The light did not swallow Lindarion.
That was the first thing he noticed as he crossed the threshold. There was no sensation of falling, no violent displacement, no tearing sensation that usually accompanied transitions between states or layers. Instead, it felt like stepping into colder air after leaving a forge, the heat still clinging to his skin while the world around him sharpened into clarity.
'So this is participation,' he thought. 'Not transcendence. Not ascension. Accountability.'
The basin did not vanish. Nysha did not disappear. Ashwing did not cry out or get ripped into constituent mana, which Lindarion privately counted as a success. The platform beneath his feet stabilized with a muted pulse, sigils dimming until they were barely visible, no longer a ritual circle but an interface that had finished its task.
Behind him, the former architect—no longer Kaelthrix, but not entirely something else—watched in silence. It did not follow.
