The path ends before a gate of shimmering obsidian. Two silent attendants in silver robes open it without a word. Elvare is gone. The deeper halls of the Sanctum breathe around me—cool, vast, humming with layered silence.
They guide me through winding corridors until we stop before a circular door marked with eight flowing sigils. The runes shift as I near, responding not to me, but to something I carry.
The ring.
The door slides open with a whisper. Inside, four heads turn.
Tessa, Dorin, Callen, Neko.
They stand in a chamber carved from seamless black stone. No windows. Just low shelves lined with books, artifacts sealed in crystal, and a single long table.
Tessa is the first to speak. "You took your time."
"I walked," I answer. "Had a guide."
Callen smirks. "Was it a test? Or a warning?"
"Both," I say.
We don't sit. The weight of Stillwater still hangs on our shoulders. And none of us know how far we're allowed to relax.
"I don't trust the silence," Dorin mutters, eyes scanning the runes etched into the walls.
"We're not meant to," says Neko. "This place doesn't *give* peace. It just measures how long you last without it."
Before anyone can reply, a chime echoes through the chamber—clear, harmonic, final.
A voice follows, not spoken aloud, but pressed into the mind like a command:
**"All new elites. Report to the Hall of Judgment. Assembly begins now."**
We glance at one another. Then move.
---
The Hall of Judgment is nothing like the trial platforms. It's older—colder. A cathedral buried in black basalt, where torchless light spills from veins in the stone itself. High above, shadowed balconies curve in tiers, each one holding seated figures in flowing robes. Elders, we presume.
But the floor is ours.
Dozens of elites gather. Some I recognize from the trial. Others wear insignias we haven't seen before—factions etched into their robes: crimson eyes, sun-woven chains, ink-black thorns.
Old blood.
New rules.
A tall elite with silver tattoos steps forward from the crowd. He's older. Confident. He doesn't look at the elders. He looks at us.
"You're the survivors of the last trial," he says, voice sharp and clear. "Impressive. But survival here is only the beginning."
A murmur ripples.
He gestures to a circular table etched into the stone.
"This is Stillwater's elite caste. We are ranked. Not just by strength, but by insight, by contribution, by purpose. The five of you—" his eyes land on me and my four—"may have gained tokens. But tokens do not make you worthy."
Another elite steps forward. A woman with copper rings around her neck and a scar across her left eye.
"Respect is earned here, not gifted through ceremony," she says. "You wear masks and titles. But power must be proven."
Someone else laughs.
"A challenge, then," says the silver-tattooed man. "One of yours against one of ours. Let's see if the legends carry weight—or just noise."
The other elites nod. They're circling now. Waiting.
I step forward without hesitation. "I accept."
Dorin hisses behind me. "Be careful. They want this."
"I know."
---
The circle clears.
My opponent steps into the ring: not the silver-tattooed man—but another. Younger. Lean. His eyes glow with a faint blue fire.
He bows. I nod.
No words.
Just the crack of motion.
He's faster than expected. His strikes aren't just fast—they bend space. A pulse sends me skidding back. I lunge, countering with precision, redirecting, aiming for the gaps.
But there *are* no gaps.
He breaks my rhythm. Finds my blind side. I parry—
And then I don't.
A blow lands square in my chest, ripping breath from my lungs. I fall hard.
Not out cold.
But close.
The ring pulses faintly in my hand, offering power. I refuse it.
I lose.
---
The silence afterward is worse than the pain.
The senior elites don't gloat. They don't need to.
One speaks, with finality: "Not ready."
I rise slowly.
The elders above remain silent. Judging.
And then the same voice from before returns—not the challengers, not the crowd—but the command:
**"Those assigned to Sanctum study—remain. Others return to assigned layers."**
Attendants step forward.
"You five," one says, "are part of the Scholars' Tier. You will study six hours daily in the Inner Halls. Martial review follows. Tactical theory after that. Meditation at dusk."
"And missions?" Dorin asks.
"Only when approved by three or more elders."
The attendant glances at me last.
"You… will be watched more closely than the others."
He begins to turn, then stops.
"Your formal training begins tomorrow. For tonight—rest. You'll need it."
---
The walk back to our quarters is silent.
When we re-enter, the room feels different. Heavier. Tense with the weight of what we've just seen.
No guards outside the door. No surveillance we can see. But we feel it—eyes, hidden somewhere beyond the stone.
Tessa paces.
Callen drops onto a cushion, stretching his bruised shoulder. "They were stronger. No question."
"They've been here longer," Neko adds. "They know the system. The rules. The rhythm."
Dorin scowls. "They also outnumber us."
"Doesn't matter," I say quietly.
They all look at me.
"I lost today. Not because I was weak. But because I don't *understand* this place yet. Stillwater doesn't just train strength. It shapes control. Thought. Layers beneath layers."
Tessa studies me. "So what now?"
"Now we learn."
Callen smirks. "Didn't think I'd be back in classes after killing for entry."
"None of us did," Dorin mutters.
Neko folds her arms. "But if this is what it takes to stay alive… and climb… then we do it."
I nod once. Final.
"Rest," I say. "Tomorrow, we begin."
No one speaks after that.
The five of us lie in our own corners of the chamber. No torches burn, yet the ceiling glows faintly with constellations I don't recognize—patterns older than any sky I've seen.
I stare at them.
The ring is quiet again.
But I'm not.
I'm awake.
And I will not remain at the bottom for long.