Riven didn't speak the next day, but she moved closer.
During sparring, she paired with Lira—unspoken, unchallenged. Her strikes were sharp, but never cruel. Testing, not punishing. Like she was searching for something in Lira's form, her choices.
Lira didn't ask. Didn't flinch.
Just listened.
Their blades clashed in the torchlit ring, but the real message passed in glances, in pauses too brief for Seren to notice. Riven circled her once, then flicked her eyes toward the upper rafters—just a heartbeat of motion.
A warning.
Or an invitation.
That night, Lira didn't sleep.
She climbed to the rafters when the others drifted off. Dust choked the beams. Shadows whispered secrets. And wedged beneath one wooden slat—a folded piece of cloth.
Another symbol.
A different one.
Sharper. Older.
Not rebellion. Not government. Not even resistance.
This one pulsed with something colder. Quieter.
Ancient.
Behind her, the wood creaked.
She turned, knife drawn.
But it was Riven, crouched like smoke, eyes unreadable.
"You're not ready," she said quietly. "But you're close."
"For what?"
Riven didn't answer.
She just vanished into the dark, leaving Lira holding a sigil that didn't belong to any war she'd ever known.
And for the first time since her capture—
Lira felt watched.
But not alone.