Arav woke to the smell of ashwood incense and warm stone.
For a few seconds, he didn't move.
He lay still, listening to the familiar rhythm of the estate—the distant hum of formations, the faint wind slipping through open corridors, the low murmur of guards changing shifts. His body felt heavy. Not injured.
Settled.
That alone told him the elixir had worked.
He slowly flexed his fingers.
The pain from Ashroot Hollow was gone—not erased, but sealed away beneath something denser. His bones felt compact, reinforced, as though the fire inside him had finally found somewhere safer to rest.
Vyomar lifted his head from the cushion beside the bed, golden eyes blinking once before fixing on Arav.
"You didn't leave," Arav murmured.
The cub huffed, offended by the suggestion, and curled back into place.
A soft knock came at the door.
Before Arav could answer, it opened.
Sharanya stepped inside, her calm blue eyes sweeping over him in a single glance that missed nothing. She set a small bowl on the table beside the bed, steam rising gently.
"You slept for twelve hours," she said. "That's improvement."
Arav pushed himself upright, slower than usual. "Only twelve?"
She smiled faintly. "Last time, it was two days."
That wiped the humor from his face.
Her expression softened immediately. She sat beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder—warm, steady.
"You did well," she said quietly. "But don't confuse surviving with being ready."
"I know."
And he did.
That dungeon had almost killed him.
Not because he was careless—but because restraint had limits, and the world did not care how carefully he balanced on the edge.
Sharanya rose. "Your father is in the outer hall. He asked for you when you woke."
That… mattered.
Arav nodded and dressed slowly, every movement measured. When he stepped into the corridor, the estate felt the same.
But it wasn't.
He could sense it now—subtle fluctuations in the aether, formation lines adjusting, recalibrating. As if the land itself had noticed something new and was quietly compensating.
In the outer hall, Aaryan stood with his back to the windows, arms folded.
He didn't turn immediately.
"The Ashroot Hollow has entered dormancy," he said at last.
Arav stopped.
"That dungeon hasn't slept in thirty-seven years."
Silence settled between them.
Aaryan turned then, crimson eyes sharp—not angry, not proud.
Assessing.
"The family council detected the shift," he continued. "So did two external observers."
Arav's jaw tightened. "Did you tell them—"
"I told them nothing," Aaryan said calmly. "They don't have proof. And they won't get it."
He stepped closer, placing a hand on Arav's shoulder—heavy, grounding.
"But understand this," he said, voice low. "Dungeons do not respond to children."
Arav met his gaze.
"They respond to pressure."
Aaryan's expression did not change—but something colder passed through his eyes.
"Which means," he said, "from this moment on, you are no longer invisible."
Far from the Ashvathar estate, in a tower lined with suspended sigils, an elderly man paused mid-inscription.
The aether around him had… shifted.
Not violently.
Purposefully.
He frowned, adjusting the lenses over his eyes as distant readings stabilized.
"A localized dungeon dormancy?" he muttered. "In Ashvathar territory?"
Another sigil flared nearby—lightning-aspected, resonating faintly in response.
Elsewhere, a woman closed a report without finishing it.
In a place that did not officially exist, a hooded figure tilted their head, lips curving slightly.
"So," a voice whispered into the dark.
"The children have begun to touch the roots."
Back in the estate, Arav stood at the window, watching the horizon.
The warmth in his chest was steady now.
Contained.
But deeper—far deeper—something pulsed once, slow and patient.
Not power.
Memory.
He clenched his hand.
Whatever came next, he would not face it unprepared again.
Not ever.