The clock struck nine.
Sharp chimes echoed across the stone hallways of the Observatory's private wing—once a meditation hall, now repurposed for high-ranking meetings. Early autumn air drifted in through the open archways, crisp and dry, brushing past tall marble pillars that lined the walk to the council annex.
Arcten arrived precisely on time.
Not early. Not late.
He walked with the same lazy grace he always had—shoulders loose, coat draped open, scabbard hanging low at his hip. His hair was half-tied, his boots slightly dusted from the training yard.
Marcus was already there.
Standing at the far end of the room near the open window, arms clasped behind his back, posture immaculate. His uniform was pristine. Not a wrinkle. Not a speck. His mana signature, even without flaring, clung to him like cold pressure in the air—precise and self-important.
Neither man bowed.
"Marcus," Arcten said, voice flat.
"Arcten," Marcus returned, colder.
The silence afterward lingered.
