They didn’t let him rest.
Before dawn had properly ward the cobblestones, a summons had already arrived. This one wasn’t vague. No unnad courier, no whispered suggestion. It bore the academy seal—black ink, silver trim, formal. Inside, a single line:
Report to the Crest Chamber. In one hour.
Leon folded the note once, twice, tucked it into his sleeve. He’d never been to the Crest Chamber. Most people never had. Only upper tier ranks, heralded duelists, or cadets on the cusp of sothing more.
He arrived with ti to spare.
The building was older than the others, stone darker, almost blue under the morning light. A guard waited at the door, helt tucked beneath one arm. He gave Leon a long look—no words—then stepped aside.
The interior slled like old parchnt and colder steel. Walls lined with flags, each bearing a different crest. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Nas and bloodlines Leon didn’t recognise. A hall of dead ambitions and living legacies.
At the centre, a raised dais. A long table. Three seated figures.
Elric stood to the right of them, arms folded.
Leon stopped at the circle carved into the stone.
"Leon of House Thorne," one of the three said, voice reedy, sharp. "Your record precedes you."
Another leaned forward, tapping the table. "You’ve drawn attention from all four divisions."
Elric’s gaze didn’t waver.
Leon stayed silent.
The third spoke, deeper voice. "You stand at a threshold boy. Beyond it, we do not test your talent. We test your intent."
A pause. The chamber echoed.
"Do you accept the Crest Trial?"
Leon nodded. "I do."
No fanfare followed. No horns. No chant.
Just the sound of the chamber doors opening.
The trial was not a battle.
It was a climb.
One tower. Forty four flights. Each level marked by a different task. So physical—weighted pulls, speed drills, weapon forms under shifting conditions. Others were ntal. Tactical formations, coded riddles. One floor had no lights, only bells. He had to move through silence and echo to find the correct path.
Each floor demanded more.
But he didn’t break.
By the final stair, his legs trembled. His lungs burned. But his grip—on his sword, on will—never loosened.
At the top, the sa man from the Northern Tower waited. No greeting this ti.
He pointed to the pedestal.
"Choose one."
Five crests.
One bore twin lions. One showed an obsidian gate. Another, a rising sun over fractured stone. A coiled serpent. A falling crown.
Leon stared.
"Your choice is your path. Not just what you are—but what you’re willing to beco."
He reached.
Not for the lions. Not the sun.
He took the obsidian gate.
The man nodded once. "Open it."
And behind the pedestal, the wall rumbled.
The gate began to rise.
Stone grated against stone, revealing a passage dimly lit by violet crystals embedded along the walls. The air turned cooler, charged, like the breath of sothing ancient. Leon stepped through without waiting.
It was not a chamber.
It was a descent.
Spiral stairs twisted downward, vanishing into silence. No torches. No voice guiding him this ti. Just his steps. Just his breath. The bracers on his arms felt heavier now, as if the choice he’d made deepened their weight.
At the bottom, a wide hall stretched forward. Carvings lined the walls—scenes of battles, yes, but also failures. A knight standing alone, back turned to kings. A blade broken across a brother’s shield. A girl kneeling before a fla too bright to touch.
A voice echoed—low, and not the man’s from before. Deeper. Rooted.
"Tell us who you are."
Leon didn’t speak imdiately.
He looked at the carvings again. Then forward, to where the hall ended in a single door. He walked.
Each step seed louder than the last. Until he reached it.
He laid a palm to the surface.
"I am the one who didn’t break."
The door opened.
Inside, a circle. Empty save for a pedestal with a single item: a mask. Dark steel. Blank face. Etchings around the edge—ancient script he couldn’t read.
The voice returned.
"Then wear what you’ve earned."
Leon picked up the mask.
It was cold.
He placed it over his face.
And the lights went out.
When they returned, they weren’t the sa.
Not just brighter. Sharper.
They burned violet.
Leon stood in the centre of the room, mask still fitted to his face. He could see nothing through the slits. Yet sohow, he saw everything. The room. The echoes of battles long past. The mories that weren’t his, yet moved through him like blood.
A final voice spoke.
"From this mont, you carry the burden of the Gatebearer."
Leon didn’t flinch.
"You may leave when ready."
The room didn’t open behind him. It opened forward.
A corridor now stood ahead. This one lit by firelight, not crystals. The stone underfoot smoother. His steps made no sound.
At the far end, a door opened as he approached.
Outside, dusk had settled. He was still in the tower.
Soone waited just beyond the threshold.
Roth.
He raised an eyebrow. "That was longer than I expected."
Leon removed the mask. "It felt shorter."
Roth gestured to the horizon. "They’ll send word soon you know."
Leon didn’t answer.
He just looked out past the towers. Past the walls.
And for the first ti in weeks, he smiled.
They walked without speaking. Not toward the dorms—but the field east of the old training ring, where the stones broke into wildgrass. Roth pulled free a flask and passed it over. Leon didn’t drink.
"I saw your na marked beside the Gate sigil," Roth said. "You know what that ans, don’t you?"
Leon looked ahead. "I do now."
"Then you also know they’ll co for you."
"I’m counting on it."
Roth grunted. "Just make sure you’re not alone when they do."
Leon’s gaze flicked to the horizon. A hawk circled far off, slicing through cloud. The world felt different now. It wasn’t smaller nor clearer.
Just heavier. Like it had noticed him back.
He clenched his fist. The bracers humd faintly—almost in response.
"I don’t plan to carry it alone," he said.
Roth smiled and put a fist to his chest. "Good. Because from here on, it only gets harder."
Leon nodded.
Then turned toward the wind.
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