The royal seal was black wax. No gold, no ribbon, just pressure.
Harold turned it over once in his hand before walking into the kitchen, where Logan sat wiping soot from a curved blade.
He placed the parchment flat on the table.
"Palace wants you. Today."
Julie glanced up, unsure. "For what?"
"Verification," Harold said. "Sanctum-level. Her hand."
That meant the Queen herself.
Logan stood slowly. "Alright."
Julie looked between them. Logan didn't seem surprised. Harold didn't seem relieved. The only sound was the quiet knock of steel cooling in the forge basin.
No one asked what they'd do if he didn't come back.
The Sanctum Vault was colder than stone.
It wasn't meant to impress. It was built to observe.
Queen Altheria Veyne stood alone, gloves removed, Signet of the Crown pressed against her bare palm.
"You've activated multiple city-wide detectors without casting. No ArcPath, no glyphs, no deviation recorded across known cores." She stepped forward. "You understand this isn't a punishment."
"I didn't resist," Logan said.
She nodded.
"Essentia is not a weapon. It reveals. If you carry something you don't understand, it will help us name it."
She reached forward.
Her fingers brushed his chest.
The warmth was immediate—structured, practiced, polished. But it didn't settle. It touched his ribs... and stopped. No root. No bond.
Then something behind his breath shifted.
Logan's eyes widened. A chill lanced through his bones—clean, precise. Not pain. Not relief.
Just realignment.
[EXTERNAL ENERGY INPUT DETECTED]
Source Type: Divine-Class (Essentia)
No Thread Binding Detected
No Resonant Core Found
Converting Residual Energy…
Core Construction: Elemental-Silver (Hybrid Frame)
Signatures: None
Ownership: System-bound
You now carry density. You belong to nothing.
A faint silver flare flickered against Logan's chest, then vanished.
The Queen recoiled.
"You—"
She tried to scan again. Nothing.
The light was there—but not hers.
The energy felt shaped. Settled. But not divine. And most disturbingly: stable.
"You just formed a core," she whispered.
"I didn't do anything," Logan said quietly.
"But it's silver."
She stepped back like the air had betrayed her.
"No one forms silver without invocation. You have no pact. No sigil. No sponsor. And yet…"
She fell silent.
The air around them buzzed faintly for a moment.
Then stopped.
The Queen turned without speaking further.
"Take him home," she said.
The guards didn't draw weapons. They didn't even bow. Just opened the door.
Logan didn't speak during the walk back.
When he stepped inside the forge, Julie met him by the door. She looked him over for blood. For bruises.
He had none.
"What did they do?"
"Touched me," he said.
Her eyes searched his face. "What happened?"
"I think… something caught."
She frowned.
"What does that mean?"
He shook his head. "I don't know yet."
Harold stepped out of the shadows beside the forge rack, arms folded. He looked at Logan, quiet for a long time.
Then finally: "That wasn't a blessing, was it."
"No."
Harold nodded once. "Didn't feel like one."
Elsewhere, in a vaulted chamber beneath the Royal Repository, four banners were pulled down over a stone table—Myrren, Dareth, Caelwyn, and Vellorin. The Queen stood at its head. Beside her sat Boris, unsummoned, but present.
The Queen unrolled the scan.
"Subject exhibits silver-class core generation without ritual, legacy, or guidance. No divine mark. No system trace."
The room was quiet.
Lady Myrren said, "Then it's not from her."
"Then it's from what?" Lord Dareth asked.
The Queen didn't answer.
Boris did.
"It's from something older than rules. And quieter than faith."
No one argued.
No one dismissed him.
They just stared at the scroll.
And beneath all their voices, the table's glass trembled softly—not from threat, but from something still forming its name.