The words hung behind them, heavy as iron but clear as dawn. A line drawn—not between enemies, but between what was permissible and what was worth the fall.
Kaleran didn't wait for assent. He simply turned, the silver-etched edge of his robe whispering against the garden stone as he moved back toward the path. The others followed, slow at first—uncertain whether they were dismissed or summoned—but his pace was not that of someone retreating. It was directive. Leading.
Lucavion fell into step last, the moonlight catching only the curve of his jaw and the set of his mouth—neither smug nor sorrowful. Just… decided.
They walked in silence for a time.
The gravel beneath their boots crunched in rhythm. Lanterns flickered on the pathway—hovering just slightly above the ground, enchanted flames pulsing in a soft, regulated pattern that matched the beat of the main tower's clock. A cadence of the Academy's ever-watching breath.
