The Vault Ring wasn't meant to hold people.
It was meant to protect secrets.
Hidden beneath the third layer of the academy's foundations, behind wards older than the kingdom itself, it had no beds. No supplies. No windows.
Just stone.
And silence.
Leon stepped through its outer gate with Marien at his side, both marked by ash and fresh cuts. The moment they crossed, the sigils flared to life behind them—sealing the path in molten script. Others streamed in. Bloodied cadets. Soot-covered instructors. A few limping guards.
But not Roth.
Not Fena.
The Vault accepted no war.
Only survivors.
The chamber stretched wide, its ceiling a dome of etched runes. In the centre stood a pedestal with seven iron rings—each carved with a different family crest.
Six glowed faintly.
The seventh—Thorne's—remained cold and dark.
Until Leon approached.
He didn't touch it.
He didn't have to.
