The door closed softly behind Ryneth, sealing the quiet of the dressing chamber. The corridor beyond seemed to hum faintly under his boots — not with life, but with restraint. The pale light filtering through the high glass windows carried a sterile calm, illuminating the edges of his new attire in faint silver gleam. The fabric moved lightly when he walked, whispering against itself like a secret refusing to die.
Morwen stood waiting a few paces ahead, posture straight, her hands clasped behind her back.
"Come," she said, voice even as ever. "There's one last formality."
They walked side by side, their reflections moving faintly across the polished marble floor. The Directorate's inner halls were quiet, too quiet — rows of tall doors without names, lamps flickering behind frosted glass, the faintest scent of old parchment and ink lingering like memory. It wasn't the grandeur of the Arcanum; it was precision built into stone.
"Arven likes ceremony," Morwen said after a long silence. "He says it gives structure to the illusion of control."
Ryneth's tone was dry. "He'd know about illusions."
Her lips curved faintly, but she didn't reply.
They stopped before a large, iron-braced door etched with subtle, intersecting circles — the mark of the Directorate. Morwen pushed it open, and a controlled gust of cooler air spilled out, carrying a metallic tang.
The chamber beyond was simple yet striking. Three weapon stands were placed beneath shafts of pale light descending from narrow ceiling slits. Each one held a single weapon — spaced evenly, displayed with almost reverent precision.
"This," Morwen said, stepping forward, "is where you choose."
She gestured to the first.
A long dagger, sleek, narrow, its blade absorbing light. The hilt was wrapped in dark leather, worn smooth from use.
"The Riven Dagger. Made for silence and conclusion. It's the choice of those who prefer simplicity — the end without the argument."
Ryneth studied it, noting how the blade seemed to drink in the glow instead of reflecting it. A weapon of erasure more than violence.
Morwen continued to the next stand.
A short sword, its curve elegant, its guard inscribed with the faintly gleaming pattern of the Directorate's rings.
"The Vigil Blade," she said. "A symbol of confrontation. For those who prefer to face what others would bury. It balances reach with restraint. But you'll find it's heavier than it looks."
"And the wielder?" Ryneth asked.
"They often are too."
Finally, she turned to the third stand.
It held a long, dark baton, nearly four feet in length — slender but solid, its surface forged of a deep, smoky metal laced with faintly moving veins of dull light. It wasn't shaped for slashing, nor for stabbing, but for control — a weapon that commanded the air more than blood. When light struck it, the markings shimmered subtly, like the ripples of water under moonlight.
"This," Morwen said, lowering her tone, "is the Null Baton. A Director's design from generations ago. It carries no edge, no blade — but its core hums with an alloy that responds to intent. It dampens resonance fields, neutralizes unstable fragments of energy, and in combat, it… persuades more than it wounds. It was meant to enforce discipline, not to kill."
Ryneth approached slowly. The weapon radiated stillness. Even before touching it, he could feel a quiet vibration in the air — not sound, but something underneath it, as if the world had stopped breathing near it.
He reached out.
The moment his hand closed around the baton, a muted tremor passed through his arm, steady and rhythmic — neither welcoming nor resisting, only recognizing. The weight shifted faintly, adapting to his grip. It wasn't heavy; it was measured.
Morwen's gaze flicked to his hand. "It reacts to the one who holds it. The more unrest within, the heavier it becomes."
Ryneth turned the weapon slightly, watching the dull light run along its veins like slow lightning. "Then it should be light enough," he murmured.
A faint sound — almost a hum — resonated in response. He couldn't tell if it came from the weapon or from himself.
"The Riven kills cleanly," Morwen said. "The Vigil demands conviction. But the Null… it requires balance. Control. Some find it unnerving."
She paused. "You should choose what matches your purpose."
Ryneth looked back once at the other weapons, then down at the baton again. It wasn't the most dangerous, nor the most dramatic — but it felt right. The silence it carried was the kind he understood.
He tightened his grip. "This one."
Morwen nodded once. "Then the choice is made." She regarded the baton thoughtfully. "Few choose it. But then, few know how to live with silence."
He gave a faint, unspoken smile.
Morwen turned toward the corridor. "The Assembly Hall awaits. Keep it with you — it's both your mark and your test."
Ryneth followed, the sound of his steps muted as though the weapon absorbed even the echoes. The long shadow of the baton stretched beside him on the polished floor — thin, unwavering.
At the end of the hall, two towering doors waited, adorned with the twin-ringed flame. Beyond them, faint murmurs echoed — voices indistinct, deliberate.
Morwen stopped.
"When these open," she said quietly, "you'll stand before the others. Speak carefully. Every word here carries a weight you cannot yet measure."
Ryneth's eyes lingered on the doors — tall, silent, watching.
He held the baton upright, resting lightly against the floor. It gave a low, almost inaudible pulse, steadying the space around him.
"Then let's not keep them waiting," he said softly.
The doors began to open.
Ryneth turned the baton over in his hand once more, feeling its weight settle into his palm as though it had always belonged there. The faint hum beneath the surface was gone now, replaced by something quieter — a presence that waited, patient and unreadable. He straightened, the muted light from the high windows cutting a pale gleam across the silver band at its center.
Morwen watched him in silence for a moment, then finally said, her tone softer than before, "You chose well. It suits you."
Ryneth offered a faint, unreadable smile. "Or perhaps it chose me."
At that, Morwen's lips curved, almost approvingly. "Perhaps," she said. "Either way, you'll be expected in the upper wing shortly. Someone's waiting."
She motioned toward the grand stairwell beyond the archway. The twin rings of the Directorate insignia were carved into the balustrade — pale stone on pale stone, subtle yet unmistakable. Ryneth followed her gesture, a flicker of unease threading through his composure.
"Senior Investigator Arven?" he asked quietly.
Morwen didn't answer right away. Her expression, always controlled, flickered for a fraction of a second — the briefest shift between neutrality and something sharper. Then she turned away, walking toward the door.
"You'll see soon enough," she said, without looking back. "And when you do, remember what you signed for."
The door closed behind her with a muted thud.
Ryneth stood alone in the wide chamber, his new attire whispering faintly as he turned the baton in his hand once more. The air felt heavier now — not oppressive, but watchful. Beyond the archway, faint footsteps echoed from the corridor above, steady and measured, drawing nearer.
He looked toward the sound, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharpening — quiet anticipation meeting the unknown.