The woman with obsidian eyes tapped two fingers against the table.
A ripple spread through the air, and the room dissolved. The table, the chairs, even the walls of the Spire faded until Leon was standing on an endless stretch of white stone beneath a blank, gray sky.
The Sovereigns now stood in a wide circle around him, spaced far apart. None moved closer.
"This is not a duel," the glass-bodied one said. "This is a asure."
Leon didn’t reply.
A hum started—low at first, then deep enough to vibrate through the soles of his boots. Cracks spread across the white stone, and from them, shapes began to rise. Not creatures, not exactly—constructs of raw energy, each humanoid but featureless, their bodies flickering between solid and transparent.
Twelve of them, one for each Sovereign present.
"They move as we will them," the woman in shadow said. "Each of us will push against you. Not to destroy you, but to see if you bend—or break."
Leon flexed his fingers. "So it’s twelve against one."
"It is what ruling ans," the crowned one replied, his voice like a distant bell.
The constructs moved.
They didn’t rush in—each one’s movents were perfectly tid so that no strike overlapped another. One jab, one sweep, one blast, all aid to force Leon into a constant rhythm of defense.
He blocked the first, sidestepped the second, ducked under the third. But he noticed it imdiately—every ti he adapted, the next move changed. They weren’t attacking blindly. The Sovereigns were reading him in real ti.
After the fourth exchange, Leon stopped moving the way they expected. Instead of dodging the sweep to his right, he let it hit, sliding with the force so he could step inside the path of the next blow. He used that montum to shove one construct into another.
The Sovereigns didn’t speak, but he caught the faintest pause in their control.
He pressed it.
He stopped playing defense entirely—breaking their rhythm, forcing them to react to him. The constructs stumbled in their perfect formation, their timing slipping just slightly.
And then Leon went for the gap—straight toward the one controlled by the obsidian-eyed woman. He didn’t strike her construct directly; instead, he threw an echo-pulse at the ground beneath it, destabilizing its footing.
She smiled faintly. "Interesting."
The constructs halted all at once.
The glass-bodied Sovereign spoke. "You understand. A ruler in the Tower does not simply endure pressure. He disrupts it."
The crowned one stepped forward. "You are not ready to sit among us. But you are ready to be watched."
The world snapped back to the chamber in the Spire.
The obsidian-eyed woman placed a small black seal on the table before him. "This marks you as an acknowledged contender for the Throne. Do not mistake that for safety."
Leon picked it up without a word.
The council session was over. But the way they had all looked at him as he left told him sothing—
From now on, every move he made in the Tower would be under their eyes.
And so of those eyes didn’t want him to succeed.
They cut through another narrow street, this one lined with shuttered shops and lanterns that flickered with low mana.
The sound of footsteps above them stopped.
Kael’s hand went to his weapon instantly. "Roofline’s empty."
"That’s worse," Roselia said. She angled her shield slightly, keeping it low but ready.
Leon didn’t stop walking. "They’re moving ahead of us. Setting the ground."
They stepped into a wider courtyard, open to the sky. Four bridges crossed overhead, forming a rough grid. Shadows moved along the upper walkways—quick, practiced, and in no hurry to hide.
Roselia’s shield clicked into position. "Looks like they picked their place."
A voice carried from one of the bridges. "Leon Aetheren."
A man in pale gray armor stepped into view above them. His cloak was torn at the edges, and on his chest was a sigil shaped like a fractured crown.
"We’re not here to kill you," he called. "We’re here to see if the stories match the truth."
Two more figures stepped onto the other bridges—both lightly armored, both holding curved weapons that glead faintly in the red light filtering from the upper sky.
Kael muttered, "Three Sovereign-class. Minimum."
Leon exhaled slowly. "So this is the welco party."
The man above smiled faintly. "No. This is the asuring stick."
Then the three dropped from the bridges at the sa ti.
The first hit ca before their feet touched the ground.
A blur of silver cut straight for Leon’s throat. He tilted just enough for it to miss, feeling the edge brush his collar. At the sa mont, Roselia’s shield snapped up to catch a downward strike aid at Kael, the clang echoing through the courtyard.
The third attacker didn’t go for anyone directly—they swept their blade in an arc that released a wave of compressed mana, forcing the whole team to break formation.
Leon landed in a crouch, eyes locked on the man in pale gray armor. "Fast enough," he said quietly.
The man stepped forward without answering, his blade angled low. He wasn’t rushing—just closing space like it already belonged to him.
Kael t him head-on, spear flashing in a low thrust. The man parried without looking, turning the spear aside with one wrist while spinning to block Naval’s follow-up strike.
Roselia intercepted one of the others, shield smashing into their side. But the attacker didn’t even stumble—they rolled with it, hooked her shield edge, and tried to rip it from her grip.
Leon caught the motion out of the corner of his eye but didn’t move to help. Instead, he focused on the subtle pulse of mana from the pale-armored man. It wasn’t just pressure—it was mapping. Every step Leon took, the man adjusted by fractions, narrowing every possible escape path.
This wasn’t a fight ant to kill them.
It was a fight ant to see if they could survive being completely controlled.
Leon smiled faintly and shifted his stance. "Alright, then."
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