The sanctum doors closed behind them, sealing the chamber in eerie silence.
The weight of the moment hadn't fully settled yet, but Argolaith knew—something had shifted.
Not just the revelation of Veydris' true identity.
Not just the knowledge that the Twin Thrones had a vested interest in this sword.
But the fact that the blade had chosen him—and he was still himself.
The supposed curse had not touched him.
And that meant one thing.
This sword wasn't done with him yet.
The halls of the upper city's sanctum were unlike the narrow, winding streets below. Here, the buildings were crafted with perfect precision, reinforced with dark runic stone and filled with a quiet hum of preserved magic.
Veydris led them to a chamber on the second level—a private space, walled in with blackened steel, with a single long table and resting areas set against the far wall.
Kaelred immediately collapsed onto one of the padded seats. "This place is way too comfortable. I don't trust it."
