Draven studied the gate, unreadable. Unlike the earlier trials, this room offered no hidden platforms, no melodic clues—only that silent wall of forgotten identities. Mist pooled around their ankles, thick with the metallic taste of pending judgment.
Without preamble he closed his eyes. The muscles in his jaw flexed, the only outward sign of internal searching. Sylvanna waited, shifting weight from heel to toe, fighting the urge to fill the silence with chatter.
A shiver rolled across the gate—barely perceptible. Draven's head tilted, as though angling an ear toward some far‑off choir. When he spoke, the name left his lips with the gentleness of a prayer.
"Ilwen Seranae."
The air tightened, charged like a drawn bow. Letters along the middle row flared ivory, arranging themselves into the very name he'd uttered. Light spilled from the grooves and pooled on the ground, coalescing into a spectral tableau:
