Soren had just finished his third lap of the bastion when the message came: Inspection at Vault, bring secondary. The sender was the quartermaster, but the tone, weaponized indifference, reeked of Cirel. Instead of grabbing Cassian, Soren cut through the back halls for Kale, who was less likely to ask questions about unexplained orders.
The Vault still bore the scar of its previous purpose, a frigid, sub-basement gallery stacked with obsolete weapons and, allegedly, with the half-exorcised memories of every prior regime. The checkpoint was unmanned, so Soren keyed in the override himself, ignoring the whine of disapproval from the old security system. Inside, the air bit colder, carrying a faint note of scorched parchment.
Seren waited near the first row of lockboxes, hands jammed awkwardly into her coat. She jerked her chin at a battered trunk on the inspection table. The crest of the Academy, faded but unmistakable, spanned the lid.
