembling slightly as they near the top. No safety harness and still no qi to stabilize the ascent. Grit is what carries them upwards instead. They reach the panel and begin wiping it with a cloth dampened in vinegar water.
An Inner Sect Disciple passes below and sneers. "You missed a spot, Low-Tier."
A stone is flung in Ryn the Iron's direction and strikes them on the shoulder. Laughter follows the Disciple as they stride away. Ryn the Iron ignores the growing bruise and keeps wiping. Finally, moss peels away as its cling to the glass is loosed by Ryn's ministrations. Each stroke deliberate. They pause once, hand on the frame, looking out over the campus. Not admiring. Bracing for the descent.
Back to work.
An irrigation channel that is a thin silver vein tracing along a terraced slope spills water where it shouldn’t. Ryn crouches low beside the breach, water soaking into their pants as they examine the damage. The seal has slipped, not ruptured. A minor fix, but their fingers tremble with fatigue as they unhook the segment, realign the coupling, and reset the flow. When the water resumes its course, Ryn leans back on their heels and simply stares at it for a long moment, like they weren’t sure it would work. Then they move on.
Compost. The reeking bulk of decaying food and garden waste is mounded behind the kitchen. Ryn pulls on gloves with holes in the fingers and begins the long transfer to the fermentation pit. Bucket by bucket. Each trip takes five minutes. Back and forth as a trail of flies follows behind in a procession of stench.
The fifth task takes Ryn to the northern atrium, where a crystalline growth crystal has fractured along its base. Ryn kneels, careful not to cut their palms, and begins collecting the pieces. They cradle each shard like it’s holy. Dangerous and beautiful. One slips, slicing their thumb. Blood beads and falls onto the stone. A sharp cry and curse is followed by a cloth to staunch the wound. Qi does not rush to the site to repair the damage.
Ryn and the wandering Elder reach a meditation platform. The raised circle of smoothed stone is nestled in a ring of red-leafed trees. Wind scattered mats used by students lie strewn about. Ryn kneels to retrieve them, brushing leaves from their surfaces. They don’t just throw the mats back down. They align them precisely and evenly spaced with an angle toward the rising sun. A small detail that most would never notice.
A wandering Elder does and is impressed.
The task board near the west walkway buzzes softly as Ryn scans their storage ring, logging the hours. Their name appears at the bottom of the list next to words in bold.
Ryn stares at the screen. Not with surprise or even disappointment. Just a long, empty stillness. They press the confirmation key and step away. The wandering Elder still notices that their lungs shake as they exhale.
Ryn steps into the small and dim administrative alcove carved directly into the side of the library tree. A familiar Inner Sect Disciple lounges behind the desk, looking up with thinly veiled boredom.
“Finally finished, wastrel?” she asks.
“Yes, Senior. Greenhouse, catch maintenance, irrigation, compost, mats, and crystal replacement.”
“You'd get it done faster if you used qi,” she admonishes, tapping a rune-etched crystal. “ but I suppose manual labor is all you're truly good for.”
Ryn lifts their chin slightly. “I did what was needed doing, Senior.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Breathing is something 'needing doing'. Doesn’t mean you should get paid for it.”
“Respectfully, Senior, I completed every task as directed and logged them.” Ryn manages to grind out the words while somehow keeping a reasonably neutral tone.
“You completed mortal drudgery.” the Inner Sect Disciple replies, rising from her chair. “You’re still trash. Still worthless. You think showing up earns respect? Elder Roan coddled you. The Framework doesn’t make room for sentiment. It filters for worth. And you, Ryn the Iron,” her voice sharpens in mockery of the name “you’re the very definition of spiritual inefficiency. A waste of qi. A waste of time.”
Ryn doesn’t speak. Just holds out their hand.
A pouch is rummaged through, then dropped into it. Three merits. Barely enough for food, the wandering Elder observes.
“Keep working like this,” she adds, “and you’ll die like this. Forgotten. Mortal. And not even The Framework will remember your name.”
Ryn walks out without replying and the wandering Elder follows.
They slip into a narrow dormitory structure woven into the side of another spiraling tree that lines the grid-like paths throughout the Outer Sect. Ryn's room is small. Sparse with a thin mattress and a shelf of worn books.
A single jar.
Ryn drops their credits into it and hurls the bag into a corner before collapsing on the bed. They are asleep moments later.
Halver frowns and departs after depositing another fifty credits. His walk across the campus is swift enough that his shadows must rush if they wished to rejoin him.
Dean Yano’s office is twice the size of Ryn's room.
Set into the crook of an elderbloom tree, it radiates a demand for respect. More than a simple monk’s retreat that it took design inspiration from. Shelves burst with scrolls, dusty interface tablets, loose plumes of paper that haven’t been sorted in months. A pot of tea steams in one corner perched above a repurposed pill furnace.
Yano's tongue loosens itself for a quick rebuke at the sudden entrance before she notices that it is Halver standing in her open door. She bites the unruly tongue, drawing a scarlet mark over her teeth as he approaches.
“Patriarch,” she says, voice tight. “I didn’t —”
“Silence.” Halver interrupts.
Yano obeys.
