The carriage slowed.
Not with a jolt—but a deceleration so precise it felt like the world itself had exhaled. The distant rhythm of hooves, faint as a memory, softened into complete stillness as the arcane wheels drew to a seamless halt.
A shimmer passed across the window—a faint ripple of light, barely visible unless one was already watching for it.
Lucavion's gaze narrowed.
"Checkpoint," Caeden said simply, already unsealing the scroll marked with the Sanctum's sigil from his inner coat.
Outside, the Academy's outer threshold loomed—less a gate and more a veil, a lattice of suspended mana threads glinting faintly in the night. Towering statues on either side held spears crossed overhead, their runes faintly aglow, their eyes blank and unwelcoming.
The footman stepped down, then opened the door with silent formality.
A figure stood waiting.
Not a guard. Not a servant.
Something in between.
