They emerge through the Lift gates to the Stem's peak—a spire clawing at the edge of space. Leonardo's gaze locks onto the enigmatic figure from before.
As the group advances deeper into the uppermost level, a cloaking fog thickens the air. Impossible in the void, yet it cloys their lungs.
The Stem's interior mirrors a Renaissance castle's splendor, fused with an unearthly aura befitting its celestial perch. Vast corridors unfurl beneath soaring ceilings, braced by grand columns both elegant and unyielding.
Each pillar glimmers with intricate, faintly luminous patterns and names—so many names. Leonardo notices de Meaux, first, then De Lorraine. They're carved into the walls in sequence.
Crystal-and-gold chandeliers drip from vaulted heights. Masterpieces line the walls, portraits of Stem head identified by plaques below.
The de Meaux lineage etchings vanishes as they press onward, joined by other heirs merging silently into their procession.
"This is it," Anna states tonelessly.
Elara's reply quivers: "It is."
Ahead, an androgynous figure glides with the effortless grace of aristocracy—a marquis' poise contrasting Takashiro's fiery deliberation. Beside them strides a woman, her presence sharp as the knight's shadow.
Leonardo fixates on the figure. Their attire defies categorization: a flowing gown shifts from near-black to indigo in the chandelier glow, crowned by a raven-winged hat draped in a gauzy veil. The staff in their grip gleams with cold obsidian menace.
"A wizard," Anna interjects, slicing through his scrutiny.
"What?"
"People who specifically gain a story skill for a price. That's why wizards are fairly common," Her tone hardens. "Of the eighteen families here, five posses two heirs."
"If five families have two participants, like you and Anna," Leonardo begins, "then thirteen should have one each, accompanied by a guide. That makes twenty-six normal heirs and fifteen doubles if you count the guides."
"So, forty-one people are here, then," Elara concludes.
"All potential rivals," Anna murmurs, steering them down a secluded corridor.
The grand hall yawns open beyond colossal doors—a cavernous space where ceilings dissolve into shadow.
Monolithic pillars circle the room, carved with legends of war and triumph. At the far end of the hall stands a throne—monumental in size and design.
Carved from a single piece of dark stone, its surface is polished to a mirror-like sheen, but its sharp edges remain imposing.
A vast obsidian table dominates the center of the chamber, set for eighteen. Each chair—tall-backed, austere, immovable—radiates authority.
Gradually, the 18 heads of the families begin to arrive. Among them is Anna's father—his presence unmistakable.
Leonardo's breath hitches. The fog pulses like a living shroud, dim light warping visibility.
"Moments to compose yourselves," booms a voice that vibrates skulls and air alike.
Leonardo paces, scanning the haze. A sage? he wonders.