Halver lets the door seal behind him, locking his advancing shadows outside with a satisfying click. With a small wave, a formation springs into being to prevent the same from listening at the latch.
The silence stretches.
Halver does not sit. He walks slowly around the office, trailing a finger along a shelf. Pauses at a diagram of campus resonance zones. Studies it.
“I toured the collegium. Followed an unwitting Outer Sect disciple.” Halver says at last.
Yano swallows.
“I watched Ryn complete six tasks today. Not cultivate. Not refine. Work. Menial things that should have been unnecessary with precaution. I expected things to be done sloppily, to the bare minimum of acceptable. I was surprised with precision. With care.”
“Ryn… contributes where they can,” Yano offers, cautiously.
“Why are they still in fundamentals? Why do they not use qi?”
Yano hesitates. Fidgets with a stylus. “They haven’t advanced.”
“That much is obvious. Why?”
The Dean opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again like a note.
“Ryn lacks the essence density necessary to enhance anything beyond their vital functions.” Yano finally says. “Their alignments tests were borderline and displayed resonance loads well below expected levels. Senior Roan remarked once that Ryn has difficulty visualizing threads. He... I... could not come up with an upward path for their advancement.”
“No upward path?” Halver’s voice is soft. It should not chill the room, but it does.
Yano tries again. “We’ve given Ryn many opportunities. Supplemental work. Paired mentoring. Extended hours in the training facilities. I will be the first to admit that they are sincere, Patriarch, but sincerity doesn’t lift tiers.”
“And yet that is precisely what The Framework is supposed to correct with time and focused attention. And yet you make him scrub growth crystals and deliver compost and allow the majority of his merits be stolen from them. I saw that he is barely allowed to keep enough to afford to eat.”
“We have limited staff to provide oversight, Patriarch.”
“That still does not address the fact that Ryn the Iron is not respected. An Inner Sect Disciple running your Tasks Board today told them that they were worthless. That they were trash.”
Yano flinches. “That must have been Senior Disciple Varra. I will speak with her.”
“No,” Halver commands. “You will remove her from the position and prohibit her from ever again holding a position that oversees others. You will then report this and your personal failures in allowing this to occur to the Tribunal. Tonight.”
"Y-y-yes, Patriarch." Even as a Silver Mind, Dean Yano was mortal enough to cry.
"Now explain to me why Ryn is still in the Fundamentals class at their age."
Tears were wiped away discreetly as Yano stammered out a response. "Unless they can rise a tier, they won’t be permitted to transfer. Ryn wishes to join the Finance Bureau, but it only accepts cultivators of at least the Bronze Form."
"Even at the entry level?"
"Yes, Patriarch."
"When did we start locking jobs behind cultivation?"
Yano's sharp intake of breath was all Halver truly needed to know. "I-it was after the Tier Realignment Mandate, Patriarch. Your Herald signed the policy herself."
Halver finally sits, folding himself into a low moss-cushioned stool across from the desk. He is silent for a long time.
“Do you believe in the Framework?” he finally asks after deciding that he would not risk another cardiac incident at the Collegium.
The Dean blinks. “I... of course!”
“Tell me what it is that you believe, then.”
Yano’s mouth works for a moment, assembling answers from doctrine. “It’s a system of layered refinement. A cultivation model that promotes merit and alignment through disciplined progression.”
“Wrong.”
Yano stiffens.
“The Framework,” Halver says, “Is a perspective. A way to observe ourselves. Not a wall. Not a gate. I created it to _free_ people from chaos, not to bind them to a ladder they can never climb.”
Yano is silent.
“Ryn cleaned Roan’s classroom,” Halver continues. “And Roan let him stay. That is not sentiment. That is recognition. The kind of recognition this place has forgotten.”
“But if we let unranked students advance without merit—”
“He has merit. He works. He shows up. He listens. He finishes what others leave undone. Is that not cultivation?”
“It’s not what the Ascension Metrics—”
“Those are just numbers.”
The room stills.
“The Framework was never meant to be dogma. Just a guide.”
Yano looks up at him. There’s something like doubt in her eyes.
“What would you have me do, Patriarch? I am but one woman.”
Halver stands. “Correct yourself.” he says before dismissing the formations surrounding them and joining his shadows outside.
It is before sunrise when they return him to his sanctum.
It is silent, as it always is in the predawn hours. Maren Alke stands near the central plinth.
Waiting.
She is composed, as ever. Robes flawless in their layering, perfectly folded at the collar and cuff. Her posture is immaculate, spine straight, hands folded at the base of her sternum. She stands like one perpetually on the edge of delivering an address to a hundred disciples. The Herald's Crest at her collar gleams faintly.
She bows.
“Patriarch,” she says. “I trust Crescent Valley met your expectations?”
Halver does not answer her immediately. He removes his cloak. Sets it over a low rail. Then walks to the center of the room and begins the breath cycle.
Four in. Two held. Five out.
Only then does he speak.
“No. It did not.”
Maren’s eyes do not falter. “I regret to hear that, though I am unsurprised. Senior Roan allowed unstructured practices to fester. Emotion in place of doctrine. Sympathy in place of calibration. Such neglect was bound to collapse under its own inefficiencies.”
