The hall beneath Noctisfall did not awaken with the sun. It stirred with memory.
Long before Caelan arrived, the chamber had begun to breathe.
A slow mist clung to the marble like a second skin, curling around the pale stone thrones that lined the circular court. There were twelve, each carved in different motifs—wolfbone and ice for House Viremont, coiled thorns for House Carentes, silent bells for House Morgrave. Not a single one sat empty. And yet not a single figure had yet appeared.
The chamber simply waited.
Above, the ceiling shimmered with rune-light and the slow circling of moth-like wisps. Black banners of velvet hung without wind, each marked with ancient sigils faded by time. The floor beneath the thrones pulsed with spiraled etchings of silver and obsidian.
Then came the voice:
"By the will of the Crown, the Court shall bear witness."
Velrath's tones echoed not just through the air, but through the bones. The Crimson Steward emerged from the mist, robed in ceremonial crimson and gold, blindfold in place. His hands were clasped before him as if in prayer, though he spoke like a herald announcing a storm.
Behind him, flanked by two silent Pale Sentinels, walked Caelan.
He wore black. Not tailored finery, but the austere ceremonial garb given to him by Seraphyne—a robe without trim, sleeves that draped low, and boots that made no sound. The ring on his hand, concealed beneath gloves, pulsed faintly. The fragment of the Crown had been wrapped and hidden against his ribs.
He walked slowly, not out of fear but because the chamber itself demanded it. Each step felt noticed. Watched. Weighed.
He had not yet reached the center when they appeared.
With no sound, the twelve thrones were no longer empty.
Figures sat in each—some draped in silks, others in armor like statues of ancient kings. Not all were visible. One throne shimmered with illusion. Another seemed to hold only a shadow. One Count wore a veil of spider silk so dense their face was only a suggestion.
But their presence was undeniable.
This was the Pale Court.
This was judgment.
Caelan reached the central circle of the hall. Velrath stepped aside.
The silence pressed inward.
Then one of the thrones spoke.
"We were told he bore the Second Mark," said a voice like grinding glass. The speaker was a tall figure in bone-plated armor, the insignia of House Morgrave etched into their chest. Lord Valcour. "We see only a boy."
Another voice, smoother and colder, followed.
"Many have worn crowns in dreams. Fewer have survived them," said Lady Enore of House Danthelas.
A ripple of agreement spread, though none moved.
Caelan looked to Seraphyne, who stood at the chamber's edge, her gaze like drawn steel. She did not answer for him.
Velrath lifted a hand.
"He bears it not as proof of power, but as evidence of memory. The Court does not judge by age, nor by blade. It judges what the Crown remembers."
"And what has it remembered?" asked Valcour.
Caelan felt the fragment under his robe burn.
Then pulse.
Then...
The throne behind Valcour cracked.
A hairline fracture ran down the pale stone—not jagged, but curved like a spiral.
Gasps rippled through the air.
Velrath did not flinch.
"The Pale Thrones stir," he said. "One remembers."
For the first time, every eye in the room turned fully toward Caelan.
He felt it then—not pressure, not heat, but *recognition*. Like the chamber itself had exhaled.
Seraphyne stepped forward.
"By blood and shadow," she said, her voice cutting the silence, "I name this one under my watch. He is touched by the Second Mark. His presence is not threat. It is *warning*."
Valcour rose from his throne, his voice hard. "We are not children to be cowed by relics. The Crown breaks those it chooses."
"Then let it break him," Seraphyne said coldly. "If he is false, the Mark will devour him. If not... the Kingdom will hear it beat."
No one answered.
Not in words.
But then a shape moved at the edge of the court. Not a figure. A shadow.
Whisperbound.
She stepped between thrones without bowing, her hood low. In her hands, a scroll bound in black ribbon.
She placed it on an unoccupied throne.
"The Archive recognizes him," she said softly. "He is named. Not by us. But by memory."
The throne under the scroll exhaled dust.
Velrath stepped forward.
"By shadow and throne, let the Marked walk among us," he intoned. "Not as kin. Not yet. But as echo."
One by one, the thrones emptied.
No footsteps. No words.
The Court had passed its first judgment.
As Caelan turned to leave, the spiral on the floor beneath him pulsed.
He glanced back.
One throne was no longer empty.
A hooded figure now sat upon it.
Silent.
Unmoving.
Watching only him.