The moment Lucavion stepped past the threshold, the shift in pressure wasn't just physical—it was mnemonic. Like air carrying the scent of a long-buried battlefield, faint yet unmistakable.
The banquet hall of the Arcanis Imperial Academy unfolded in ceremonial splendor—arched ceilings hung with spell-laced chandeliers, walls lined with banners from every major faction, and polished marble floors reflecting a grandeur far too clean, far too controlled. Every line, every shimmer, every curve in this place screamed power wrapped in pretense.
And yet—
All he could hear was silence.
Not the hall's. Not the nobles'. His own.
That awful, echoing kind.
'Last time I walked into a banquet like this…'
A breath. Slow. Hollow.
'…I didn't walk out the same.'