“You speak of him as though he were a failed system.”
She inclines her head in an artful gesture. “I speak of my Senior as one who deviated from the path. He was once worthy, but even stars decay when they turn from gravity. Only you, Patriarch, are unchanging.”
Halver narrows his eyes. “You speak as if The Framework is law.”
“It is more than that.” she replies smoothly. “It is truth. Order. Alignment given form. Even you, Patriarch, taught us that ‘refinement is not earned - it is aligned.’”
“I also said that it must never become rigid.”
“Perhaps,” Maren says, her voice like silk being drawn through glass. “But I believe that what you call rigid is what most believe to be consistency. Without it, interpretation leads to contradiction. Contradiction leads to corruption. Senior Roan contradicted the Framework. He taught resonance as rebellion.”
“He taught students who were being left behind.”
“Left behind _by their own inadequacy,_” she counters, gently. “Opportunity must still be earned. The Framework offers clarity. Not charity.”
He studies her.
“Maren. Why are jobs locked behind tiers now?”
She smiles again. A flawless, practiced smile that does not lie. “To preserve resource efficiency and cultural integrity. As you yourself approved in the Tier Realignment Mandate, only those who can bear spiritual responsibility should be allowed access to systemic influence. Employment is power. Misallocated power corrodes the lattice of The Framework.”
“Is that what we call it now?”
“A necessary evolution.” She steps forward slightly. Not invading his space. Claiming proximity. “Patriarch, you taught the world how to ascend. You offered it a ladder out of suffering. But ladders must be climbed. Not carried.”
“I saw disciple today,” Halver says, voice low. “that worked harder than anyone in Crescent Valley. They cleaned, repaired, restored and achieved more clarity than anyone else I observed only to be told they were worthless. That the Framework had no place for them.”
Maren’s brow lifts a single elegant degree. “A tragic inefficiency, but not one I can dispute.”
“That 'tragic inefficiency's' name is Ryn.”
“I’m aware. I’ve reviewed their file.” She tilts her head. “No resonance aptitude. No ancestral inheritance. No tier jumps in three years. Their presence was only sustained by special dispensation granted by my late Senior. A sentimental indulgence most likely to mirror the same opportunity that you gave him.”
“You speak as if the Framework is above question. As if it is the heavens themselves.”
“It is not divine,” she says. “It is _beyond_ divine. The heavens bowed to you, and your Framework conquered it.”
Halver turns from her. Walks toward the edge of the sanctum with fifteen steps.
“I remember a time when you and Roan questioned everything. When the Framework was a beginning, not a cage.”
“Progress is a narrowing,” she replies. “From potential to purpose. From chaos to clarity. Questioning is for the undisciplined. It is not refinement. It is regression.”
He turns back.
“You serve The Framework,” he says.
“I serve _you,_ Patriarch,” she answers. Yet the pause before the word was long enough to destroy the illusions around her eyes. Illusions that revealed an undertone just soft enough to suggest a correction.
“No,” he replies. “I suppose you serve the position.”
Maren’s expression flickers. Almost.
“You entrusted me to enact your will.”
“I did,” he says. “And now I wonder if that will was mine at all.”
She does not reply.
He walks past her.
She does not follow.
And for the first time in years, Halver does not begin the breath cycle as the sun began to peek over the horizon and fill his chambers with light. He does not move, but something in him shifts as he turns back around.
Maren still stands near the plinth, waiting. Watching. As still and precise as ever.
“I will return to Crescent Valley soon.” Halver says.
That gets a reaction. Her lips part. Just barely. “Permanently?”
“Temporarily. I will observe what erroneous issues are plaguing the place. I will test the lattice with my own hands.”
Maren’s eyes narrow by a hair. Her smile holds, but it tightens at the edges.
“You risk diminishing the dignity of your office by immersing yourself among the Outer Sects and unrefined initiates.”
He turns to face his Herald fully. “Then let us make a wager."
Her head inclines. “A wager, Patriarch?”
“If you are correct, if the Outer Sect disciples are proven to truly be beyond the help of The Framework, I will formally grant you your request. Tova may join you as a second Herald.”
Maren’s poise fractures for only an instant. Her breath catches.
“Tova is ready,” she says quickly. “She has refined four disciplines. Her insights on resonance compression are years ahead of her peers. She is already regarded as—”
“I said _if_ you are correct,” Halver cuts in. Calm. Quiet. “You will have your proof. Or you will have your lesson.”
“And if I am… not correct?” she asks. It is not a question she likes.
“Then you will stand down as my Herald. You will take Roan's place in the Outer Sect and teach utilizing my methods and I will select your replacement.”
The silence between them is absolute.
Finally, she bows. Not deeply, but enough.
“As you will, Patriarch.”
Halver nods once.
“Prepare a sealed identity,” he adds. “I will be just an Elder of the Outer Sect. No formal titles. No deference. I want to see the school without the lens of my name.”
Maren’s eyes glitter. “As you command.”
He turns away again, walking toward the sanctum’s far wall, where the light now strikes unbroken through the refracting crystal.