The High Ring was never truly quiet.
Even in its most peaceful hours, it breathed—through shifting crystal walls, whispering wind tunnels, and the distant footfalls of Guardians moving along unseen corridors. The citadel was a living thing, grown from the heart of the mountain, its veins made of light and its bones of ancient crystal. Miren had always found comfort in its soft, constant murmur.
But after the trial, that sound had changed.
It no longer felt like breathing.
It felt like listening.
Every step Miren took along the inner walkways seemed to echo just a little too far. Every voice she passed carried a faint edge of restraint, as if words were being weighed before they were spoken.
Eyes followed her.
Not openly. Not rudely. But carefully.
Scholars paused mid-sentence when she passed. Relic attendants inclined their heads just a fraction deeper than before. Guardians adjusted their stances, hands brushing their weapons with reflexive awareness.
Some gazes were curious.
Some were calculating.
A few… afraid.
Miren kept close to Seren as they moved through the crystalline corridors that curved like the inside of a giant shell.
"I feel like I've become a rumor with legs," she murmured.
Seren glanced sideways at her, one corner of his mouth lifting. "That's not far from the truth."
"And the rest of it?"
"You're a secret everyone wants to own."
The words settled in her chest with uncomfortable weight.
They passed beneath an archway of glowing stone and stepped out onto a long balcony overlooking the lower city. Lyrien unfolded beneath them in cascading tiers—rooftops of pale stone, bridges strung with lanterns, rivers of light flowing through narrow streets.
From up here, the city looked peaceful.
Almost innocent.
But Miren had spent enough of her life among histories and forgotten chronicles to know that beauty often hid sharp edges.
Seren leaned against the railing, arms folded loosely. "You're thinking too loudly."
"I didn't know I was," she replied.
"You get that look. Like you're reading a book no one else can see."
Miren watched the tiny figures moving far below. "Do you trust the council?"
Seren's smile faded just a little. "I trust them to do what benefits them. Sometimes that overlaps with what's right. Often it doesn't."
Miren nodded slowly.
He speaks truth, Arkel murmured within her.
"Do they already know how powerful you are?" she asked softly.
They know you are not ordinary, Arkel replied. They do not yet understand how deeply that matters.
The words stirred a faint warmth beneath her skin—subtle, almost like the memory of being held. It was strange how Arkel's presence felt less like a voice and more like a second pulse moving just beneath her own.
Seren glanced at her. "Are you all right?"
She hesitated. "Do you ever feel like… something inside you is older than your life?"
His eyes sharpened for an instant. "Sometimes."
Miren wondered what he wasn't saying.
They left the balcony and continued through the High Ring's inner halls. The crystal walls shifted as they passed, faint patterns blooming and fading like living frost.
Just before they reached her quarters, a soft chime rang through the corridor. Light gathered in the air, forming the sigil of the Relic Keepers.
"Lady Aveline requests your presence," the projection said.
Seren frowned. "Already?"
Miren drew a slow breath. "I should go."
He walked her to the door of Aveline's private study but stopped just outside. "Be careful," he said quietly. "Not everyone who smiles at you is on your side."
She met his gaze. "Including you?"
His lips curved faintly. "Especially me."
That answer unsettled her more than if he had denied it.
Lady Aveline's study was warm, lit by a low fire burning in a crystal hearth. Shelves lined the walls, filled with sealed relics, ancient scrolls, and fragments of artifacts that hummed softly with restrained power.
Aveline stood over a wide table covered in maps.
"Miren," she said. "Come."
Miren stepped closer and realized these were not city maps.
They were borders.
Glowing lines marked the edges of neighboring realms—kingdoms, sect territories, unclaimed wildlands. Small motes of light drifted along some of them, pulsing slowly.
"They're… moving," Miren said.
"Yes," Aveline replied. "The world has noticed you."
A chill slid through Miren. "How?"
"Information always finds cracks," Aveline said. "And the Star-Bound Blade is not the kind of secret that stays buried for long."
Enemies remember us, Arkel murmured.
"Who?" Miren asked.
"Cultivator sects. Rogue kingdoms. And things far older than either," Aveline said. "Some worship Arkel. Some fear it. Some wish to bend it to their will."
"And me?"
Aveline looked at her gently. "You are the key. The blade cannot be taken from you without destroying it—or you."
Miren's hands trembled.
A faint warmth pulsed through her chest as Arkel's presence steadied her.
We are not alone, he said. But we are not helpless either.
"I never wanted this," Miren whispered.
"No one ever does," Aveline replied. "But fate has a way of choosing those who can bear it."
Miren stared at the glowing borders. Her old life—quiet shelves, ink-stained fingers, being unseen—felt impossibly far away.
This is where the story truly begins, Arkel whispered.
For the first time, she understood the truth.
The world was watching.